Obsessed much?

You peek out from the covers. He’s sitting in the chair by the window, legs spread, arms crossed, looking like he hasn’t moved since he got here.

“I remember tequila,” you croak. “And… oh God. Did I call you hot?”

“More than once,” he says, smirking.

You wince. “Did I talk about—my dreams?”

“Yeah.”

“…Did I say anything about your arms?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Which time?”

You let out a pained nnnnngh and sink deeper under the covers. “Kill me.”

“Nope.” Dean’s voice softens. “Sorry, sweetheart. No mercy.”

You poke your head out again, squinting at him like he’s the source of all your shame. “I was drunk, Dean.”

“You were honest,” he counters.

That sobers you more than the painkillers ever could.

He stands, steps closer, and god help you—you forgot how tall he is. He looms like a heat wave, slow and deliberate, stopping just short of your bed.

“I get it,” you murmur. “You’re here to let me down gently. Tell me you care but not like that.”

Dean tilts his head. “You always talk yourself into disappointment before I even open my mouth?”

You blink. “What?”

“I’m here,” he says, like it's the simplest thing in the world. “Still here. Didn’t leave. Didn’t run.”

You shift under the blanket, suddenly too warm. “Dean…”

“Do you mean it?” he asks quietly. “What you said last night. About me being in your head. About wanting…”

You swallow thickly. Your voice comes out barely audible. “I meant every damn word.”

His jaw ticks. His hands clench. He looks like he’s physically restraining himself.

“I think about you too,” he says, voice low and tight. “Way too much. Can’t get you outta my head. Especially when you’re stumbling around drunk in a tank top calling me hot and talking about my arms like they’re a religious experience.”

You let out a breathy laugh, heart pounding now for an entirely different reason. “They are, though.”

Dean grins—and holy hell—he glows when he knows he’s got you flustered.

He leans in, hands braced on either side of your mattress, gaze locked on yours. “I wanted to kiss you last night,” he confesses. “Thought about it the second you opened that damn door.”

“Why didn’t you?” you whisper, eyes darting to his mouth.

“'Cause you were drunk,” he says, voice rough. “And if I kiss you, it’s not gonna be some sloppy tequila thing you regret.”

You exhale shakily. “And if I want it now?”

Dean’s eyes darken, mouth twitching with restraint. “Then you better be sure, sweetheart. Because I’ve waited this long—I can wait another damn minute. But when I do finally kiss you…”

He dips lower, breath ghosting over your cheek, lips so close to yours.

“…you’re not gonna forget it.”

You don’t even answer him. You just reach up, fisting your hand in the collar of his henley, and drag him down until your lips crash into his like a dare.

He groans—deep, primal, like he’s been holding it in for years. His mouth claims yours with heat and hunger, tongue teasing, teeth grazing, breath stuttering against your cheek like he’s breaking apart. His hands grip your waist like he needs proof you’re real.

When you tug him fully on top of you, he curses and breaks the kiss, panting, forehead pressed to yours.

“Fuck, sweetheart—been dreaming of this,” he breathes, voice thick. “But you gotta tell me. You sure?”

Your thighs tighten around him in answer.

“Words, baby,” he growls.

“I want you,” you whisper, no hesitation. “I’ve wanted you.”

And that’s all he needs.

He kisses you again, harder this time, and it’s all teeth and tongue and desperation. He tastes like coffee and midnight restraint finally snapping. His hand slides under your shirt, rough calluses dragging over your skin until you’re arching into him, chasing his touch like it’s oxygen.

When his mouth moves to your throat, you whimper—loud. Dean groans at the sound like it physically wrecks him.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, trailing hot kisses down your collarbone. “You’re so fuckin’ soft. You make me lose my mind.”

You whine when he lifts your shirt, exposing skin inch by inch like he’s unwrapping a gift he doesn’t deserve. He mouths at the curve of your breast, hand sliding up your thigh to where you're already soaked through your underwear.

“Holy shit,” he rasps. “All this for me?”

“Dean,” you gasp.

He kisses you again, messy and urgent. “Lay back. Let me taste you.”

You freeze for half a second, heart hammering.

“You serious?”

He pulls back just enough to look you dead in the eye, pupils blown, voice ragged.

“Babygirl, you called me at 2 a.m. drunk off your ass and told me you wanted to ride my face. I’m just here to make your dreams come true.”

You burst out laughing—right before he drags your panties down and silences you with the filthiest kiss to your inner thigh.

Then his mouth is on you.

And it’s heaven.

Dean eats like a man starved—slow at first, savoring every sound you make, every arch of your spine, tongue dragging through your folds like he’s memorizing your taste. One hand pins your hip while the other slides up your body, curling under your bra, thumbing your nipple until your moans turn breathless.

He groans into you when you tangle your fingers in his hair and grind helplessly against his face.

“Shit, Dean—don’t stop, please—”

“Not gonna,” he growls. “Not till you come on my tongue. I want it all.”

And you do.

Hard. Loud. Shaking.

He rides you through it, murmuring praises you barely register—so good, so pretty, just like that, fuck, look at you falling apart for me.

When he finally crawls back up your body, mouth slick, eyes dark, you’re dizzy and boneless and trembling in the best damn way.

“I can die happy now,” you whisper.

Dean smirks, brushing a strand of hair off your flushed face.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice thick and low, “we’re just getting started.”