Dean x Reader One Shots

Sunday Funday (Angst)(Imagine bitterly wishing Dean a Happy Mother's Day)

Summary: Imagine Dean not letting you go on a hunt after you broke your arm, then getting mad at him and saying something you really, really regret.

Word Count: 2,912

Dean's movements were especially stiff, his mouth tight when he shook his head and zipped his duffle, once again telling you that it was pointless arguing with him. Stubborn bastard, that's what he was. When he turned to face you, his eyebrows high and just egging you on to question him one last time, Dean shook his head.

"No."

"It's only a broken arm."

"There's no such thing as only a broken arm, Y/N." Dean's eyes stayed locked on yours when he reached a hand down and looped it through the handles of the duffle, then flexed and pulled the bag up until it was against his back. "I'm scared to have you go when you have two functional arms, let alone one. No," he walked past you, not bothering stepping to the side to avoid bumping into you on the way. "Keep asking, you're going to get the same answer."

You turned to him, eyes wide while you watched him set the duffle down on one of the library tables in order to open up a hand that he used to check his gun. He pulled the pistol from his beltline and dropped the mag before nodding to himself and, after seeing that it was, indeed, sufficiently filled, he plopped it back in.

You took a few steps closer to him.

"You know first hand that I'm capable of taking care of myself."

"But that's not what we're talking about." Dean put the gun back in his beltline and nodded to your arm, which was still securely wrapped against your chest after having just gotten back from the doc a few days prior. You had to have it reset, something that neither of the Winchesters were comfortable doing, but now that you were off the pain meds and were comfortable in saying that your pain threshold was high enough that pain wasn't something you needed to worry much about, you were ready to go. Ready to fight. Ready to rejoin the hunts. "You need two arms. You only have one. This isn't a question of whether you can take care of yourself, it's a question of where the hell you're going to get the other appendage necessary to shoot a gun or fight or really doanything."

"Def Leppard had a drummer with one hand and he did amazing."

"Are you really comparing drums to a shifter, Y/N?"

You shrugged at that and Dean rolled his eyes before picking the duffle up once again and walking out the door of the library. You were hot on his heels the whole way, even as he went up the stairs and out the front door of the bunker to load up the Impala for the newest hunt. Sam was already leaning against the car, his arms folded across his chest while he waited for his brother, but as soon as he saw the two of you come out of the bunker he was quick to lean off the Impala, stand to full height, and tuck back into the bunker.

Smooth. Avoid the conflict. Sam always was the better one when it came to social cues.

"I'm not incompetent, Dean."

"I didn't say you were," Dean reached out and opened the trunk, tossed the duffle in, and slammed the hood back closed before turning to look at you. "I didn't say you weren't a good hunter or a good fighter, I just don't want you to go into the hunt short an arm and then get yourself even more hurt."

"You mean you don't want me to be the weakness of the team, right?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "No, I didn't say that."

"But you were thinking it," you took a step closer to him and raised your good hand up to his nose, pointing directly at him while you stared into his eyes, your eyebrows high. "You don't want me to go in there because you think that I'm going to mess up, that I'm going to somehow ruin the hunt for us. It's transparent."