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You’ve played it over and over again in your head. You’d looked at yourself in a mirror after, to check if you’d had something smeared on your cheek, or your clothing had been too baggy, or if there was maybe just something sharp in your features Dean didn’t want to cut himself on. But there had been nothing. And you’d been so, so sure.

There had been months, of wanting it and saying nothing. Wanting Dean and sewing your mouth shut. He’d call you sweetheart and you’d pull yourself to the level of a waitress who brought him his pie. He brought you snacks from the corner store without asking, and you go to be something that occupied his mind, a parasite that didn’t ask for more than attention. His hand would grace your lower back as he walked past, and you’d stand taller. Promote yourself to maybe a soft body he could find warmth in.

“What do you call a group of owls?” You’d asked him over breakfast, and he’d grinned up at you.

“I don’t know, a hoot?”

“No, that doesn’t fit.”

“Fit what?” He’d leaned to the side, squinting at your computer. “Oh. I, uh- Thought you were asking me a riddle or something.”

You’d snorted, turning the screen for him to read. The crossword was almost fully done, but there were always three or four you couldn’t get until the very end. Usually you ask Sam, but Dean had been there. And you’d liked how close he had to be, to read the screen. His knee bumping yours under the table, his breath on your neck. Your vison had gotten a little blurred and vivid. Everything in you had narrowed down to Dean.

Somehow, you’d managed to keep your voice steady. “What kind of riddle would that be?”

“I dunno, you asked it.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That’s why it was so lame, sweetheart.” He’d drawled, and you’d bitten the inside of your cheek to try and stop a flush. “Maybe it’s parchment.”

“Parchment-“

“Fancy paper-“

“I know what parchment is.” You’d snapped, and his grin had widened. “But it doesn’t fit, there’s no l in parchment. And a parchment of owls doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well, a parliament of owls doesn’t sound any better.”

You’d blinked at the screen, then Dean’s slightly grumpy, mostly teasing expression.

He’d raised his brows. “You thinking something?”

“I- No, but-“ He’d been so close. If you’d tripped sitting, you wouldn’t fallen right into a kiss. “How’d you get parliament?”

“I can see the other clues.” Dean had shrugged, reaching past you to tap the screen. “This one’s gotta be an accord, ‘s a kinda car that’s pretty shit, but it’s got that exact axel and horsepower. Then this,” he’d looked at you, eyes shining, and you’d blinked at him a little like a baby deer seeing the sun for the first time. “Rocket ball rifle. That’s a Winchester, sweetheart.”

You’d laughed, but it had been weak and breathy. “Good work.”

Dean had sat up, looking back to his pancakes with a grin. “Thanks. Not just a pretty face, y’know.”

He’d said it like a joke, so you’d bumped his shoulder. You’d kept your words light, because he needed them like that.

But you’d been dead fucking serious.

“I know. You’re the whole package in a very handsome bow.”

Dean had laughed, but you’d felt his gaze for a while after. When you’d glanced over, he’d looked away and coughed. There had been a blush creeping up his neck, and you’d smiled to yourself.

You’d made him feel good, just as his friend. And that’s enough. Had been enough.

Then the baby slipped.

It hadn’t been dramatic. You’re sure he’d never even noticed.

I’ve got it, baby.

He’d patted your leg and stood up. You’d gaped after him, your whole world wiping and rewiring and adjusting to new code with each passing heartbeat, pounding in your ears.

Dean didn’t call anyone baby. You’d never heard it in a low drawl for some bar hookup, all the gorgeous women you’d envied until it made you sick. When he used to bring them back to motels and you’d pretend you needed a walk, you’d never hear it moaned or whispered in dirty talk.

Not that you were listening.

But he’s loud. And it used to be the only line to sanity you had.

It’s easy to fall for Dean. It’s magnetic. You think you felt it the first time he offered you a hand, and your whole body had started to warm and blister like you’d been shoved into an oven. It had faded the first few weeks of knowing him, burning up fast, a wildfire of desire that swept through you until you spent every night with hair stuck to your brow and the sheets stained with sweat.

When it had faded, you’d hoped it would be nothing more than a pile of shameful ash. Dean wouldn’t never have to know that the kid he’d taken under his wing was a little pervert who listened to him have sex, then cried in the shower after. Nobody would ever have to know.

But there’s this thing. Where sometimes the fire ripping through the world isn’t to destroy. It’s to help grow. The flames curl into tightly locked seed pods, open them up, and make room for a new forest to grow.

And Dean is kind. And funny. And handsome, and strong, and loyal, and sometimes you want to punch him in his perfect, stupid face because you never stood a chance.

Loving him in silence was harder than wanting him. Wanting him could be satisfied with makeshift men. The right height and build, similar hair and a few scars, their faces Dean’s when you close your eyes.

Dean used to mutter that he didn’t like you sleeping with so many older creeps. That they only wanted one thing from you.

“I only want one thing from them.” You’d told him, and his jaw had ticked.

“You shouldn’t be looking for it there.”

“Why not-“

“They could be your father,” he’d snapped your name, glaring up from his beer bottle. The label had been picked clear off and crumpled in his hand.

You’d leaned back a little, brows raised, and he’d let out a slow breath. Shook his head, mouth pressed in a thin line.

“Dean-“

“There are plenty of-“ His brow had furrowed. He’d glared at the bottle, like your taste in men was it’s fault. “Lotta other options. You don’t have to settle for some creep that’s eyeing you up like fuckin’ meat.”

You’d wanted to laugh. You might’ve, if Dean hadn’t looked like he was one word from breaking his own teeth.

“It’s a two way road, Deano.” You’d hummed, and he’d looked like you punched him in the gut.

You don’t know if he noticed. How you stopped sleeping around after that. Phantoms of attention were nothing, compared to the tiniest hit of Dean’s concern.

There was no dare to fool yourself. Nothing you were clinging to, about having a chance. Dean didn’t see you like that. How could he.

You were a little bit of a devoted heretic. You’d made your alter at the foot of a god, and you just liked that you were allowed to stay. If he kicked you, you’d tumble down and crawl back up until he crushed you completely. A single scrape of his touch was more than most were offered.

Being Dean’s friend was enough. Something he cared about was a rush of it’s own.

And you’d been ready to sleep alone for a long, long time. To keep all your love gathered in your chest, and let it bleed into every little thing you did. It wasn’t angry love. Wasn’t bitter for being left to fester.

Mold grows. Weeds can be beautiful flowers.

You covered every little thing in your love for Dean, until you were sure it stained over your skin like a tattoo. Everyone seemed to see it but him. Sam knew after you screamed for him on a hunt, when he’d gotten driven onto some rebar and you’d felt your own chest split open. Jack gives you strange looks whenever he visits, and when he asked you just waved him off. Even his fucking dog looks at you like you’re some sad, pitiable little fool.

But Dean was happy with you. As his friend.

Then he called you baby.

And the world stopped, and rewound. A cassette tape reaching the end of a track and flipping itself over, letting you listen to the song one more time.

Letting you notice what you’d missed, too absorbed in your own love—it was a loud, consuming thing—to look outside your head.

Dean had stopped sleeping around too.

He touched you, maybe more than you touch him. Bumping your shoulder, thighs pressed under the table, a hand brushing through your hair when he walked past.

You’d counted them as nothing. You’d drowned in the luck of his thoughtless motions, but baby.

He kissed your forehead before he split off from you on a hunt. He knocked on your door when he had a nightmare, like he had nowhere else to go. At the grocery store, he’d linger a step behind you like he was guarding you from the peanut butter on the shelf and the slabs of beef in the butcher’s display. Close enough you could feel the heat from his body. Too close to be an accident.

You’d asked Sam.

Sam had coughed, and told you to talk to Dean.

You’d asked Sam again.

He’d begged you not to.

“Dean will kill me,” he’d whined like a child. “And I kind of like life now? Like, we’ve got really good things going, and I don’t want to die over Dean’s stupid secrets-“

“So Dean has secrets.” You’d crossed your arms over your chest. Sam had flinched.

“Um- Yeah. Which you should talk to him about, because I know nothing about them.”

“Sam-“

“Just- Whatever you’re thinking, that’s it. You’re right.” He’d sighed. “Please don’t make me say it. You’re both grownups. Make him use his words.”

You’d snorted. “Make Dean use his words-“

“You have more power over him than you think.” Sam had shrugged, voice dropping under his breath. “Like, a lot more.”

“What are we talkin’ about?” Dean had walked into the kitchen, looking between you and Sam, and you’d coughed.

“Nothing.”

“Relationships.”

You and Sam had spoken at the same time. Dean had raised his brows.

“Alright, what’s goin’ on-“

“Are you seeing anyone?” Sam had shouted, before you could gut punch him hard enough to shut him up. “Or, you know- Thinking about anyone, or anything with anyone, or- What the fuck-“

A spoon had gone flying, hitting Sam square in the jaw. He’d rubbed the hurt, gaping at his brother, and Dean had just shrugged.

“Oops.” He’d said flatly. “Hand slipped.”

His eyes had been narrowed. Sam had dropped it.

And the loop playing in your head had become obsessive.

He felt something. The more you played back and analyzed, the more certain you’d become. It might not be the concrete, resolved adoration you felt for everything that even stemmed slightly from Dean, but it was something. Something big enough he’d go to you first, in any room. That he’d hug you like he was trying to pull you into his chest, and breathe you in so heavily you felt a little stupid for missing it.

Enough you’d been willing to take the risk.

But not enough for him to say yes.

That day plays in a blur now. Your confession. His expression, like you’d shot him pointblank.

His head, shaking, and every color in the world inverting as he told you no.

You were wrong. He didn’t want that.

Just the night before you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, but still been lucid enough to feel him pull you closer. He’d kissed your brow. Whispered something you hadn’t been able to make out, but had sounded soft. Affectionate. It was the same tone you used, when you told his sleeping form that you loved him, just to try and offer yourself a little bit of control.

It’s gone now, though.

Not the love. That’s boiling and bubbling over the edges, an ocean put under a flame. There’s so much of it you might be about to choke, because you can’t let it show anymore.

Dean told you no, and you tried to shove it into the cavity of your chest and lock it up.

But it was too big. Too much, to have your heart broken and all your love just… stalled. No where left for it to go.

And you didn’t do anything wrong.

Dean sent the mixed signals. Dean told you no, then expected everything to be fine. He said he wasn’t into you like that, then followed you to the bar the next night and stopped you from numbing the pain in another man’s body.

So he earned this silent treatment.

And you’re not going to be the first to break.

Your fingers fidget in your lap, and it’s the only movement you allow your body to have. It’s more for warmth, than anything else. Dean doesn’t get to see your discomfort. How ever cell in your body is trying to drag you into him, to forgo dignity for his touch. For the heat rolling off his body, that would cure you of this cold fever in a few seconds.

Dean coughs, stretching too causally to be natural, and his arm ends up around the back of the bench.

He’s like a radiator. Your shoulder almost slumps into the slight brush of his fingers, into the comfort they offer.

You lean forward, forcing a distance. You won’t break.

Dean can be stubborn. You’re going to give him a run for his stolen money.

“You think this is the guy?” He asks, withdrawing his arm.

You just shrug. Dean sighs.

“If you don’t, we can just go get a drink. Night’s almost over anyway, isn’t much he’d be able to do-“

“I want to wait.” You say, and you didn’t know your voice could sound that cold.

Dean tenses up at your side, then nods. “Alright. Guess we’re waiting.”

You huff, and neither of you try to speak again. When the guy comes out, you track him to the vamp nest and make quick work. It’s barely a hunt worth breaking a sweat over, not with Dean swinging his machete and your dead man’s blood bullets. When you’re done, there’s some dirt and guts on your jacket. Your nose wrinkles, and you feel Dean’s presence before you hear him.

“You alright?” Dean sounds worried. You just wave him off.

“Yeah.” You mutter, tossing the stained jacket in the trunk. “Just cold.”

“You can take my jacket-“

“I’m good.”

Dean already had his jacket half off, and he pauses. You turn away, not wanting to see whatever look was on his face.

You climb into the car, waiting for him to catch up. When he opens the door, his jacket is fully gone.

He shoves it into your hands without a glance. It’s warm like a blanket. It’s going to smell like him, and your fingers curl into the fabric against your will.

“Dean, I don’t want this-“

“Well, you got it.” He snaps, and you hold it tighter.

“I’m not going to wear it-“

“Don’t care.” He starts the car, shooting you a glare. “Toss it, burn it, see if I give a shit. It’s yours.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have anything to say that isn’t a curse or a plea.

The air feels like it’s getting more and more wired, with every passing second. It waves with heat, and starts to clog up your throat. You can breathe, but everything is sticky. The tension resting in your throat, swelling to keep words from spilling out of your throat.

Dean keeps looking at you. You wish he’d stop. Wish he’d make this easier on you, by not flexing his hands every three seconds and seeming like he’s going to reach out. To touch you, when your skin has gotten so, so cold.

When you get back to the motel, Dean goes right to the bathroom, and you stand uselessly in the center of the room. You still haven’t let go of the goddamn jacket.

You look at the door, and hear the water running. He’s taking a shower, and Dean takes long showers. 

You shrug on the jacket. And you were right.

It smells just like Dean.

Leather and amber, something a little spicy and a deep, comforting, unnamable scent that’s just Dean. It’s even stronger than the lingering musk of his cheap aftershave and cologne. You don’t even know why he bothers with that stuff, when he’s a natural aphrodisiac.

You wrap your arms around your stomach, staring at the bathroom door. It almost feels like he’s there. Like he’s hugging you and telling you everything is going to be okay.

And you sway on your feet, tears pricking at your eyes for the first time since he told you no. You’d shut it all down, refused to let yourself cry over it, and now-

He was your best friend. He’d acted like you lingered in all his dreams, the same way he lingered in yours.

And he told you no, and wouldn’t even give you the space to let your love die.

You don’t think it can die. But you’re not strong enough to leave him. Even with all this pain, you don’t want to. You refuse to be another person who leaves Dean, just because he won’t sleep with you.

But you can’t be here right now. Not while the wound is open and raw.

There’s a bar, just down the street. You text Dean that where you’re headed, and leave with his jacket still wrapped tight around your body.

It’s a fairly crowded bar. Enough people that the noise in your head can be drowned out, enough business that they keep good stuff in stock. You drink, but not enough to lose control. That’s not the goal.

You’re trying to get yourself to the point that you can return the smile of the man down the bar. He’s not bad looking. Dark hair and eyes, warm looking skin, a casualness to his stance that’s welcoming. He’s got broad shoulders. Big hands.

He’d be a good night.

But he’s not Dean. 

You need to be just tipsy enough to pretend that he is.

And it’s pathetic. You should be trying to get over him, but it’s like trying to drag your feet out of quicksand. The more you struggle against it, the more you think about every reason to stay in love with him. The way he sings loudly in the car, grinning at you the whole time. His dumb little bow-legged walk, and how he never breaks pace when he’s carrying you to the car after a bad hunt. His jokes, how safe you feel when he’s next to you, how even when he turned you down he hadn’t been cruel.

He’d just said no. You got it wrong. That’s- I’m not doing that to you.

You take another drink, breathing heavy through your nose. Wearing the jacket was a mistake. You can smell him all around you, and it’s a tantalizing, sadistic way to torture yourself. You swallow, looking up to the yellowed bar lights like they can offer you some strength.

They just stare back, and your eyes burn.

Maybe you should just go home. Call it a night, wallow in the bathtub until you either get it together, or sink under the water. Dean could save you. He’d bring you to bed and comfort you, then just leave you again. You’d be naked, and he’d have no interest, and you rub your eyes because you won’t cry in a public bar, you won’t-

Dean says your name, and you freeze.

“What the hell are you doing?” He’s not shouting, but it’s worse. “I come out and you’re just gone, you got any idea how much that freaked me out-“

“I texted you.” You don’t turn around. He doesn’t get to see the tears, still stinging at your vision.

Dean scoffs. “That’s not enough and you know it. Your phone coulda been stolen, you could’ve gone out then gotten grabbed, you- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you damn near gave me a heart attack-“

“Sorry.” There’s a stone-like lump, settling in your throat. “But I’m fine, Dean. And you could’ve called.”

He grunts, and you see him move into your periphery. You bow your head lower. You don’t want to see him. It will only make the pain worse. 

Dean mutters, your name. You don’t look up.

“How many drinks have you had?”

You shrug, and he sighs.

“Are you… feelin’ okay?”

“I feel amazing.” You mutter, not bothering to hide the bitterness in your tone.

Dean swallows. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Neither of you move. You take another drink, and Dean’s voice becomes strained.

“Look, I- I didn’t mean to yell, just- Come on-“

His hand lands on your shoulder, and you shove it off.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

“I don’t care.” You spit, finally letting your gaze turn on him.

He leans back, eyes widening slightly, and it immediately hurts. You don’t want to hurt him. But you’re too tired to stop.

“I was just- You worried me-“

“I’m fine.”

“You’re getting drunk-“

“You get drunk all the time.”

“That’s- It’s not the same- I’m not-“ He runs a hand over his face. “We can fight about this back at the room, okay, let’s go-“

“No.” You hiss, and something tight flashes over his face.

He says your name, and you shake your head, looking back to your glass.

“Leave me alone, Dean.”

And you want him to fight. You want him to tell you he’s not going anywhere without you, because you never want to go anywhere without him. You’d sew your hands together, stick your shoulders together with glue, wrap around his back like a growth just to remind him how amazing he is, all the time.

You’d fight for him.

But Dean doesn’t. He nods.

“Sorry.” He mutters, his voice lower than you’ve ever heard. Not the deep drawl that he uses to tease and joke with you.

Just… Heavy.

Defeated.

And he apologizes, and walks away. You look over your shoulder, and find him staring back. His throat bobs, his hands fist at his sides, and he leaves.

Leaves you. Alone.

You down another shot, and it burns your throat with your eyes. You won’t cry over this. He’s allowed to not want you, and you’re going to be mature about it, and go sleep with someone else.

It takes another drink, but you walk over to the man on the other end of the bar. It feels like you’ve been moved into an autopilot, all your smiles too tight on your face and your voice far away. You bat your eyelashes, and lean forward without recoiling at how not Dean he is. He tells you you’re pretty. You laugh, and tell him he’s not so bad himself.

He puts his hand on your lower back as you walk to the parking lot. He’s a local, with a house not too far he’d like to show you. If he notices how you arch away from the touch, he doesn’t say anything.

And under the parking lot lamps, you can just see his silhouette and pretend it’s Dean.

But then he brushes your hair from your face, and leans in for a kiss. It’s an instinct, to turn your cheek. You’ve made it all the way to the car, and his heater is running, but the burning feeling over your skin isn’t from desire.

It’s prickly and sore.

Shame.

You mumble a sorry, the world moving so fast everything turns to a blur, but it might just be the tears pricking in your eyes. You try to take off your jacket, to cool down and collect yourself.

But the smell of Dean is gone, and now you’re sick, and you-

You can’t.

You just can’t.

It’s with scrambled apologies and a flushed face, that you run out of the car. There’s no excuse for it. Nothing that you can say to rationalize fleeing the moment like it’s a crime scene, running from a kiss like it threatened death. But you feel sick.

He’s not Dean.

When you get back to the motel room you’re out of breath. Your fingers are numb and there’s bile in your throat. The shame burns under your face, and your lips are wobbling pathetically. You’d rip the love out of you, if it wouldn’t feel like carving out a piece of your soul. You’d stay away the whole night, if you didn’t know the world would slow back down the moment you saw him.

He told you no, but he’s still your Dean. The world is safe with him. And you like loving him, you do, but right now you just…

You hate yourself. Blame yourself.

Wish you were anything else, that you loved him a little less, so the wound could be cauterized without splitting itself open.

Every movement just splits it open. And Dean isn’t going to come and stich it back up.

You take a ragged breath. Collect yourself by your throat, refusing to let your guts just spill all over the ground for Dean to see. For him to think he has to clean up, when you’re trying so hard not to blame him. He didn’t know what he was doing to you. He told you to stop. And you can’t.

All the mixed signals earned your silence, but not your wrath. You’re grabbing your heart and throttling it, because you don’t want to be mad.

But you open the door, and Dean is still up. He’d sprawled on his bed, watching TV, eyes locking onto yours before you’re even in the room. You try to ignore him, and kick off your shoes. He pauses his show.

“You have fun?”

You shoot him a glare, but his expression is unreadable. There are long shadows on his face that only make him more handsome, and you can feel the anger clawing up your chest.

He raises his brows in slight challenge, and you’re too exhausted to ignore the bait.

“No.” You snap, tossing off the jacket. “I didn’t.”

If Dean has a reaction, he doesn’t show it. “Sorry.”

You snort, and his lips twitch down.

“What’s so funny-“

“You’re not sorry.” The words fall out of you, lined in venom.

And he shrugs.

Dean just shrugs, like that’s all your love is worth, and something inside you snaps.

How dare he. How dare he stomp on your heart and treat you like a child, and how dare he make you keep loving him by putting water on your beside table for your hangover and staying up just to make sure you get home safe. He’s a good man but he’s being so cruel and it’s only just to you. Like you deserve some punishment for loving him. Like he’s daring you to bite him back.

You can bite.

You can rip something in him, and make it almost half as deep as he’s buried himself into you.

“It’s your fault, you know.” You cross your arms, glaring at him across the room.

He chuckles, looking back to the TV. “Yeah, whatever sweetheart-“

“Don’t call me that.”

That makes him go rigid. His eyes fly back to yours, and you mimic his challenging look.

“What,” he stares at you, like he doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Don’t call you sweetheart-“

“Yes.” You raise your chin, and he sits up.

“I- Why?”

“Why?” You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Why do you think, Dean? Why on Earth wouldn’t I want you to call me sweetheart, when you fucking- You-“

He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach.

“No, you- You keep-“

“Is this about you askin’ me to-“

“Of course it’s about that!” You scream, and Dean’s hand fists on his leg. “You turned me down, Dean, you said no, and that’s- That’s fine, you’re allowed to- To not want me-“

Dean moves slowly to his feet, watching you carefully. “Sweetheart-“

“Don’t call me that!” You scream, taking a large step back. “Don’t talk to me like that when you don’t mean it, Dean, it- It’s awful-“

“I wasn’t tryin’ to make you-“ He swallows, reaching a hand for you before yanking it back. “Look, I just- I didn’t think-“

“You didn’t think? You’re not stupid, Dean, how could you not think that you rejecting me when I- I’d been so sure, when I love you-“

“Don’t.” His voice raises suddenly. You flinch a step back, pressing your back to the wall.

Dean’s face falls in second, and he moves forward, arms flexing like he’s trying to control every movement.

“Baby, I-“

“Don’t yell at me.” You whisper, blinking away your tears.

He swallows, voice strained. “I know, I didn’t mean to-“

“You’re the one who said no, Dean.” You mutter, staring down at his knees. “You told me I was wrong, but- You follow me to bars and you call me sweetheart, and- and Baby-“ You wipe your nose, sniffing through the words, all your anger just evaporating into hurt. “You can’t do both. You can’t. It’s not fair.”

“I know.” He says immediately, taking another step forward. “I know, I’m sorry, just- Don’t cry. Don’t, I’m not worth that-“

“Yes, you are.”

Dean falls completely silent, and you look up to find him barely a foot away. Every muscle in his body flexes, his chest heaving like the air is thin. He’s staring at you like he’s not sure you’re there. You tip your head back against the door, and give him a tired smile.

“You’re worth everything.” You whisper. “I- I still love you, Dean, and you don’t have to feel it back, but- I love you, and you-“

“No.” He almost chokes out the word, face twisting like he’s in pain. “You had a crush. That’s not love, it’s-“ he shakes his head. “You got rose colored glasses, alright? I’m not some kinda hero that’s gonna live up to the fuckin’ fantasy-“

“It’s not a fantasy.” You snap. “I love you, I know I do-“

“I promise you don’t.” He grunts. “I drink too much, I don’t go to the doctor and I got no plans, I’m an old ass who sleeps with a gun, hell, I’m old enough to be your dad, that’s not love-“

“Stop telling me that!”

Dean blinks at the certainty in your shout, and you push up on the wall, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not a fucking idiot, I know what a crush feels like, and I know what love feels like, and I- I feel better around you, Dean!” Your voice cracks. “You make everything better, you make me feel- Feel wanted, you make me smile and you make me happy, and I- I love seeing you because it tells me I’m going to be okay.” The tears are falling again, and Dean looks like he’s seen a ghost. “You’re being such a dick but I still love you, and I- I think- I think I need space because you can’t- You don’t have to want me but you can’t act like I don’t know what I want, because I know, and it’s you, it’s just you-“

Your voice breaks fully, and Dean moves.

He crashes forward, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you like he thinks you’re going to disappear. You squeak, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and he presses closer.

His body is draped over yours, warm and sturdy. His mouth is certain, moving against yours like a wave. Pulling at your lower lip then sucking, open and passionate. You’re trapped between him and the wall, and your knees get weak from the force but he wraps an arm around you, keeping you afloat as your head starts to spin.

“De- Dean-“

“It’s just you,” he grunts your name, speaking between frenzied, wet kisses. “It’s only you, been you since the first time you smiled at me and it was like the sun was finally fuckin’ shining, there’s nothin’ else, no one else- Son of a bitch, you’re the only thing that gets my ass outta bed in the morning some days, just fuckin’ you.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, drags his lips in a hot line down your neck. You shiver, pulling him closer and trying, so desperately, to be sure this isn’t a dream.

“You- You said-“

“I know what I said.” He pulls back, taking your face between his hands. “Thought-“ He laughs dryly. “Hell, I still think, you’re better off running around with someone your own age. Someone who’s got a future, who can give you things-“

“You can give me things.” You whisper, staring up at him. He swallows.

“I told you, I’m old with ten bucks to my name, and I don’t think I’m hittin’ the lottery any time soon-“

“But you have you.” You smile at him, reaching carefully up to cup his cheek. “That’s all I want, Dean. That’s all you need to give.”

Dean’s eyes close, screwed shut as he breathes through his nose. He grabs your hand on his cheek, holding it there with a crushing grip.

“Do you want me?” You breathe out, still not fully trusting that this is real.

He nods, and tears slide down your cheeks.

“I- I need you to say it, please-“

“I want you.” He rasps, eyes locking onto yours. “And I don’t just want you, sweetheart, I- I-“ His jaw flexes, like he’s gagging on his own words.

You wait, and he presses further over you, consuming your whole vision. Your hand is guided over your head, and when you reach with it’s opposite to wrap around his neck, he takes that one too. You’re caged between his massive chest and the wall, your fingers scraping at the back of his hand, and he looks at you like the stars have been poured into his bathtub. Like he’s being offered the universe to drown in, and he’s just trying to build the courage to drive.

“I can’t stop calling you.” He mutters, and your breath hitches. “I call for you in my sleep, call for you when I think I’m running outta luck and I gotta start saying my prayers. Call for you on every hunt, even when I know you’re gonna be okay. Think about shouting for you when you leave the room, stare at my phone when you go away and hope you call me, so I’m not being a fuckin’ pervert.”

“You- You’re not a-“

“Yes, I am.” Dean brushes his lips over yours, and you gasp softly. “Things I think about doin’ to you aren’t winning me any sainthoods. Call for you there, too. When I got an hour to myself, just me and my imagination, and you.” He kisses your cheek, then under your ear. “Sometimes I get so loud I think you’re gonna hear. You don’t look at me after and I worry I’ve lost you forever. Can’t lose you, sweetheart. Can’t.” His voice falters slightly, and he draws back.

Drops his brow back against yours, all the teasing confidence waning in a second. His voice is raw. Pleading and hopeless.

“You- You don’t have to forgive me, alright? I thought you’d be better, thought you just got swept up in something, I didn’t- I’m sorry.” His expression is bare, filled with so much pain you feel it echo in your chest. “I’m so sorry, baby, but don’t- Don’t go. Please.” He grabs your hip like it’s his last anchor in a storm. “Don’t leave me. I’ll do anything, give you anything, please-“

You can’t stand it anymore. The pain in his voice.

So you press up, and kiss him.

It’s a little faster than Dean’s kiss. More chaste, too. A tiny press of your lips over his, and an attempt to draw back. But Dean is faster, and strong. He grabs the back of your head, ducking down to meet you and kissing you with such a fervor your legs give out.

He catches you. His grip squeezes on your hands, and he pulls you upright in a second, his mouth managing to never leave yours. You gasp, rising up to trying and meet every bit of heat he can offer. You open your mouth, and he takes full advantage, pushing his tongue over yours as his knee slides between your legs.

You moan, rolling your hips, and Dean squeezes your wrists. He rubs his thumb in small, soothing circles as he tugs on your hair gently. Just enough to tip your head back, and allow him further access.    

Dean kisses you like he’s done it a million times before. Your head is spinning with the passion, but he never breaks pace. When you start to run out of air—whining against his lips and straining at his hold on your wrists—he drops his lips to your neck, sucking and nipping gently as you try to collect yourself.

It’s a pointless endeavor. Every brush of Dean’s teeth, every flick of his tongue, they send a bolt of lightning through your body. You’ve never been taken this high with just kissing, but it’s Dean. He could be taking about diseases and you’d want to climb him like a tree.

You’re not doing much climbing right now, though. There’s a pressure building between your thighs, and you’re mostly just fighting yourself from humping him like an animal.

It’s hard, when he’s making out with a sensitive spot under your jaw. You’re not even sure how you manage to speak.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“Not God.” He teases. “Just me. Call my name, sweetheart, let me hear it-“

You try to, but it turns into a strangled moan when Dean’s hand drops from your head to your hips. The firm squeeze of the skin, his fingers dancing over your inner thigh, it’s too much. You start to rut against his jeans in tiny, uncontrolled movements, and it only makes all that building need worse.

Dean groans, pushing his knee further up. It’s overwhelming, the mix of relief and desperation the motion brings. You squeak, grinding down onto him, chasing more, more, more-

“That’s it.” He mutters, encouraging and low. “That’s a girl, fuck my leg, come on-“

You moan, and Dean molds his lips back over yours. It feels like where he’s supposed to be. How he’s supposed to be.

So completely with you.

Almost yours.

And it gnaws at the back of your head, even as release builds in your core. He apologized, he said he wants you, but- But-“

“Dean,” you bite down another moan, the coil wound too tight. About to snap, when he starts to push his knee up in time with every roll of your hips. “Oh- Dean- We- We still need to talk-“

He stops immediately, and you almost whine.

“Right.” He grunts, wiping his mouth with his free hand. Your thighs clench around his knee, core still throbbing, and he smirks. “Talk about what, baby?”

You scowl. He knows what he’s doing, the asshole. “We- We can’t just sleep together-“

“Who said we were sleeping together?”

You flush, your eyes going wide, and Dean sighs.

“No, sweetheart, I was just teasing, come on-“

You turn your face, flushed with embarrassment. Dean leans forward, kissing up your jaw gently.

“I wanna sleep with you,” he murmurs in your ear, and you press your lips in a thin line. “I do, Christ- You got no idea, but if you’re not ready I’m not rushing anything.”

He presses his brow against the side of your head, lips brushing under your ear.

“I don’t wanna ruin this,” he rasps. “It’s the first good thing I got, you- You’re the only thing I’ve never-“ He shakes his head. “I still got you, alright? I got you. We can talk if you wanna talk, and I’ll keep my mouth shout. But I want you. Want you so much it hurts.” He rolls his hips up, and your eyes dart to his as you feel the proof.

Hard and thick through his jeans. Rubbing on your inner thigh, making your thoughts run away with all kinds of ideas. With the image of him sliding in and out of you, your pussy clenching around nothing. Your nails dig into his wrists, your breath picking up, and Dean notices.

His eyes soften, even as his tongue flicks over his lips.

“Tell me what you want.” He mutters, and you drag the words from the molten pit of your stomach.

“You.”

Dean’s face flashes, his voice getting hoarse. “How.”

And you know. He’s not just asking about this. About your bodies woven together, or his hand gliding under your shirt.

So you smile, and turn your head to fully kiss him. Slow and soft, enough to soothe the tension in both your bodies. Dean lets you lead this kiss, dropping your wrists to weave his fingers through your head.

Your voice is gentle and soft, when you speak into his mouth.

“However you want.” You whisper. “I’m yours.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate. A deep sound rumbles through his chest, and before you know what’s happening you’re being picked up off the ground. Dean carries you to your bed like you weigh nothing, muscled arms wrapped tight around your body and kissing you with less and less control each second.

You’re not tossed onto the bed, but placed down like something precious. Your arms rise, trying to hold on as Dean stands up, and he doesn’t seems all that willing to let go either. When you yank on his hair, scratching at his neck, he groans.

Falls back over you, herding you up the bed with desperate, unrelenting kisses.

“Brat.” He grunts, bullying you back against the headboard. “I was gonna get undressed, gonna take my time, but you’re just that needy, huh? Need me so bad you can’t give a man five seconds?”

You shake your head, his every dirty word shooting right to your already dripping cunt.

You’re sure you’ve ruined this pair of underwear. Dean certainly isn’t helping, with his wandering hands. Squeezing your hips and thighs, teasing your sides with featherlight touches and knuckles grazing your breasts. He presses his tongue flat on your neck as he sits you up against the headboard, and your legs fall open at the sheer display of strength. He’s folding you and moving you like you’re a doll, all while touching you like you’re a diamond.

“Too long.” You gasp, grinding up against his knee. It’s moved back between your thighs, as Dean grabs your face between his hands and rises over your body.

He stares at you in wonder, lips swollen and eyes shining.

You blink at him, core still dragging against him. You’d been so close before, so so close, and you might be about to cry from desperation.

“Dean, please.” You beg without caring, and his fingers dig a little into your neck. Your head spins with desire, and you grab his wrists, fucking up into his leg. “Please, it- It’s been so long, I’ve needed you so bad, fuck- Dean-“

Your whining is cut off with one, long and searing kiss. It’s shockingly sweet, for what a wreck you are below him. Dean grins against your lips, swaying you back and forth, unmoved by your little whimpers and squirming. When he pulls back, it’s with the control of a man who knows what he wants.

You.

Dean’s seen the world, and he wants you.

“Take off your clothes.” He mutters, smiling at you as he pulls away. His voice is deep and dangerous. It sends a thrill of desire through your heat.

Then he leans back, and you try to follow, but he doesn’t let you. Dean press a hand flat over your stomach, and gently pushes you back against the headboard.

“Ah,” he smirks, dragging his fingers slowly down your stomach. “No touchin’ right now, baby girl. Want you to show me.”

You swallow, voice small and breathy. “Show you?”

“How much you want it.” He mutters, those fingers dragging right over your core. “How much you want me.”

Then, right as he’s pressing at your core through your pants, he pulls back.

Dean sits on the bed, thick thighs spread, watching you expectantly.

“Strip.” He reminds you, and you nod.

And you don’t know how you find the confidence, under the intensity of his gaze, but you move. You peel off your shirt, then unclip your bra.

“Good girl.” He grunts, and you shine under the praise, sitting up a little taller. Dean jaw tightens, and he rubs his thigh as he stares at your breasts. His tongue flicks over his lips, and he looks almost feral.

That’s how you find it. Dean wants you, wants to see you, and he looks at you like you’re beautiful. You feel beautiful.

Watching Dean nostrils flare, watching him palm himself and hearing his low groans, you’ve never felt more beautiful in your life.

You peel off your pants, then your underwear. Lean back against the headboard and watch Dean seem to fight himself. He strains, leaning forward like he can’t help himself. He’s still trapped in his jeans, but you can see the hard outline of his cock, and your pussy flutters at the sight. Slowly, watching his thick hand move back and forth on his length, you drag two fingers through your pussy lips.

“Oh.” You gasp, tipping your head back. “Dean-“

He makes a sound close to a growl, and your fingers dip into your heat. They pump slowly, and you look under your lashes at the tent in Dean’s pants. You clench, hips pushing up to offer yourself a better angle. Dean groans, croaking your name, and you move a little faster.

“Fuck, Dean-“ You moan, words pouring wantingly from your mouth. “I- I want your cock so bad. Want you to fuck me, make me stupid, want to feel you-“

He hisses, eyes flashing as he scrambles with his belt. “Jesus, you can’t just fuckin’ say that shit, baby-“

“But I want you.” You pout at him, pulling your fingers out to rub your clit in slow, teasing circles. “Want you to fill me up, Dean, please-“

You push up and start to crawl across the bed. Dean freezes, watching you with wide eyes as you settle between his legs. You press your face into his thigh, right against his half-pulled down pants. He grunts, his hand shooting into your hair, and you let your body sink into the mattress. You kiss over the seam of his pants, along his hips, over his cock.

He hisses, twitching under your touch. You snake your hand down your body, pushing your ass in the air as you start to finger yourself again.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean groans, and you hum, pressing your nose into his balls as you fuck your hand. “You’re killin’ me, you’re- Chist-“

You lick him through his underwear, moaning as you rub your clit back and forth. Dean’s hand fists, but he doesn’t push you further. You can tell he wants to. That he’s still trying to be respectful and loving.

But that’s not what you want. Dean’s a marvel of a man, and you want all his attention. You want to choke on it, to be covered in his marks, to never have to doubt what you mean to him again.

You moan against him, wiggling your ass and pressing your own face down. Your lips graze under his balls, and you roll onto your back. Spread your legs, rubbing your clit and letting your legs spread wide for Dean to see your mess of arousal. He grabs your breast, kneading and rolling your nipple, and you giggle with an almost dizzying pleasure.

Dean’s hips jerk forward, and you use your free hand to pull at his boxers. You need to feel more of him, need to have as much as him as he’ll let you take while you’re in control. Dean’s hips slam forward, when your fingers wrap around the base of his thick cock, squeezing your tits tight enough you squirm.

You need two hands, to get him fully out. One to move the fabric, the other to try and guide him where you want. When he’s fully freed, you grab his knee for support and like as firm stripe up the underside of his dick. He’s beautiful, right down to the thickness in your hands. You didn’t know someone could be beautiful like this. You’ve certainly never seen a cock you wanted to worship.

But it’s Dean. It’s always Dean.

You squirm, tipping your head back so you can lick his head. Dean pushes further up on his knees to accommodate you, moaning your name. His hand slides down your body, the other bracing him somewhere near your ass.

“Fuckin’- Fuck-“ He groans, and it gives you a little extra push. You wraps your lip around him, flicking your tongue over his weeping slit.

His hand grabs your inner thigh, and you feel his whole body tense as he seems to fully realize how turned on your are. You squeak around him, when his thumb drags over your clit, and he jerks into your mouth.

“Sorry.” He grunts, voice thick with hunger. “Fuck, I’m- You’re so wet.” He sounds wrecked, fucking shallowly into your mouth, and you moan happily. Grab his thighs, as his thumb starts to circle your clit in tiny, fast strokes.

You hum, unhinging your jaw, and Dean groans. He bumps against the back of your throat, and you feel your eyes roll back with pleasure.

Then he shifts slightly. Leans down, his warm breath fanning over the heat of your cunt. Your nails dig into him, and you think you’d scream if your voice wasn’t being stolen by his cock. You’re only breathing out of your nose, lightheaded from the way he’s using your mouth.

Dean kisses over your clit. Wet and open mouthed, lips moving like he’s in a trance.

He moans, and repeats the motion. His arms lock around your legs as he spits on your pussy, spreading them wider before his whole face presses into your core.

And you’ve heard about him. Even just rumors, of how he’s learned to play a body over the years.

The stories do him no justice. This might be better than heaven.

Dean eats your pussy like he’s been training for it. Like it’s a sport and he’s trying to win. His tongue drags, his beard scraping your thighs, and his hands splay on your ass to keep you exactly where he wants. His tongue licks, fast and tight on your clit. His nose rubs against your entrance, his hands squeezing as he pulls you up, hits deeper, and you can feel that heat in your, about to explode.

He feels it too.

And he pulls back.

“Hold it.” He kisses your clit lightly, then spanks your pussy. “Gonna make it good, sweetheart, but you gotta hold it.”

You moan around him, but it’s a sound of desperate agreement. You trust him.

Holding it feels almost impossible, but fuck if you aren’t going to try.

“Good girl.” He slaps your pussy again, pulls himself out of your mouth and rolls you both over with a small grunt. Suddenly he’s flat on his back, and you’re being manhandled up and around.

Onto the top of his chest.  

You push at his shoulders, and he just chuckles, catching your hands easily.

“Dean, what are you-“

 “Having you sit on my face.” He kisses the inside of your wrist. “You’re gonna love it, baby, trust me.”

You swallow. “I- I might crush you-“

“Noble death.” He shrugs, grinning when you glare.

“Dean, I’m serious-“

“I’m serious. You’re not gonna hurt me, I know what I’m doing. If you don’t want to, that’s another conversation, but don’t hide from me just cause you’re worried I can’t handle some good fuckin’ pussy on my face.”

Jesus Christ, that almost makes you cum on it’s own. Dean beams when you nod nervously, starting to crawl further up. He guides you further, a playful glint in his eyes, and kisses the very inside of your thigh.

“Remember.” He winks, and your fingers shoot into his hair. “Don’t cum.”

Your mouth falls open, and Dean yanks you down.

Any snapping words you had are driven from your mind in a second. He was right. You do like it.

It’s even better than being under him. He’s still got you in a tight hold, pinning you on his face as you try to wriggle away, but the pleasure is so overwhelming you can’t do anything else. It’s like a warm, sentient vibrator has been trapped against your pussy. Dean groans and kisses you with a wet open mouth, the sound rolling through your body. Even as your writhe over him, gasping his name and making loud, choked sounds you didn’t know your body was capable of, you’re pulling at his hair trying to get closer.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to stop yourself from coming. He’s keeping you on his face, but not restricting your movements. Every time you try to chase more, he moans. You look over your shoulder and find his cock still at attention, fucking the air like he can’t help it.

That almost tips you over. You gasp, eyes rolling, and-

Dean pulls you off. Sits you back on his chest, reaching up to play with your tits while you gape uselessly.

“Dean-“

“Soon.” He promises, pinching your nipple gently. “You’re doin’ great, baby girl. Doin’ so good for me.”

That does exactly what he wants. The burning need in your core wanes, but not enough to kill anything. You’re just pulled a little off the edge, grinding onto his broad, thick chest as he plays with your breasts.

Then, again, Dean picks you up and sits you back on his face. This time one hand doesn’t leave your breast, continuing to tease a nipple while Dean groans against your pussy. You shove at the arm locked around your back, but his fingers just tickle your side, and make you drop right back down with a scream. He laughs as your thighs start to tremble, and you stop fighting it, even for play. You’re wound too tight, you need it too much-

Dean stops again. Smiles at you, and kisses your knee near his head as you try to shake yourself out of the daze. Then, again, when you’re settled, he pulls you forward.

This time you’re limp over him, grinding desperately down on his mouth. He groans, letting his hands wander. Dragging up your spine, one cupping the back of your neck as the other splays possessively on your lower back. You get to the edge faster that time.

And Dean stops again.

You don’t know how long he does that. You lose track somewhere around the fifth, when you’re a sobbing mess of desire.

“Dean, please-“ You whimper, pulling at his hair as he guides you back down. “I- I can’t- Can’t hold it, I need to cum, please-“

“Soon, sweet girl.” He reaches up, wiping a few tears from your cheeks.

You lean into his warm, calloused hand, and he smiles. Something reverent and soft settles on his features, almost jarring in the mix of sweat and sin filling the room.

“You have no idea.” He mutters. “How beautiful you are.”

You swallow, lips parting. Dean drags his finger over your lower lip, rubbing a calming circle on your lower back.

“You need to come?” He asks gently, and you nod.

“Please.”

“Alright.” He picks you up again, moving you further down his chest. To his dick, big and dripping with pre-cum, pressing against your ass as you stare at him. “Take what you want.”

You stare at him, and finally see the tiny smirk on his lips. He’s still playing with you. And when you pout, he laughs, dragging your down into a long, deep kiss.

“I’m not young anymore, baby.” He teases, kissing your nose. “This is what happens when you decide you wanna fuck a dinosaur.”

You glare at him, shoving his chest. “You’re no a dinosaur-“

“And you’re not coming till you ride my cock.”

A new, heavy determination fills you. You stick your tongue out at him, pushing up on his chest, and he just smiles at you like you’re an angel.

“You’re such an ass.” You mutter, letting a little affection drip over your words as you sit up on your knees.

Dean laughs, grinning easily up at you. “Yeah, but I’m your ass now. You said you love me. No take backs- Fuck-“

There’s a jolt of pride, as you line Dean up with your hole and sink onto him in one movement. It’s only because he’s prepped you to the point of near ruin, but it’s working in your favor now. Dean grabs your waist, tipping his head back with a long moan as you just sit on him for a second.

The stretch burns a little, but it’s perfect. You didn’t know you could be this full, feel someone so everywhere. The sensation darts from your pussy to your toes, your lips, your fingers sinking into his chest as you just try to breath. It’s not too much, but it’s more. Enough that you think you could come just by being filled with him, if he let you stay there long enough.

But you’ve been teased too much, tonight. You need release, or you might start crying for real.

You swivel your hips in experiment, and Dean groans.

“Jesus, woman-“

“’S big.” You mumble, repeating the movement. Every thought is slowly draining from your head, leaving only an instinct of Dean. “Oh- Oh my god-“

You find a good angle that drives right into your g-spot, and start to grind down. Dean says your name through his teeth, grabbing at you in a way that’s going to bruise in the morning.

It goads you on. You pick up your pace, trying to drag yourself back up to that edge Dean brought you to like it was nothing.

His cock is dragging and pressing inside of you, and it’s too much for you to let go of him. You moan, staring down at Dean, and that helps a little more. His muscles ripple below you, his head tipped back and lips gently parted as he watches you move on him. You can see his restraint again, as he just rubs your body and mutters low, rumbling encouragement.

“That’s it, baby girl.” He squeezes under your ribs, that awe shining in his eyes. “So fuckin’ tight on my cock, taking me perfectly. Never felt this good, sweetheart, never fuckin’-“

You drag forward, clenching around him, and he moans. Tips his head back with fluttering eyes, but still doesn’t just rut up into you. You whine in frustration, movements becoming short and uncontrolled as you get closer and closer.

But it’s not enough. Your thighs feel like jelly, and you can’t quite get yourself there. You’re trying, you’re trying so hard, but your mouth his hanging open and you can barely breathe through the feeling of Dean buried inside your cunt-

Dean grabs your jaw, forcing your glazed eyes onto his. His mouth twitches as you blink, and his voice is only sweet, as he murmurs your name.

“Sweetheart, you having some trouble?” He coos, and you’re mostly just shaking above him now. “Need some help.”

You can only nod, clawing at his chest hopefully.

Dean grins, and drags you down. Your mouth falls over his, and you moan openly, collapsing totally into his embrace.

His arm slides around your lower back, and you squeal as he rolls you over one more time. You’re pressed into the pillows, your legs nudged open, and Dean thrusts slowly, giving you a pace to adjust to the shift.

He’s deeper like this. Folding you under him to hit spots you couldn’t, kissing you so lovingly the whole time. You’d expected him to drill you through the mattress, but there’s no rush to his movements at all. 

Dean’s fucking you like he’s got all the time in the world, and he knows exactly how he wants to spend it. Buried in your pussy, dragging everything out of you like a professional. His cock slides in and out of you, and it’s an even more lewd picture than you’d managed to imagine before. He presses all the way down to his balls, circles his hips, then pulls almost all the way out. It’s not slow, but it’s not rough. And it makes you only putty in his hands, staring up at him as he starts to pull a burning, powerful feeling from deep in your gut that no one else has ever been able to give you.

Stars dance at your vision, and Dean kisses you lazily. Firm, but slow, tasting your every moan and whimper like it’s his favorite pie. You grab his face and he hums. His thrusts start to get a little uneven, pressing deeper every time you clench around him. He moves one hand between your bodies, rising up to watch you below him with an adoring gaze.

You’re beyond words, when he starts to rub your clit. You don’t think you remember how to speak.

Dean leans down, his head pressed into your cheek as he kisses your neck, watching you start to roll below him. He groans as your pussy flutters again, that heat getting impossible to hold down.

He kisses you, words gentle but firm against your mouth.

“Now, baby, soak my cock like a good girl, cum for me, come on-“

Your orgasm hits you so hard your vision goes white. Your body spasms, Dean’s name falling from your lips like a prayer. He groans as you gush around his cock, fucking you through it with shorter and shorter thrusts until he’s kissing you with teeth and spit, pumping his release into your abused, oversensitive pussy.

You make a tiny sound of protest, as the feeling of him overflowing in your cunt forces a tiny, mind-numbing orgasm through your body. Dean kisses you gently, moving you with light hands onto your side. For a second, you think he’s going to try and leave. You grab his arm, twisting to give him a pleading expression.

He frowns. “Sweetheart, you gotta clean up-“

You shake your head, giving him your best doe eyes. He sighs, and lies back down, huffing in a amusement at your wide smile.

“Can’t even smile and still bossing me around,” he mutters, kissing your neck.

You wrinkle your nose, and he laughs, kissing that too.

Then he pauses. Leans up, something serious shadowing his eyes.

“You, uh-“ He clears his throat. “You know, right? What you mean to me? That I…”

He trials off, swallowing, and you smile. Reach over to cup his cheek, beaming at him with everything you have. Every bit of love in you, finally able to just flood into him.

Dean mouth twitches, and he nods. Bows his head, wrapping an arm tight around your stomach.

“Good.” He mutters, and you know.

He’s never meant anything more in his life.

“Cause I mean it.” He rasps, kissing your cheek. “It’s only you.”

“It’s one flower. It’s her favorite color. She picked it out herself.”

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Glanced at the mirror again, imagining the whole picture: black suit, pink carnation, you walking toward him in white.

He exhaled through his nose, something dangerously close to a defeated growl.

Sam’s pointed look didn’t waver.

Dean snatched the box out of Sam’s hand, muttering under his breath as he fumbled with the pin. “If anyone takes a picture of this and it ends up on the internet, I’m blaming you.”

Sam’s mouth twitched into a small, triumphant smile. “You look good, man.”

“I look like a cupcake,” Dean grumbled, but he let Sam step in to adjust the flower properly—straightening it, making sure it sat just right against the dark fabric.

Sam met his eyes in the mirror. “She picked you, Dean. Pink flower and all.”

Dean’s jaw worked for a second. Then the fight went out of him, shoulders dropping just a fraction.

He glanced down at the carnation again, thumb brushing one soft petal.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, voice rough. “Yeah, she did.”

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, squeezing once.

Upstairs, you were waiting.

And downstairs, Dean Winchester—hunter, killer of monsters, wearer of flannel and leather—stood in a black suit with a pink flower pinned to his chest, looking like a man who’d finally realized some battles were worth losing.

Especially when the prize was you walking down the aisle toward him.

He took one last look in the mirror, gave the flower one last grudging adjustment, and muttered to his reflection:

“Fine. But if Cas makes one angel joke about this, I’m smiting him.”

Sam just grinned.

It was your wedding.

And Dean was ready. Pink carnation and all.

Dean stood at the far end of the makeshift aisle they’d set up in the bunker’s map room—fairy lights strung across the ceiling, rows of mismatched chairs filled with the only family that mattered. He kept his hands clasped in front of him to hide the shaking, eyes locked on the floor because Sam had given him one job—don’t look until she’s there.

He hadn’t seen the dress. Hadn’t even peeked at the photos Charlie tried to sneak him the night before. He’d shut it down every time—told everyone he wanted that first moment to hit him clean, no previews, no spoilers.

Now he was regretting it a little. The waiting was killing him.

Cas stood beside him as best man, calm as ever. Sam was at the other end, ready to walk you down the aisle. The soft guitar riff Jody had picked started playing—something acoustic and simple—and Dean’s heart slammed against his ribs.

Then you turned the corner.

And Dean’s whole world stopped.

The air left his lungs in one sharp, involuntary gasp, like someone had punched him square in the chest.

His vision narrowed to just you—the dress catching the light, your hair falling exactly the way you’d wanted it, the soft pink bouquet of carnations clutched in your hands—matching the single flower pinned to his lapel like you’d planned.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered under his breath.

He couldn’t decide what broke him more—the shimmer in your eyes, the way you smiled when your eyes found his, or the absolute certainty that he’d never love anything more than he loved you in this moment.

Holy shit.

He actually swayed a little. Had to lock his knees to stay upright.

Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.

The thought looped in his head, frantic and ridiculous, because you were walking toward him and you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. Every step felt like it was happening in slow motion and too fast all at once.

He couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t even blink.

By the time you reached him, his eyes were already glassy.

Sam handed you off with a quiet squeeze to your hand and a knowing smirk at Dean—like he’d seen this coming a mile away.

“Hey,” you whispered with a nervous smile as you stepped up in front of him, close enough now that he could see the tears you were trying not to let fall.

He reached for your hands on instinct, voice coming out rough and low when he finally managed words.

“You…” He had to clear his throat. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart. Straight-up cardiac arrest.”

You laughed softly, watery and perfect, and squeezed his fingers—then leaned in just enough for only him to hear, your voice a trembling whisper against the quiet.

“I love you.”

His eyes snapped to yours, something fierce and tender flashing through the green. His grip tightened, thumbs tracing over your knuckles like he was anchoring himself to you.

The officiant started speaking, but Dean barely heard a word.

He didn’t pass out.

But for the rest of the ceremony, every time he looked at you—and he couldn’t stop looking—he felt that same hit in the chest all over again.

Like the first time he saw you.

Only better.

Because this time, you were his.