Dean x Reader One Shots

Coldplay (Fluff) (Imagine slow dancing with Dean when you're homesick)

Summary: Imagine being incredibly homesick, so Dean comes into your room and slow dances with you to try and make you feel better.

Word Count: 1,585

You missed reading fiction. You missed lying in your library at home and curling up with a blanket and a cup of tea and you missed being able to relax and escape into a world that could even momentarily provide some sort of getaway from the reality you were stuck in. You missed the freedom to imagine things the author left to the readers to decide, you missed knowing that if the book got too intense, if you didn't like the way it was going or if you got scared or sad or lonely, you could set it down, go to your family, hug them. Because you could escape if you wanted to, even if the world was the best place you'd ever had the pleasure of imagining.

You missed your family. Homesickness was sitting in your stomach like a fucking bowling ball and the thing about it was that it prompted you to be alone; you wanted to sit in your room and do nothing, you wanted to shut down, give up your responsibilities and sleep all day. It convinced you that 'alone' was what you needed, it made you shut yourself in your room while it ate away at whatever sense of happiness you'd managed to build while with the Winchesters and you realized, while you laid belly-down on your bed with your music playing and your cheek pressed against the same pillow you slept with before making the transition to Dean's room months ago, that it was a vicious cycle.

That grief, in general, was a vicious cycle.

Bless you, Chris Martin, for knowing the words when I don't.

You used to love adventure books with monsters and mythology and angels and demons but now you didn't know if you could possibly swallow something like that; not after what you'd seen, not after you were plunged head first into your own bloody adventure, not much unlike a protagonist.

You understood now why some of them were so bitter near the end. Why they hated their lives.

"Y/N?"

You opened your eyes and they fixed on a single point on the wall across the room from you.

"Hm?" It was a short and sweet response but it was enough for Dean to know you were awake; when he plopped down on the bed next to you, his sudden weight on the springs causing you to bounce for a few seconds before the bed went still again, you looked at him.

He was laying next to you, now, his face turned to look at you while his own belly was pressed to the bed beside you; his eyebrows were crinkled, his face in a frown when he spoke.

"You haven't eaten."

"Not hungry."

"You also haven't left your room in a while."

"Not social."

Dean was silent a moment, allowed his eyes to explore your face for whatever reason, then he sighed. With a softness you hadn't felt from him in days he moved closer, but his arm over your back, moved so close that his nose was only inches from yours, and he frowned once again.

"You miss them?" You knew he meant this as a question, knew he wouldn't have said it as a statement, but his tone, the finality in it made the question come off as more an observation. A statement that you couldn't deny.

So you nodded. "I miss them a lot."

Silence passed while Dean stared into your eyes, and even though you'd long since dropped their focus to his chest you could tell he was looking at you; peripheral vision, all that.

You heard him laugh, a single, small, soft chuckle.

"Is this Coldplay?"

"Judge me and I'll punch you."