The Reader needs some comfort. She finds it in cuddles with Dean and a little bit of time with guns and family.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Y/N)

Warnings/Promises: loss of a loved one, ANGST, food mention/eating, getting to shoot guns (non-live targets), FLUFF

Word Count: 1000

Note: I’m sorry this is not the smutty thing I wanted to share, but it’s what I needed. And the only thing I could seem to write. I didn’t mean to jip you guys two Dean fics in a row. Hopefully, the next fic will be better.

I couldn’t breathe. Everything hurt. Every muscle yearned for release as if from a brutal workout. My very heartstrings ached.

“Y/N?” Dean’s voice came before his gentle knock on the door. When I didn’t answer, he hesitated then slowly pushed the door open. “Oh, Y/N.”

Dean kneeled by my bed and pushed the hair out of my face. He grimaced to see how red and puffy it was. I closed my eyes, half hoping he would take the hint, and half hoping he wouldn’t. His hand smoothed across my forehead and down my cheeks, brushing away the wetness there. “What happened?”

How to say it? To say it out loud would make it final. Something I couldn’t change. Or maybe it was final.

“My mother called.” My face grew hot again. Tears I did not want threatened to spill. “I… she…” Breathe Y/N. That’s all you can do. Breathe. “My grandmother. She passed away last night.” My voice cracked. The already soaked pillowcase didn’t do a good job of hiding my face because Dean crawled in beside me.

He pulled me close so I could cry into his chest instead.

“Vampires and demons and monsters. I know how to kill them all. What was I supposed to do against this? Dementia hurt enough. Hearing the same stories over and over again. Fearing the day she would forget me. The stroke took everything else.” My voice shrank to a whisper. “She couldn’t speak a month ago.” The back of my throat hurt but I had to keep going or it would sink deeper and choke me. “But she knew me. She held my hand and squeezed it. She knew me.”

Dean rubbed my back. “She knew you. What about a couple of weeks ago? You never told me…”

“She was asleep.” I puffed a broken laugh. “She kind of looked like the pit mummies I learned about in class. Curled on her side, her hands pulled to her chest. The wrinkles I know… knew.” I thought back to it, my last visit. “I sat there for almost an hour trying to remember what she looked like over the years. My uncle tried talking me out of going to see her. Said I wouldn’t be able to see past how she looked at the end. But I could. Her squinty eyes when she laughed or was trying not to. How her nose would scrunch when she disapproved of what my brother or I was doing.”

He smiled. “I’m glad I got to meet her.”

Again, I laughed. “You were glad to have the Y/L/N breakfast. Nana gravy and Pop’s country ham especially.”

“Not only. I was also happy to hear all those embarrassing stories about you I’d never heard before.”

We shared a laugh, and I took note of how my chest didn’t hurt as much. Still, my skin buzzed. “I can’t lay here all day.”

He grunted in agreement.

“I need something to do. One thing I can complete, start to finish.” He wasn’t going to like it. “I need a case.”

“That’s the last thing you need to do right now.” Dean leaned back enough to look at my face. He thought for a moment. “We have a shooting range.”

“That should work.” I quickly crawled out of his arms and grabbed a flannel. “Let’s go.”

At first, I thought I would shoot a target or two, then maybe crash with a movie to not be alone with my thoughts. But the bunker was stocked. Like super stocked. Handguns of various weights. Tiny boot guns to heavy revolvers. The shotguns were probably the most satisfying. Whole sections of the paper targets were shredded. It matched what I felt like. What I wished I could do to the intangible illness that took my grandmother.

I shot targets for hours. Until my shoulder hurt and the smell of oil and gunpowder were burned into my nose. The smell of baking replaced it.

Dean was nearly comical to look at. The white apron had done nothing to keep flour from covering him up to his elbows or all over his face. To one side, it was a miracle he could still see the computer screen he was using for a recipe. On the counter was a large basket covered with a hand towel.

“Are those,” I gasped, “are those… Nana biscuits?”

He turned, surprised to hear my voice. “Ah, yeah. I, uh, I remembered you said something about filming your grandmother the last time she made her family-famous biscuits. I found it. I wanted to surprise you with a double batch, but it got away from me.” He held up his arms as proof.

There were enough to sink a ship. But the fridge was also stocked with everyone’s favorite jams and jellies. Dean put himself in charge of cooking up bacon while I fried bologna. Sam, when he finally got home with Cas, cooked eggs (scrambled and fried). Cas watched and snuck a biscuit with honey as an ‘appetizer.’

It was home.

After dinner, Cas pulled a few strings and snuck me in to see her heaven. I was there. The memory she was reliving was watching my brother and I play on the porch. It had been eventually closed in and functioned more like a hallway, but the kitchen alcove still had the windows that slid up and down. We were hopping through them, delivering supplies by one of Dad’s old toy covered wagons. She looked… content. Relaxed. Not in pain or searching for lost time. Like Nana.

“Thank you, Cas.” Heaven faded away as he brought us back to the bunker. I landed on the couch next to Dean.

My cheeks were warm again, and my chest ached. But in a good way. I knew it wouldn’t go away for a while. But I would get used to it, like a brick in my pocket. A weight that I would forget about for a while until she would come to mind. But that would be okay. I would be okay.

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