Dean x Reader One Shots

Worth (Fluff) (Imagine being Dean's Lisa after "Swan Song")

Summary: Imagine being the person Dean comes to after Swan Song.

Word Count: 2,368

You looked up at the door as soon as the knocks rang throughout the hollow house and when silence fell after the third and final tap, you couldn't hear anything except the sound of your own heartbeat banging in your ears. The clock on the wall across from you said it was two in the morning, a prospect you were entirely comfortable in believing, yet... you had company.

Your eyes drifted back down to the last of the paperwork you had to finish, the pain in your hand after having spent the last four or five hours writing in slots one of the many side effects of your decision to take a job in the medical field; after considering answering the door and knocking the idea entirely, you pressed your pen to the paper and started writing once again.

But then another knock rang out and you pushed your chair back, turned to walk down the hallway that lead to your front door.

You didn't even realize you were only wearing a tank top and underwear when you looked through the peephole and onto your front porch and the thought didn't cross your mind after you saw the face of a man you'd gone without for... ten years? Maybe eleven?

Hell.

You whipped the door open, a grin on your face when you said, "Dean fucking Winchester in the flesh."

A small smile tweaked the corners of the man's lips upward, but there was something especially heavy about the motion; it was forced, his eyes were void of the life and happiness they once held, and while you knew from the moment you left his life that he was going to have a rough ride ahead of him, you didn't expect to see him again. Especially not like this.

His clothes were bloody and torn in a few places, he'd apparently switched from leather to army jackets since you'd last seen him but that was hardly what you noticed. It wasn't the holes in his jeans or the dirt that coated his knees and tucked itself under his fingernails, it was the way his eyes were hollow and his mouth seemed dead, the way all the life that once made up the man you knew seemed to have packed up and left him to be nothing more than a shell. The empty vessel, the dirty scraps that were left over after happiness left.

"B," Dean's voice cracked when he spoke and he cleared his throat, dropped his eyes to the ground and waited a few seconds before looking up at you, this time his once-dead eyes were beginning to brim with tears. "Hey. I, uh," he brought a hand up and rubbed his upper lip with the back of his thumb, an empty laugh touching his voice when he said, "I know it's late but I was wondering if—"

"No, no," you backed up while shaking your head, your eyes still locked on Dean's while you gestured for him to come in. "Seriously, come on in. You look like you've been through Hell, Dean."

He laughed at that before walking into your house and kicking his boots off on the mat beside the door; you waited behind him and followed him as he walked down the entryway and found himself in your kitchen. You gestured to the fridge and walked past him, your shoulder nearly bumping his in the process.

"You look like you could use a beer."

"Or something."

You looked at him with a small smile when you opened the fridge, asked, "Need whiskey instead?" You leaned into the fridge and pulled a beer out for yourself, then closed it and went on your tiptoes to get to the liquor cabinet above. "I actually think I have some left over from the Christmas party."

"Sounds like a hell of a party." You felt Dean's eyes on you when you turned and grabbed a glass from the cupboard, then set it down on the island he was now sitting at; he must have pulled out a stool while your back was turned to him, a silent and smooth movement you didn't even hear from a few feet away. He nodded to the whiskey. "What kind of job market are you in that has Jack at a Christmas party?"