Fic: Waiting For That Second Chance
Title: Waiting for that Second Chance
Author: mummyluvr314
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Dean/Nick pre-slash, mentions of unrequited Dean/Castiel
Summary: Dean Winchester doesn’t fall in love. He doesn’t make long-term plans because they always fall through. Still, he can’t help but thinking that this time might be different.
Warnings: Have you seen season five? Good. Have you seen past season five? Liar.
A/N: Written for the Wild Card square in schmoop_bingo , and I went with “falling in love.” The title’s from “Angel” by Sarah McLachlan (pause for dramatic groans).
Disclaimer: Do you think I’d work fast food if I owned this? No.
Previous Chapters: Wounded, Jaded, Loved, and Hated
About a week into Nick’s recovery, Dean realized that he was well and truly fucked. Oh, Nick was fine, by some miracle. It was Dean who had the problem.
See, Nick was a good guy. Nice and quiet and constantly apologizing for something that may not have been completely his fault. Dean knew how the Devil worked, after all, how he was able to take and take and take until you were out of options and the only way to make it all stop was to finally give in.
Nick was funny, too. He had a bright smile and kind eyes and one of the most carefree laughs Dean had ever heard.
He was also ashamed. They’d only spent two days in the run-down apartment where Sam had said the big Y-E-S to Satan before moving on to an actual motel with clean-ish sheets and a TV. The teenage girl at the front desk had taken one look at Nick, who was covered in yellowing bandages with stitches and scars poking out from beneath them, and averted her eyes. She’d backed away. She’d refused to tough either of them, shoving the keys at Dean and jerking her head in the direction of their room.
It wasn’t going to get any easier, and Nick knew that. He’d told Dean as much, said he was getting what he deserved for what he had done. He told Dean to leave him.
Maybe that was when it had happened. When Dean had planted his feet in puke-green shag carpeting and stood his ground. When he refused to leave. He genuinely liked the guy. He wanted to help.
Which was how he’d ended up in one of the room’s two beds with his arms wrapped around the older man, refusing to let go. It reminded him of that first night in Detroit, when Nick had pulled him down and forced him to listen to what he now saw as reason.
It wasn’t his fault, and a stranger had cared enough about him to make him see that.
And Nick was a stranger. Dean didn’t know a thing about the man, other than the fact that he’d said yes to Lucifer, wasn’t allergic to any medications, and was from Delaware. They didn’t talk about personal things. They talked about the weather or sports or food or how pissed Nick was that he’d missed the final season of Lost. They talked about cars and legends and traveling. It was small talk. It was safe.
Somehow, Dean still found himself gravitating to the other man. There was a sense of comfort around him, of things not said but understood nonetheless. He was an easy friend, and Dean found himself climbing into bed with him in an attempt to chase off shared nightmares on more than one occasion.
The sun was rising outside, streaming through the thin curtains, and illuminating the otherwise depressing little room. Dean forced himself to open his eyes and look at the sleeping man lying next to him. The blisters and cuts were healing nicely, and some of the bandages had already come off, leaving a large network of scars webbing across Nick’s face, neck, arms, and hands.
He was still beautiful, still oddly innocent in his sleep. That was how Dean knew he was well and truly fucked. The last person he’d thought those things about had been Cas, and nothing good had come from that.
Still, he couldn’t help but think that things might be different this time. Nick had yet to mention a family or friends or anyone that might be looking for him. And even if he did, how could he possibly face them? He was a self-professed monster, so conscious about the growing number of large and visible scars on his body, so ashamed of the things he’d allowed to happen (even though Dean had told him multiple times on nights when the dreams got too bad that it wasn’t his fault).
No matter who Nick had waiting for him, he wouldn’t want to go back. The knowledge sent a thrill of excitement through the hunter, as much as he hated it. In his experience, when people had nothing, they settled. They settled for him. Sam had done it, once upon a time. Cas had done it. Nick might do it, too.
Dean smiled to himself, reaching up and running tentative fingers over the latest cut to heal, sliding the digits over Nick’s jaw. He was falling. Hopelessly and head-over-heels and he didn’t know why. Maybe he was settling, but he didn’t think so. He’d had a chance to settle, and he hadn’t taken it, hadn’t taken Lisa in the way Sam had asked him to. Instead, he was lying in a motel bed with a healing war veteran, learning every mark on the man in the moments before he roused to wakefulness.
Dean had been drifting off at night thinking of things he’d never imagined he could have. A modest house. The same bed every night. Dinners and movies and holidays and everydays. Someone to go home to. There had been a time when he’d imagined that with his family. When he’d imagined it with Cassie. When he’d imagined it with Cas, even, taking the fallen angel under his wing and guiding him through human life with gentle hands and an open heart. But it had never been this vivid. He’d never had this longing.
Dean Winchester had fallen in love before, but never like this.
It didn’t help that Nick was either totally oblivious or just too nice to say anything. Because Dean wanted confirmation this time. He didn’t want to do anything stupid, like make plans before telling anyone how he felt, only to be faced with a shitty good-bye and an empty passenger seat.
He just wanted to love, and be loved back. He didn’t think that was so much to ask.
Beside him, Nick groaned and rolled over, opening his eyes to find Dean less than an inch from his face, the hunter’s hand still resting awkwardly on the scars on his face. He smiled. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Morning,” Dean said, forcing himself to keep his hand where it was, to see how far he could push things.
Nick stretched, his hand falling lazily to Dean’s hip and staying there. “I’m thinking waffles. You thinking waffles?”
Dean smiled back. “I’m thinking whatever you’re thinking.”
“Awesome.” Nick pushed himself off the bed and wandered into the bathroom.
Things were going to be different this time. Dean could tell. Things were going to be different for both of them.
“Yeah. Awesome.”
Author: mummyluvr314
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Dean/Nick pre-slash, mentions of unrequited Dean/Castiel
Summary: Dean Winchester doesn’t fall in love. He doesn’t make long-term plans because they always fall through. Still, he can’t help but thinking that this time might be different.
Warnings: Have you seen season five? Good. Have you seen past season five? Liar.
A/N: Written for the Wild Card square in schmoop_bingo , and I went with “falling in love.” The title’s from “Angel” by Sarah McLachlan (pause for dramatic groans).
Disclaimer: Do you think I’d work fast food if I owned this? No.
Previous Chapters: Wounded, Jaded, Loved, and Hated
About a week into Nick’s recovery, Dean realized that he was well and truly fucked. Oh, Nick was fine, by some miracle. It was Dean who had the problem.
See, Nick was a good guy. Nice and quiet and constantly apologizing for something that may not have been completely his fault. Dean knew how the Devil worked, after all, how he was able to take and take and take until you were out of options and the only way to make it all stop was to finally give in.
Nick was funny, too. He had a bright smile and kind eyes and one of the most carefree laughs Dean had ever heard.
He was also ashamed. They’d only spent two days in the run-down apartment where Sam had said the big Y-E-S to Satan before moving on to an actual motel with clean-ish sheets and a TV. The teenage girl at the front desk had taken one look at Nick, who was covered in yellowing bandages with stitches and scars poking out from beneath them, and averted her eyes. She’d backed away. She’d refused to tough either of them, shoving the keys at Dean and jerking her head in the direction of their room.
It wasn’t going to get any easier, and Nick knew that. He’d told Dean as much, said he was getting what he deserved for what he had done. He told Dean to leave him.
Maybe that was when it had happened. When Dean had planted his feet in puke-green shag carpeting and stood his ground. When he refused to leave. He genuinely liked the guy. He wanted to help.
Which was how he’d ended up in one of the room’s two beds with his arms wrapped around the older man, refusing to let go. It reminded him of that first night in Detroit, when Nick had pulled him down and forced him to listen to what he now saw as reason.
It wasn’t his fault, and a stranger had cared enough about him to make him see that.
And Nick was a stranger. Dean didn’t know a thing about the man, other than the fact that he’d said yes to Lucifer, wasn’t allergic to any medications, and was from Delaware. They didn’t talk about personal things. They talked about the weather or sports or food or how pissed Nick was that he’d missed the final season of Lost. They talked about cars and legends and traveling. It was small talk. It was safe.
Somehow, Dean still found himself gravitating to the other man. There was a sense of comfort around him, of things not said but understood nonetheless. He was an easy friend, and Dean found himself climbing into bed with him in an attempt to chase off shared nightmares on more than one occasion.
The sun was rising outside, streaming through the thin curtains, and illuminating the otherwise depressing little room. Dean forced himself to open his eyes and look at the sleeping man lying next to him. The blisters and cuts were healing nicely, and some of the bandages had already come off, leaving a large network of scars webbing across Nick’s face, neck, arms, and hands.
He was still beautiful, still oddly innocent in his sleep. That was how Dean knew he was well and truly fucked. The last person he’d thought those things about had been Cas, and nothing good had come from that.
Still, he couldn’t help but think that things might be different this time. Nick had yet to mention a family or friends or anyone that might be looking for him. And even if he did, how could he possibly face them? He was a self-professed monster, so conscious about the growing number of large and visible scars on his body, so ashamed of the things he’d allowed to happen (even though Dean had told him multiple times on nights when the dreams got too bad that it wasn’t his fault).
No matter who Nick had waiting for him, he wouldn’t want to go back. The knowledge sent a thrill of excitement through the hunter, as much as he hated it. In his experience, when people had nothing, they settled. They settled for him. Sam had done it, once upon a time. Cas had done it. Nick might do it, too.
Dean smiled to himself, reaching up and running tentative fingers over the latest cut to heal, sliding the digits over Nick’s jaw. He was falling. Hopelessly and head-over-heels and he didn’t know why. Maybe he was settling, but he didn’t think so. He’d had a chance to settle, and he hadn’t taken it, hadn’t taken Lisa in the way Sam had asked him to. Instead, he was lying in a motel bed with a healing war veteran, learning every mark on the man in the moments before he roused to wakefulness.
Dean had been drifting off at night thinking of things he’d never imagined he could have. A modest house. The same bed every night. Dinners and movies and holidays and everydays. Someone to go home to. There had been a time when he’d imagined that with his family. When he’d imagined it with Cassie. When he’d imagined it with Cas, even, taking the fallen angel under his wing and guiding him through human life with gentle hands and an open heart. But it had never been this vivid. He’d never had this longing.
Dean Winchester had fallen in love before, but never like this.
It didn’t help that Nick was either totally oblivious or just too nice to say anything. Because Dean wanted confirmation this time. He didn’t want to do anything stupid, like make plans before telling anyone how he felt, only to be faced with a shitty good-bye and an empty passenger seat.
He just wanted to love, and be loved back. He didn’t think that was so much to ask.
Beside him, Nick groaned and rolled over, opening his eyes to find Dean less than an inch from his face, the hunter’s hand still resting awkwardly on the scars on his face. He smiled. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Morning,” Dean said, forcing himself to keep his hand where it was, to see how far he could push things.
Nick stretched, his hand falling lazily to Dean’s hip and staying there. “I’m thinking waffles. You thinking waffles?”
Dean smiled back. “I’m thinking whatever you’re thinking.”
“Awesome.” Nick pushed himself off the bed and wandered into the bathroom.
Things were going to be different this time. Dean could tell. Things were going to be different for both of them.
“Yeah. Awesome.”