AJ 🦡

The light moves, when he walks. 

You noticed it the first time you met. You’d walked up to the building, shifting on your feet and peer at the buttons, and he’d elbowed right past you with a grunted apology. 

“Sorry, gonna be late- Shit-“

He’d walked right into the glass. 

You like to think of yourself as at least an okay person. The kind that helps someone, when they run into a door like a bird. But you’d still almost laughed, at the dazed expression on his face as he stumbled back. You’d laughed, and you’d caught his arm to steady him. It had made you falter a little bit as well, because he’d been a lot heavier than you expected—even for someone so taller—and you’d sunk your nails into his arm. His bicep had flexed under your hand. 

He’d grabbed your wrist with a grunt, both of you finding footing at the same time, and looked you right in the eyes. 

He’d had the prettiest eyes you’d ever seen in your damn life. His lashes might be longer than yours, the dark green almost hypnotizing, and his face- 

You hadn’t known men were allowed to look like that. You’d been so sure that the face looking at you was from a dream. Full lips and strong features, a slightly crooked nose and, sharp clean-shaven jaw. 

You’d blinked at him slowly. Held on a little tighter, in case this was a dream. Morning mist had bitten at your fingers, but his body had been warm. The haze of it all made it feel like a dream, and you’d leaned a little forward, but- 

There had been ice under your feet. You’d slipped with a tiny yelp. 

He’d grabbed you quickly. Wide eyed with an arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer. Your ankle had hurt—not a dream—and his breath had turned to fog over your face. Only a foot or so apart, something magnetic pulling you closer, something louder in your brain—call it a survival instinct—making you place a hand on his chest to stop yourself from melting into this complete stranger. 

His mouth had curved into a small grin. The light had moved. 

“Hi.”

“Hey.” You’d swallowed. “Are you-“

“I’m good.” He’d shrugged lazily. Still looking at you. “You?”

“I’m fine.” You’d whispered. “It’s- Happened before.”

That had been a lie. You’d never felt anything like this, that made your heart go to your ears and your whole body sing. Light by an electric fire, sparking when his thumb brushed a small line over your waist.

He might’ve seen right through you. His smile had grown. 

“You slip on ice while standing a lot?” He’d teased. 

“You run into glass doors a lot?”

He’d stared at you for a second. You’d bitten your tongue. You didn’t need to be that angry, that defensive, you didn’t even know him and he probably thought you were some kind of standoffish bitch- 

He’d laughed. Loud and clear, the first note of a song you’d been waiting to hear all your life. Your heart had skipped in your chest, and fallen into a beat you’d never felt before. It had felt right. He, with his arm around you and a wide smile on his face, had felt right. 

Then he’d pulled back, grabbing your arms to make sure you were steady on the ground, before coughing and rubbing the back of his neck. Still smiling. Still so close. 

“Guess I don’t. Was just in a rush to get inside, I think I got someone waitin’ on me- Not like that.” He’d added quickly, ears going red. “I live upstairs, and my friend moved in with her girlfriend, and my brother was crashing with his girlfriend but they found a place and now I- Never mind.” He’d shaken his head, making a face that at the time you hadn’t fully understood. 

Even now, you don’t understand. He’s only ever made the face when he’s talking to you. You know, because you watch everything he does.

Just to see if he knows he has your heart. That it’s wrapped around his hands, to pull and play with however he pleases. That he grabbed it when he caught you slipping, and he’d left a depression on your body where he’d touched you so easily. Fit so perfectly. You watch him all the time, because there’s nothing better than just watching someone you love. 

You hadn’t known you loved him then. You’d only known that he’d seemed nervous, and it had been sweet. That his face had been confused and adorable, even if you were able to place why. 

He’d extended his hand, an almost sheepish smile on his face. “Dean Winchester. That’s- My name.” 

You would’ve giggled, if you hadn’t been so busy panicking. You’d heard that name before. It was saved in your phone, along with the ad. 

And when you’d said your own name, you’d seen it hit him too. You’d slip your hand into his, fingers shaking—the cold or nerves, you’re still not sure—and he’d still felt right. So right. His fingers and wrapped, safe and firm around yours, and in another life you wonder if he would’ve pulled you forward into his arms. 

But you don’t live in that life. You live where he needed a roommate, and you needed a place to live, and that was more important than anything else. That wasn’t something you had the luxury to jeopardize, even for Dean. 

And you know now. You’d jeopardize a lot of things for Dean.

“I think you’re supposed to be waitin’ upstairs for me.” He’d rasped, and you’d laughed weakly. 

“I couldn’t get in the building.”

“Oh- Uh- Right.” He’d glanced at the doors. Still holding your hand. 

You hadn’t wanted him to let go. 

“At least you’re not late.” You’d said with a smile, and he’d look back to you. 

His eyes had shined, and in the mist, he’d still looked like an angel. A little more solid and real, but somehow less tangible. A little further away, but right in your hands at the same time. The light had moved. He’d chuckled, and it had moved something deep in your chest. Something final, shifting where it was supposed to be, as you flushed under Dean’s gaze. 

“Yeah.” He’d said. “I guess I’m not.”

You have this whole life, in your head. 

It’s a habit you built when you were a kid. It’s not a good one. Enough ghosted therapist have told you that for you to know. But knowing has never been your issue. 

You know a lot of things. You know yourself. You know that living where no one else can see makes you lonely, and you know that you can’t complain about the silence when you never speak. You know that every time someone asks you if there’s something going on there and you say no, it’s a lie you feel in the pit of your stomach. You know every time you hear soft laughter from his room and smell the perfume in the morning, it makes you so sick you might just vomit your guts all over the floor to see if he’ll clean them up. 

But you also know Dean. And you can’t tell anymore. If that makes it better or worse. 

You know him so well he might as well just be another part of you. You know what kind of shampoo and toothpaste he uses, because you buy it for him at the corner store. You know he likes hot sauce but can’t handle it as well as he claims, because you’ve watched him eat a hundred burritos with a proud smirk, only for his face to go red and his voice to get rough as he pretends he doesn’t want milk. 

You know he wears boxer briefs, because you do his laundry. You know he can’t sing for shit, because you hear him in the shower. You know he’s an amazing cook, because he makes you breakfast, and lunch, and dinner. 

You’ve told him he doesn’t have to do that. He always rolls his eyes, and ignores you, and you’re more grateful for it than you’ll ever be able to say. 

You never want him to stop doing it. It feeds your small little world—the one you entertain at night before you sleep, the one that keeps you going when you walk into the apartment, and he’s on the couch with some random girl with a smile that’s brighter than yours and words that are softer—because they don’t get to have that part of him. 

Not one girl that Dean lets into his bed—the one place in the whole damn apartment you’re not allowed to be, the one place you’d trade anything to be given just a glimpse—gets to stay until morning. They leave with a stomping feet and a slam of the door, and you hug your sheets as you hear Dean shuffle around outside your door. 

He’ll sigh loud enough to be heard through the walls. The shower will run, and you’ll bury your face in a pillow, hiding the shame of your arousal from the ceiling. 

You have no right, to picture him naked under the water. To imagine his broad chest and strong legs, the ripple of his muscles as he stretches to wash his hair with the shit you bought him. How he might bow his head to stare at you, if you massaged the soap into his soft, spiky hair. How close he’d be, how he might lick his lips, how his big hands would land on your hips. 

How you’d sink to the floor, and run a hand up his thigh. How you’d tilt your head, pressing your cheek near his groin, how he might mutter your name and cradle your head as his chest began to rise and fall in an unsteady rhythm. 

No right. You hump the sheets like some pathetic animal, and you muffle moans of his name into your sheets long after he’s back in bed, but you have no right. 

You don’t know how you look him in the eyes, in the morning, but it might be something about how it’s just you. His nightly company is gone. There’s a vulnerability, in how he shuffled around in hot dog pants and presents you with breakfast.

“Pancakes.” He mutters, ears red. “You, uh- Bought all those bananas. I cooked ‘em into it. Lemme know if it’s shit.”

You hum, pulling the plate closer. “It won’t be shit, Dean-“

“Could be. One day I might lose my touch.”

“No, you won’t.” You roll your eyes, and he smirks.

“Stop back talking and eat the damn pancakes.”

“That wasn’t back talking-“

“I’m sharing my fears, and you’re being invalidating-“

“Oh, shut up, I taught you what that word means.”

“That was your mistake.” He grins, leaning over the counter. Eyes locked on yours, hair still messy from sleep. 

The light moves. 

“You gotta know I don’t like lessons, sweetheart.”

You flush, and look down to the pancakes. You never know what to do, when he uses that voice on you. The deep one that makes your face heat, that feels like he’s testing a line you’ve told yourself you’re not allowed to cross. It’s the voice he uses on his company, and you know it’s just teasing, but it feed your dreams. It feeds the world you know isn’t real, that he’s never allowed to see.

“You made these with banana?” You say after a long silence, your face burning. “I love banana.”

Dean coughs, and when you look up, he’s making that strange face. 

“Yeah, uh- I know. I gotta go- Bathroom. Need to piss. And- Shit.”

You blink at him, and he almost takes off down the hall.

“I didn’t need to know that!” You call after him, and he shouts back. 

“Yeah, but I wanted you to!”

You laugh despite yourself, and look back to the pancakes. It’s just food. He’s just cooking for you, which he does all the time, but it’s still something that’s only yours. The smallest part of Dean that you get to keep. 

Food. The only part of him that’s only yours. It’s priceless to you. It’s the most important thing in the world. 

Because you live in your head. And in your head, you dream about a life where he loves you back. Where every time he comes home he walks over to you and picks you up. Kisses you on the counter, then pushes you down and eats you out like you’re the only dinner he’d ever possibly need. Where when you do his laundry, he comes up behind you and kisses your neck. Mutters something about you wearing his shirt, or wishing you’d just leave everything dirty so he could have you naked all the time. 

In your head, you never have to turn on the shower to cover your tears when he brings another woman home. You never have to stare at yourself in the mirror, and pick apart your every feature and expression to try and rationalize why it’s not you. Why you don’t get to have him, why he’s out there touching someone else, what they can give him that you can’t. You give him everything. You’d give him more, if he let you. 

But he doesn’t. And jealousy burns. It scars. It worms its way into your heart and festers, until you’re glaring at his door and curling your fists, fighting the urge to slam on the walls when you hear a high, pitchy whine of Dean through the wall. Some nights, the jealously turns in your stomach and you find yourself over the toilet bowl, literally sick with it. 

The worst part is that he’s not doing it to be cruel. To mock or taunt you. He’s just not thinking of you at all. 

After about a year of living with him, something in you had snapped. He might not think of you, but all you do is think of him, and if you’re going to be suck in the lonely and violent cycle, you might as well even your own playing field. 

Dean doesn’t know it, but you’ve turned it into a sick kind of game. It’s not a healthy one, or one you’re ever going to win, but winning isn’t the point. 

Numbing is the point. Escaping. Being anything but a toy that doesn’t get played with, stuck on the other side of the wall and picking at your skin until it bleeds. 

You start going to bars. Not the one down the street—that’s where Dean goes—but one a few streets up. It’s next to a club made of suffocating heat and too many bodies that aren’t safe—aren’t Dean—but it does just fine. Some nights you go to the bar. Some you go to the club. 

But you always come home with some nameless body attached to your hip. Kissing over your throat and mumbling your name. Touching your skin in a million different ways but never leaving a single dent. You let them sleep in your bed to one up Dean, but kick them out before he’s up. You wash their hands off in the morning, because your skin burns every single place they touched. 

Dean notices. He doesn’t say anything, but you know he notices. His flow of women seems to pick up, but you can’t prove it. 

You stop fucking yours at the apartment. You find beds all over the city, and stumble home in the morning with mess hair and your shoes in your hand. Then you push your way through the door one morning, and find that Dean’s girl from last night- 

She’s still there. Sitting at the counter drinking coffee, wearing his shirt.

“Oh, hi.” She blinks at you slowly. “Um- Dean?!”

“Yeah?” He pokes his head out from the bathroom, damp hair stuck to his brow. 

His eyes find yours. They’re strangely blank. You give him a weak smile, and his nostrils flare, his mouth twitching down. 

“You’re back.” He grunts. “You take the bus?”

You toss your shoes onto the mat. “I walked.”

“You walked-“

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

Dean works his jaw, still staring at you. The girl clears her throat. 

“Sorry, who are you?”

You open your mouth, but Dean beats you to the punch.

“She’s my roommate.” He mutters. His eyes tear away from yours, onto the girl. He looks her up and down, something sour in his expression that she seems to miss. 

“Hm.” She gives you a look of distain that makes you feel small. “I didn’t know you lived with a girl.”

“Wasn’t something you need to know.” He runs a hand over his face, looking down to his watch. “Shit- You eaten yet?”

You and the girl both say no at the same time. She looks like she wants to murder you. You want to run back outside, but your legs are rooted in place, so you just pray the floor will open up and swallow you whole. 

“I haven’t eaten yet, Deanie.” She looks back to Dean, lashes fluttering. “And you really worked up my appetite.”

There it is again. The sickness. You already drank too much, and you can barely remember last night, and you’re going to scream at the floor while all your love spills out with your bile-

“There’s a cafe down the block.” Dean shrugs. “Stop there on your way out. They got good muffins.” 

The girl blinks in confusion, opening her mouth, and Dean slams the bathroom door closed. Leaving you stuck with this woman in his shirt, in your home, shattering the small sanctity you’d built up, the last thread that maybe Dean thought about you enough to keep his nights shielded from your eyes. 

There’s really no reason why he would. He has no idea, that your love for him runs so deep you suddenly can’t stand to be wearing the socks the guy from last night lent you. They feel wrong on your feet. Like bricks, pulling you down, down, down. 

You walk past the furious girl, not meeting her eyes. When you hear Dean out in the hall, saying something to her in a hushed voice, you slip out of your room and into the shower without a glance in their directions. You don’t vomit. You do scrub your skin so hard it burns. 

And you can’t keep up the charade of just fucking around. It doesn’t do what it’s supposed to, when you just spend every night picturing Dean’s hands, Dean’s mouth, Dean’s body. When every voice is blocked out in favor of imagining Dean’s. You’re not built for whatever corner you’ve backed yourself into. It’s going to eat you alive from the inside. 

When you get out of the shower, the girl is gone. Dean’s still in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove. You sit at the counter, and try not to feel too aware of the space she’d been in. Try not to wonder if he’s feeling her absence, the same way you look around the clubs and bars, glance up and down every strange hallway and street, and hope that maybe he’ll appear out of thin air and catch you when you’re not even falling at all. 

Not falling in a way he can see, at least. But you are. Further and further, the wind gone from your lungs, your heart beat still drumming that same song. Dean, Dean, Dean. Not yours, not yours, not yours. 

“You want pepper?” He cuts through your thoughts, and you look up at him with a frown.

“What?”

“I made eggs.” He’s not looking at you. His ears are red. “I, uh- I kinda already salted them, but- You always take them with salt. I can start over. If you don’t like it.”

You blink at him. Shake your head slowly. He cooked for you. 

The space where the other girl used to be suddenly doesn’t feel like anything at all. 

“Salt is good.” You whisper, and he looks over his shoulder.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” You smile at him. His mouth twitches up, and something foolish and unbreakable soars in your chest. “I’m sure.”

He stopped sleeping around. 

And maybe he’s just hiding it better than before, but you choose to believe that he isn’t. That he’s home every night because he wants to spend time with you, rather than a girl he’s going to kick out in the morning. 

You were friends before. You’d become friends the day he helped you move in and he made a stupid joke that you laughed at. He’d grinned so widely it made your gut flutter, and then asked what kind of movies you liked. You’d told him, and made a tradition out of watching at least one movie, every Friday night. 

It was a holy night, Friday night. Even when you’d been forcing yourself into painful shapes to fit in others arms, and he’d been pulling women through the door without a glance in your direction, you’d both still honored movie night. You’d curl up under a blanket together, and switch back and forth between who chose what. Dean would hold the popcorn in his lap, and you’d allow yourself close enough to get drunk on  his leather and spice smell, to absorb the feeling of his shoulder bumping yours and let it all carry you through the week. 

Sometimes you’d yell at the screen together. Sometimes you’d both get quiet, genuinely entranced by the film. But you always ended up with your thighs pressed together under that blanket. Always talk after, for about an hour, before something would shift and you’d both just stare. The dark wasn’t dark enough to hide how handsome he was. The warmth of the blanket became nothing compared to the heat of your face. The heat in your stomach. The haze of the TV made you feel like you were back in that misty dream, and Dean- 

He’d cough. Lean back, patting your leg awkwardly then mutter goodnight. Vanish into his room, and leave you stranded and alone on the couch. You’d touch your leg where he’d left his mark. Crawl back to your own room and bunch the sheets between your thighs, letting your mind drift into the world where he pulled you to your feet. Guided you into his room, and lain you down on his bed. 

And he never does that. You know he never will. But after the river of women that had threatened to drown you, things change. One night, the movie finishes, and you talk. And talk. And talk. And the hour passes, and Dean doesn’t leave. 

“What’s your favorite animal?”

You giggle, your feet up on the coffee table and body slumped down into the cushion. “What’s my favorite animal?”

“Yeah? Why, am I not allowed to ask you a fuckin’ question?”

“No, I just wasn’t expecting that question. It’s like- We’re in elementary school, and you’re asking me like a stupid ice breaker.” You roll a little onto your side, grinning up at him in the dark. “What’s your favorite color?”

You say it teasingly. He just shrugs, and holds your gaze. 

“Blue.” He sounds dead serious. “Like a kinda- Watery silver blue.” He sinks lower into the couch. Closer to your side. “Big fan of brown, too. And red.” He whistles. “Love a good red. You?”

You stare at him for a second. “Me?”

“Yeah. What’s your favorite color?”

“Um- Rainbow?” You flush, looking down to your nails. “I was never able to decide.”

“On a favorite color?”

“Yeah. Didn’t want any of them to feel left out.”

Dean chuckles. “‘Course you didn’t.”

You frown up at him. “What does that mean-“

“Nothing.” He shrugs, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You owe me a favorite animal.”

“I owe you-“

“Yeah. We’re playing twenty questions, sweetheart. It’s my turn, and I wanna know your favorite animal.”

You stare at him, trying to weigh out if he’s joking. And he’s smiling down at you, so strangely soft, but still serious. This isn’t a bit. Not a joke, or a prank. He just… Really seems to want to know. 

“I like cats.” You whisper, testing the waters. He sighs.

“I hate cats.”

“What?” You sit up. “Why?”

He gives you an amused look. “I’m allergic.”

“So?”

“So I don’t like things that make me stop breathing.”

You roll your eyes. “Pussy.”

He snorts. “You think I’m a pussy for not wanting to die?”

“Yeah.” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak when he pinches your thigh. “Dean!”

He’s laughing. Only laughs louder, when he tries to go in again and you kick his hand away. You try to aim for his chest, but he catches you ankle. You scream, when he runs his fingers up your foot, and his laughter turns to wheezing when you punch him square in the diaphragm. 

“Shit. I think you killed me, sweetheart.”

“You earned it.” You snap at him, and he just chuckles.

“Yeah, guess I did. Can you speak at my funeral?”

“No.”

“C’mon, it’s my dyin’ wish-“

“Make a better one.”

He laughed again, grinning up at you with such an intoxicating light in his eyes. Your bodies are closer together than you realized. Your feet still in his lap, his hand holding you ankle, his thumb rubbing small circles. 

“I can’t think of a better one.” He says, still grinning at you, and you smile back.

“Good thing you’re not dying, then.”

“Yeah,” he squeezes your ankle, and you melt a little further into every single part of this moment. His eyes on yours. His touch against your skin. The pure attention, that doesn’t seem to be fleeting or clung to at all. “You’d miss me too much.”

You snort, and pretend to kick him again, but you still flush. He has no idea. 

That night, you stay up until dawn. The next day, you drift through work with the stupidest smile on your face. The next night—a night that Dean would usually go out to drink, even if he’s not bringing anyone home—he makes burgers and sits across from you. Clears his throat, after only a few moments of silence. 

“What’re you doin’?” He asks, and you look up with a frown.

“Reading and eating?”

He nods, tapping his finger on the table. “Reading what?”

“A… Book?”

That earns you a flat look. “What book, smartass.”

“Oh.” You flush, looking down to your kindle then back up with wide eyes. “You probably wouldn’t know it, or- Like it.”

Dean just shrugs. “Try me.”

Again. He’s not joking. So you try him. Slowly at first. Cautiously. Testing the waters, trying to feel out if he’s serious, or just trying to make conversation. 

You don’t really how long you’ve been talking until Dean suddenly reaches across the table and grabs your plate, placing it on top of his empty on.

“It’s gone cold.” He explains with a shrug, moving to his feet. “Just gonna heat it up, you keep talking.”

You blink at him, but slowly resume. He keeps listening. Really listening. Nodding along and asking questions and echoing back idea, like he’s trying to prove he’s absorbing what you’re saying. 

A new tradition starts. You, telling Dean in unnecessarily deep detail, exactly what you’ve been reading, every single week. It kicks off another tradition as well, because in the morning you ask him about what show he’s watching—you don’t want him to think you don’t also care what he’s up to—and instead of him just telling you, he makes you watch an episode. Right next to him on the couch.

And suddenly, every night but Friday, you watch TV together. Weekends you watching in the morning, but you but you still watch. 

Saturday nights are saved for you talking about book. Sundays have their own new tradition where you get drunk together, and sit on the floor. You’re not quite sure how that one started, but you know neither of you seem willing to break it. You share a bottle of wine and stare at the ceiling, or do shots of the table and giggle like teenagers. You tell him all about your parents, he tells you about his brother. You share your dreams, he tells you about his nightmares. 

You didn’t know he had nightmares. Apparently his mom’s family was kind of crazy, and his dad himself wasn’t much better. He enlisted in the marines to make his Dad proud. Got honorably discharged, after an accident that put him in a coma for a few weeks. 

“You never told me that.” You murmur, staring at your shot glass. He sighs. 

“Don’t tell most people. Only Sammy really knows.”

You swallow, looking up at him. There’s a golden light from the floor lamp behind him, and it’s bending around him the same way it does in a movie. When the hero stands alone on the battlefield, head high and heart strong. He’s just watching you, that same unreadable expression his face, and something a little more. Something afraid. 

Afraid isn’t something Dean should be. He gets spiders for you when they sneak into the shower. He holds your hand when you freak out about horror movies, and grabbed you off the fire escape that one time you played truth or dare, and you’d been more drunk than either of you realized. 

If you were a little less drunk, you might’ve been able to remember the panic in his eyes, and how loud his voice had gotten when he’d shouted your name. Might’ve been able to think about the look in his eyes when he finally pulled you back inside, and you’d collapsed in a fit of giggles in his arms, completely oblivious to the danger you’d been in. How he’d put you to bed, how tenderly he’d brushed the hair from your eyes.

How he’d kissed your brow goodnight, and held your hand when you’d grabbed his in your sleep. 

But you don’t. And all you can think about is how Dean isn’t somehow who should ever have to be afraid. You reach over the table and grab his hand. Give him a small smile, and squeeze lightly. 

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course.” He rasps. “I’d tell you anything, sweetheart.”

He means that, too. Means it so much, you think it hits your love for him like a missile, and makes it explode. Not in a way of destruction. 

The same way a star explodes. The way a garden explodes. Bigger. Full of color, and life. 

“You- You too,” is all you can think to say back. Dean grins, and you smile back. 

You mean it. Almost. There’s one thing you’re never going to tell him. Something he’s never going to need to know. 

But in that moment, holding his hand and sitting so easily in the silence, you would’ve told him. If he asked, you would’ve told him everything. But he doesn’t. 

So you just keep sitting in the dark, Dean the only light you need in the world. 

It hits you at the worst time. The realization. Dean’s not just the hot roommate you’re in love with anymore. 

He’s your best friend.

It’s terrifying. It somehow makes everything better and worse all at the same time. He’ll be in your life for a long, long time. You can’t imagine a world without him anymore, and you think whatever gap he left when he took your heart, he’s filled up so well your body might just stop working if you ever lose him. 

It solidifies what you already knew. You can never tell him, because it might make him walk away.

But one day he’s going to find someone else. They’re going to get married. Maybe have babies. They’re going to build a part of his life that you’re allowed to witness, but never be a part of. It’s going to kill you, but you quickly decide that you’ll let it if you must. You’d rather have him then loose him. 

And at least this way, you can try to move on. And you really try to move on. 

You download all the apps. You talk to people and get ghosted and land a few dates. You tell Dean you have a date—on a Wednesday, because the guy wanted Friday, but you couldn’t bring yourself to agree—and he stares at you like he’s never heard the word before. 

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head, then makes the face. “Alright.”

You swallow. You don’t know what you wanted him to say. You know it was more than that. 

“Can I share my location with you?” You ask, shifting nervously on your feet. “In case he’s like- An axe murder?”

Dean doesn’t smile. “Sure. Have fun.”

You nod, some part of you waiting for him to say more. He doesn’t. The most you get is a quick look after you change, his jaw flexing and body shifting. You offer him a nervous smile and ask if it’s good—trying to at least pretend that you’re not mostly wearing such a short dress for him to see—and he just nods. Looks back to his phone, his voice low and oddly strained. 

“You look amazing.” He grunts. “He’ll have to be crazy not to like it.”

It’s all you get out of him. Not enough to really inflate into something. More than enough to take over your thoughts for the rest of night, to the point that you’re staring at the man across the table and forgetting his name, because all your brain can do is dissect what Dean meant by amazing. 

He turned out to be right. The nameless man wolf whistled when he saw you. Showered you in compliments that only made you smile sheepishly, placing a hand on your lower back and cooing something suggestive you can’t even remember anymore. 

You’d feel worse about how little attention you’re paying to him, if he wasn’t only talking about himself. You’d have some level of guilt, if he didn’t try to get you into his taxi at the end of the night despite having not asked a single question about your life. Daydreaming about Dean turned out to be the most effective use of your time, with how the night went. 

But only this night. Because the pattern repeats. You go on a date. You try—a little hard every single time—and a handful of times, you even make it to a third or fourth date. You sleep with a few of them, two or three a few times. Once, you get far enough with a perfectly nice guy name Jake that you let him come back to your apartment. 

Far enough that he meets Dean. And that’s where it all falls apart. 

Every guy that doesn’t make it past the first date, it’s because you’re too lost in thoughts of Dean. If they do get that second time, it’s because you can squint at them and see him instead. The men you sleep with have builds that are similar. The ones you sleep with twice have voices. 

And with Jake, you only really see it when he and Dean are standing in the same room. When he reaches out with a weary expression, and Dean takes his hand with a scowl. 

“You must be Dean.” Jake says slowly, and Dean nods.

“Must be, huh.” He shrugs, his knuckles white. “Wish I could say I knew who you were, buddy, but I got no damn clue.”

You want to sink into the floor or jump out the window, because it’s so painfully obvious. With Jake. With Michael, after Jake leaves. With Shawn, after Michael gives up. 

Then again, when Shawn—a little slower than the other two—sees it as well. 

“Is there… Something with you and Dean.”

“No.” You mutter, not convincing yourself. “We’re just close friends.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

Shawn says your name, and you hug your legs to your chest. You know what’s coming. You’ve even started hearing it from people who only make it to the third date, when you talk about him too much. From that one guy with a voice that was a little too close, who had to deal with you moaning the wrong name. 

“Yeah?”

Shawn is a little slow. He doesn’t get it on the nose, but he’s more than close enough. 

“You know, you might not see it, but- You and Dean… I don’t like it.”

“Why? We’re just-“

“I swear to god, don’t say friends.” Shawn snaps. “You never look at me the way you look at him! Never smile at me, never listen- You hang out with him more than me, you cancel dates because he asked you to, you just let him toss you around like you’re a toy-“

Your head snaps up, voice going cold. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Shawn scoffs. “Come on. You have to hear yourself-“

“He’s my friend-“

“I’m sure you think that.” Shawn spits. “But I know. Dean knows. Everyone knows you’re just his bitch.”

You leave. Stand up, and march out the door. When Shawn tries to follow you, you flip him off and tell him that if he ever speaks to you again, you’re going to call the police. 

He scoffs. “Or you’re just going to sic Dean on me. That fucking asshole will probably do whatever you ask, like a fucking dog.”

You punch him, and run. You’re not sure if he’ll chase. You don’t want to find out. Once you’re a few blocks away, you call Dean. He told you to call him, if you ever needed a ride home. You’ve never taken him up on it, because after that morning with the girl, there had been a rotting fear of him seeing you like that again. 

But it’s dark. And you’re cold, and tired. He said he didn’t want you walking home alone. 

He picks up after two rings. Doesn’t ask questions, when you tell him where you are or when he pulls up to the curb. 

He brought a blanket and ice cream. You wrap yourself in it, and give him a weak smile as you slide into the Impala. Your eyes are heavy, your eyes red and fingers shaking, but Dean only looks you up and down, and mutters one soft question.

“You okay?”

You nod, and pull the blanket a little tighter. You are now. He’s here. 

And some small part of it feels good. Shawn was the first guy in a while that you got to break up with. 

All the others left because they realized they were just faded, poorly done copies of Dean. Right down to the flannel and voice. Right down to everything but Dean’s irreparable, impossible smile. Right down to everything but his light. 

“You want me to beat him up?” He asks while you’re stuck at a red light. 

You laugh weakly, and shake your head. “No. Thank you, though.”

“Anytime.” 

There’s a long silence, but it doesn’t ache. Doesn’t feel anything but peaceful. Anything but safe. You keep eating your ice cream. You offer Dean a bite, and he takes it with a small grin. He turns up the music just enough and looks to you for approval on the song. You offer it with a smile. 

Your head slowly drops onto his shoulder. He tenses but doesn’t move away. After a second, his hand finds your knee. Stays there. 

You let out a long, heavy breath. And you know. You’re not going to be able to move on. 

“I need a favor.”

You look up from your cereal with a frown, the spoon already in your mouth. “Huh?”

A little milk dribbles down your chin and you scramble to wipe it, face burning with embarrassment. Dean watches with a smirk, raising his brow when your eyes meet, and your hand slips. The spoon falls into the bowl, splashing over your face. More cereal escapes your mouth, and you whine like a child, trying to wipe with your hands.

“Son of a- Jesus, woman.” Dean passes you a napkin, shit-eating grin on his face. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m not trying to.” You grumble, wiping your shirt. “And no being mean, you said you needed a favor.”

“Well, I’m rethinking it now-“

“Dean.”

He just grins under your glare. Leans forward and laughs like you’re not actively planning his murder.

“You still got something.” He points to your chin, and you stick your tongue out at him as you dab it. He snorts. “You know I’m helping you, right?”

“Fuck you.”

“Not with milk on your face- Fuck-“

His hand had slipped. Landed right in your bowl, sending it flying right at his face. You burst out laughing as he’s drenched in milk and soggy cereal, a sour expression on his face that’s a little less effective than he probably wants it to be. You can see him fighting the smile. 

“Shit.” He groans, running a hand down his face then flinching when he sees the damage on his hand. “Goddammit, this shit is gonna take forever to get out-“

“It’ll be fine.” You push to your feet with a shrug. “Come on, I can wash it.”

You start down the hall, and don’t realize that Dean isn’t following until you’re at the bathroom door. You look back, and he’s just standing in the kitchen. Mouth in a tight line, milk dripping from his hair, eyes wide.

You frown. “Dean, come on. The longer you let it sit the worse it’s going to be.”

You wave him forward, and it’s like you tugged on an invisible rope. He stumbles forward, hands dropping awkwardly to his side, and follows you with an oddly nervous expression. You’re not sure what’s going on with him. It’s just a bathroom. 

“Sit.” You point to the floor next to the tub. “Put your head back, and take off your shirt. I’ll wash it later.”

Dean nods, giving you that strange look before pulling his shirt slowly over his head. He drops it on the closed toilet lid and lowers himself to the floor just as you asked. You kneel at his side, turning on the shower with a sigh. You have shampoo, and a removable shower head. This really shouldn’t be that hard. 

It only hit you when you look back to him. What a massive mistake you made.

Dean’s shirtless. Close enough that, if you just stretched your fingers, you’d be able to touch his chest. His skin, smooth and soft looking. The muscles that shift as he breathes heavily. When your eyes lock onto his, you almost gulp. 

He’s staring at you under hooded eyes. His jaw is clenched, his arms stiff at his side. Waiting for you to touch him. Clean him up. You’re supposed to be cleaning him up. 

You take a deep breath, and force your body to move. You wipe the milk off his face while the water gets warm. Rinse his hair, then steel yourself as you rub in the shampoo. It’s so painfully close. So intimate. You feel like you’re invading on yourself. Like you’re doing something so strangely dirty, just by washing his hair. You’d been right, every time you dreamt about it. It is soft. When your fingers brush against his scalp, his whole body shudders, then relaxes. When you repeat the motion, his hands flex. 

You can’t keep looking at his body. It’s dangerous. You clear your throat, and try to think of anything else to say. 

“What’s the favor?” You mumble, and Dean grunts.

“It’s- Uh- Nothing. Never mind.”

You pause, fingers stilling in his hair. “Dean. What’s the favor.”

“I said never mind-“

“Dean Winchester.”

He sighs, long and labored. Opens his eyes just enough to examine you through his eyelashes, then closes them again. “You can’t get pissed. If you don’t wanna do it, just- Say no. And we’ll forget it. Okay?”

You bite your lower lip, but nod. “Oh- Okay.”

“So.” He coughs. “Y’know how Sammy’s gettin’ married?”

“Mhm.” You focus on his hair, even as your fingers start to shake for no reason at all. He’d called you after his trip to California to help Sam with the ring. Excitedly shown you all the photos after the proposal. You’d been thrilled for him, then sat in this very same tub for an hour, trying not to cry about how that was never going to be you and him. “You want me to water the flowers?”

He chuckles softly. “Not exactly. And those are your flowers, sweetheart.”

“You bought them.”

“‘Cause you were sad about not gettin’ a cat, and- Never mind.” He takes a deep breath. “My thing is- it’s next month. The wedding. I gotta go home for it. And, uh- I was wondering. Just- A thought. Nothin’ you gotta commit to right now, but- Thought I’d ask, even if you didn’t wanna-“

“Dean.” You snap him gently out of the rambling, and he coughs. 

“Right. Sorry. Just- Here’s the deal.” 

He takes a deep breath, and you stop massaging his hair. He looks so painfully tensed, his whole body seized up, his pretty lips in a tight pout. He’s dragged his eyes open again, and they’re fixed so nervously  on yours. He’s grabbed your knee with one hand. Like he’s worried you’re going to kick him, or run away. 

“My whole family’s gonna be there.” He mutters, searching over your face with every word. “They’ll all be on my ass, about Sammy already settling, and me- Not doin’ that.” He coughs. The red from his ears spreads over his cheeks. “And I just figured, if they thought I was gonna settle, maybe… The whole thing would be easier. For everyone.”

You stare at him, the words slowly falling into place in your head. It takes a moment. His hand squeezes on your knee, and it almost knocks them into you. Forces all the meaning into place. 

Your mouth falls open. “Are you asking me to-“

“Yeah. But- Only if you want to.” He gives you a small, boyish grin. “But I’d owe you. Big time. Like- I’d pay the whole rent for two months big time.”

You shake your head. “Dean, don’t-“

“I’m serious, I really need this-“

“I know but, that’s so much money, and-“ You sigh, brow furrowing in a tight line. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to do… that.”

He squeezes your knee again. “We’d figure it out. Together.” Another charming smile. “How about one favor. Whatever you want. No questions, no expiration. You could use it to get a cat.”

You laugh weakly, and he squeezes your knee again. He’s giving you almost puppy-like pleading eyes. You don’t know how you’re going to say no, but- 

All you want is him. A cat would be nice, but all you’ve craved, for so so long, is Dean. And that might be limit of his favor. A limit that might outweigh the toll it comes with. Pretending to be Dean’s girlfriend, for a week, with his family. Having everything you want, and making it all play. All a lie. All fake.

“Why me?” You ask softly, looking back to his hair. It’s filled with suds. You should probably start washing it soon. “I mean, there’s Charlie. Or- An actress, or Pam from work, she’s nice-“

“My mom already knows you.” Dean cuts you off with low words. “Easier sell, than some random chick she’s never heard of.” 

A lump forms in your throat. “Your mom knows me?”

“Yeah. I talk about you.”

You flush. It’s an impressive feat, the way you manage to force your voice into something teasing instead of confused and hopeful. 

“Aw, you love me-“

“Shut up.” He grunts, pinching your knee in the spot he knows makes you squeal. 

“Dean-“

“Sorry.” He grins up at you, and he doesn’t sound it. Stupid, perfect asshole. “But- Please, sweetheart. Please. One favor. Anything.”

You really shouldn’t agree. You shouldn’t. It’s going to back fire. The love that’s been gnawing at you since that day on the ice is going to finally grow sharp enough to eat you alive. 

But he said please.

“Okay.” You mutter, and he grins. 

You can’t find it in you, to regret agreeing. It made Dean smile.

“I hate this.” He mutters. He hasn’t sat down since you got through security. You’re a little worried he’s going to give himself an aneurysm. “I really fuckin’ hate this, I- We should go back. Baby’s still in the lot, if we leave now we’ll make it-“

“Dean.” You catch his hand, giving him a firm look. “We already paid.”

“Fuck- What if we call a bomb threat, they might give us a refund-“

“Or we’ll get arrested. For domestic terrorism.” You squeeze his hand gently. Offer him a soft smile. “Just sit down. We’re not even on the plane yet, you’ll have plenty of time to freak out later.”

Dean works his jaw. Looks longingly down the terminal, then back to you. Sighs, and sits with a grunt. You smile, rubbing his back as he glares at the floor. To any outsider, it probably looks like you are dating. 

It should. You’ve been practicing.

“I’m not freakin’ out.” He grumbles, and you smile affectionately.

“Okay.”

He scowls. “I’m not.”

“I said okay.” You hold his glower with a smile. He stares at you—and you could swear his eyes flick to your lips, but you might just be going insane—and slumps down into the seat. 

“I hate this.”

“I know, De.” You move your hand to his hair, running your finger through it gently. Just like you did in the bathroom.

Like he’s been letting yourself do, since you agreed to the fake dating thing. He’s called it training. You touch each other more, you call him De and he calls you baby. You sit closer—although it may just be as close as before, only now you’re allowed to dive right into it instead of inching towards him on the couch—and share food. You’d nailed down a backstory. Negotiated all the small details of your fake relationship, that’s a little too close to the truth for comfort. 

But still not real. In moments like this, when you’re touching him causally and he’s leaning into it, where you’re in the noise of the airport but it still feels like only you and Dean in the world, you have to remember that it’s fake. 

“You’re gonna be okay.” You offer, and he snorts. 

“We’re gonna die.”

“No, we’re not. It’s only a five-hour flight, the worst thing that will happen is they won’t offer any meals.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. He’s pacing and playing grumpy, but he’s afraid. You know he’s afraid. He’d never stood as close to you, as when you were going through security. You’d never seen him so nervous as when you were driving to the airport. You don’t think he even slept last night. 

You’re worried about him. Worried he had one of those nightmares he won’t talk about, worried he’s going to fall over, worried he might actually run. You hook your arm through his, when they start calling boarding. Anchor yourself against him, when you’re the last two people left at the gate, and you have to get on the plane. 

It would be cute how jumpy he was, if you weren’t this worried. You’d tease him if he didn’t stumble down the walkway and freeze when he saw the plane door. 

You know you had to fly. Baby needed extra work after a bad storm that messed with her tires, and Dean had been so swamped at work he hadn’t gotten the chance. He’d been ready to just push her, until you did the math and realized that—even with the earliest you could leave—you’d only get there on Sam’s wedding day and get home after both your time off periods had finished. If he wanted this to work, he was going to have to fly. 

“Why couldn’t they just get married in Kansas.” He whines, and you smile. Buckle him in like he’s a toddler, because he’s shaking too much to do it himself.

“They don’t live in Kansas. And it’s like- Freezing there right now.”

“So? Winter weddings, those can work. Could’ve done, like- Snow photos- Fuck-“

He shoots up, when the plane starts moving. You sigh, and tug him back down by the collar of his shirt.

“We’re just going to the runway. It’s fine. We’re fine.” You pause, then take his hand. 

Really, fully, take his hand. Fingers woven together, palms pressed flat. He pulls on you slightly, tugging your hand with his up over his heart. You give him a soft smile, and he just blinks at you frantically.

“It’s okay.” You keep your voice gentle, and his throat bobs. “You’re okay.”

He doesn’t look convinced. His breathing stays shallow. But at the very least, he stops trying to convince you to get off the plane. 

You settle in, watching him with a little too much open affection on your face. The sweet old lady in the aisle seat leans over, and asks if your boyfriend needs medical attention. You laugh, and tell her he’s okay. 

If Dean hears it in your voice—how much you adore him—he doesn’t say anything. You’re pretty sure he’s too focused on his panic to hear anything at all. 

He hums Metallica, through the whole take off. Grips your hand so tight you stop feeling your fingers, but you don’t complain. It seems to help. You make it to the air, and he’s still conscious. 

He does make the mistake of looking out the window. You watch the blood drain from his face, and quickly grab it between your hands.

“We’re gonna switch seats.” You say firmly, and he blinks. Nods, clinging to your wrist like it’s the only thing tethering him from a complete panic attack. 

You shuffle around, and somehow manage to switch without Dean ever letting go of your body. You hit a bit of turbulence, and he looks like he wants to punch something. Stares around the plane with glazed over, almost rabid eyes. Looks at you so desperately, it almost breaks your heart. 

Your body moves before your brain can think better. You grab Dean’s head again, and drag it down against your chest. He pauses. You hold your breath, ready for him to push you away and tell that you took it too far.

Instead, his arms shoot around your torso. His face turns to press into your breasts, and he melts into your hold. You swallow. You really hope he can’t hear your heart. How it’s about to beat out of you and into him. Where it knows it belonged. 

“Can you...” Dean speaks into you, the sound rolling through your ribs. “Just- Talk? Please? ‘Bout anything, but-  Please.”

“Yeah. I- Yeah.” You take a deep breath, and your fingers start to comb through his hair. He shudders, holds you tighter. 

And you talk. About anything. About the book you’d been reading, about some random drama at work, about how you’ve been studying his family in preparation to meet them. Studying the flashcards he made you and employing… other methods. 

“I stalked your mom on Facebook.” You say sheepishly, face heating. “I followed her bread blog, too. And- I looked up how to knit, I know she’s into that. I can make a hat now. It’s a shit hat, but I can do it. She follows a birdwatching account, too, so I learned some birds. And- That soup kitchen she volunteers with. That’s cool.” You swallow. You sound insane. “She seems really nice.”

“She is nice.” Dean mumbles. It the first thing he’s said in two hours. “She’s gonna love you.”

“I hope so.”

“She will.” He snuggles further into your body. His fingers have been digging into your hips, and they might leave bruises. You don’t mind.

“She’ll love you.” Dean repeats, his words soft. “Everyone says she’s a lot like me.”

For a second, you just nod, still petting his head. Then you hear what he actually said, and your heart does an Olympic level flip.

“What?” You squeak, looking down with wide eyes. He doesn’t respond. “Dean, what does that-“

A snore rumbles from his chest. The lack of sleep from last night caught up with him. He’s out cold.

You sigh. Resume your petting, even if it’s really more for you now. The old lady leans over, giving a kind small and keeping her voice down.

“You two are a lovely couple.” She whispers. “And I must say, it’s wonderful to see a man who adores his lady as much as this one adores you.”

And you smile in return, even as tears burn behind your eyes. 

“Thanks. He’s-“ You sigh, and smile down at Dean. Dead to the world, and so painfully perfect. “He’s the best.”

It’s another two hours, to get up to the ranch Sam and Jess are renting for the wedding. The moment Dean gets behind the wheel he relaxes, grinning widely and leaning back in the seat. You smile out the window, and hide your flush when his hand finds your thigh.

“It’ll be late when we get there.” He says. His thumb is drawing circles into your skin. “We’ll have time to change, but-“ He sighs. “We’re gonna have to fuckin’ run to dinner. My Dad will shoot us if we’re late.”

You huff a small laugh, just for Dean’s sake. You don’t think he’s joking. 

And as happy as it made you to see his relief when you landed safely, as high as it felt to hold his hand while you walked to baggage, and how good it felt to have him keep an arm around you while you grabbed the rental car, it makes you feel sick to watch him slowly curl into himself, the closer and closer you get to the ranch. 

To seeing his family. To seeing his dad. 

Anything you know about John Winchester is what Dean’s told you. None of it has made you his biggest fan. Not the military shit, not the strictness or casual stories he’s thrown out about John threatening to kick him out, and only Mary being able to talk him out of it. 

But you know Dean admires his Dad. Know how important family is to him in general.

You’re important to him too. Even if he doesn’t love you, you know you’re important to Dean. Important enough for him to stand so close and ask you for such intimate favors. 

Probably not close enough to trump his dad. 

So you don’t say anything, as you watch him get restless. Don’t mention that his leg is bouncing, or how he keeps looking over his shoulder when you pull into the parking lot. Dean grabs your arm and drags you inside, looking at his watch every few seconds with a paler and paler face. You’d gotten stuck in traffic, which wasn’t his fault at all, but you don’t think it’s smart to say that either. 

“Dean.” You say gently when you get to the room. He’s still holding your hand. “I have to go get changed.”

“Uh- Yeah.” He blinks at you, eyes dragging over your body. You press your thighs together, heat blooming from the attention. By a small miracle, he doesn’t seem to notice at all. 

“My hand.” You prompt him gently, and for a second he looks like he really doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Dean, I can’t change if you’re-“

“Shit. Right.” He lets you go, stumbling back like you burned him. “Sorry. Just- Can you be fast-“

“Five minutes. Promise.”

And you don’t know how you keep that promise—doing your hair, basic makeup, making yourself presentable and nice because it might be fake but it still matters—but you do. You come out to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaned up pretty well himself, leg bouncing as he stares at his phone. 

Bed. Single bed. Fuck. 

Dean looks up, and his throat bobs. “Awesome. You ready?”

You nod, and hold out a hand. It’s a small gesture that’s too quickly becoming an instinct. Even worse is how fast Dean takes your hand. Like he’s not really thinking about it either. 

He doesn’t seem to the be thinking about any of this. It’s coming like air to him, how he’s walking you down to the hotel restaurant, standing taller and taller with every step. He keeps you close, so close there’s no way to read it but romantic. When you arrive, he scans over the room with an alert expression, keeping you a little behind him. You see the moment he finds his family. 

He smiles, squares his shoulders, and lets out a heavy breath. You see a blonde woman with his eyes and smile stand up from a table on the far side of the room, and—when you dare to lean a little further over Dean’s shoulder—a man grabbing her arm. A man who looks so similar to Dean—hair a little darker, face a little more worn but still remarkably similar—but doesn’t have his smile at all. You’re not sure this man knows how to smile. It feels like it would be wrong on his face.

“Showtime.” Dean mutters, squeezing your hand, and before you can damn this all and run—not real, but too real, and there’s a ringing starting in your ears—he kisses the top of your head and drags you forward. 

You think he drugged you that. That that single kiss did something to your mind and body, because suddenly you’re stumbling after him and everything is all a fever dream. 

Dean’s hugging his Mom. Exchanging a tight nod and awkward shoulder clap with his dad—who, at the very least, grabs Dean’s arm and nods back—before turning to the impossibly taller man next to the empty seats, and shouting Sammy so loud some of the glasses seem to shake. Sam stands—you’ve never seen him in person, he’s somehow even taller than you thought—and drags Dean into tight hug, muttering something that makes Dean laugh. You smile, because it’s impossible not to when he seems this happy. 

Then Dean looks at you, smiling himself, and the world slows to a beautiful stop. Just you and Dean, the glow of the chandelier light, and the way it bends around him. Makes him look more hero than man again. Makes him look like a spirit from a grove, wandering out of the shadows to carry you into the river. 

Your smile widens. Dean’s reflects it, and maybe he’s just a siren sent to enchant you beyond reason. It’s working. And if you’re drowning right now, he’s already filled your lungs with his scent, his touch, his affection. The whole universe, in this split second, is just the chime of glass and Dean.

But the world speeds up again. He says your name, holding out a hand, and time rushes back into place. 

They’re all looking at you. Staring. The ground is slipping out from under your feet, and you feel over and underdressed at the same time, and- 

“Baby,” Dean prompts softly, and you blink up at him with wide eyes. You don’t know when he got back to your side, but if he leaves it again, you’re going to stab him. “Say hi.”

You look back to his family, and throw on your best smile. “Hi.” 

Mary’s face breaks into a smile, wide and warm, and before you know what’s happening you’re being swept up off the goddamn ground. 

“Oh, it’s wonderful to meet you.” She says. “Dean’s told me so much, and- You’re even more gorgeous than he made you sound, which is really a high bar.”

“Mom.” Dean hisses, and Sam snorts. You barely even hear. You’re too busy staring at Mary. 

She’s touching your arms and face like a blind woman trying to memorize something you can’t see. She’s examine you almost like a slab of meat, and all you can do is stand there and wait for her to conclude. Her voice had a quaintly to it that’s so similar to Dean’s you almost laughed. It’s musical, but in the way of a battle cry. Has a rhythm, but more like war drum. 

And looking into her eyes, you can see why people say she and Dean are similar. There’s a stubborn fire that you know too well. A little less playfulness, but not none. You know Dean said she had a hard life, before she met John. You wonder if she has nightmares too. 

“Hey, woah-“ Dean pulls you back as Mary tries to turn your head. “That’s enough. Don’t scare her off.”

“Yeah, I think that’s your job, Dad.” Sam drawls, and the beautiful blonde woman next to him elbows his gut. “Ow, Jess-“

“Don’t argue with your future wife, Samuel.” John grunts. His voice is deeper like Dean’s. But apart from that, there’s nothing the same. “Don’t make that mistake this early.”

“Yeah, Samuel.” Jess smirks, and Sam bows his head like a scolded dog. 

This whole family might just have the most dangerous puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. You know Mary has them, when she convinces John to switch seats so she can be next to you and Dean. You’re not sure John would be capable of them—he’s got more of a glint like a hound dog, that you’ve only ever seen on Dean when he’s angry—but Sam’s seem to be perfected to the point that he mumbles an apology to Jess, and immediately gets a smile and sweet touch of his face. 

And suddenly, this feels so wrong. You’re a liar. You’re an intrusive, foreign liar, weaving into their ranks and masquerading, because they all seem to love each other—even John, mostly silent but still smiling at Mary every few moments—and you’re just some girl-

“So.” Mary blinks at you, and you might not be breathing anymore. “Dean says you’ve been dating for how long? Six months?”

“Um- I- I- Yeah.” You take a ragged gasp for air, and your hand grabs at the tablecloth. Trying to find something that will keep you together, something to either hold you down to get you through this or pull you away into space- 

Dean catches your hand. Holds it tight. You look over, and he offers you a tiny smile. You swallow, then smile back. He nods—mostly to himself—then turns back to the table.

“Don’t interrogate her, Mom. She spent the whole day dealing with me on the plane, she’s exhausted.”

“The plane?!” Sam’s mouth falls open. “I- I thought you were joking about Dean, Jesus, you actually flew?”

“It’s just walking then sitting, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is awful lofty for someone who looked like he was going to piss himself all day. “It ain’t nothing to be dramatic about.”

Sam looks to you. “Did he piss himself again?”

“Sam-“

“No.” You say loyally. “He was fine. Only tried to run away from me twice.”

Sam laughs, and Dean reaches over you to hit his chest. Pauses when he leans back to brush his fingers over your cheek. Tuck some hair behind your ear. You swallow, and smile up at him again. Your lashes flutter, your hand moving of its own accord to adjust the cuff of his sleeve.

You didn’t know you were capable, of getting this shy and nervous just from someone looking at you. Didn’t know, until you met Dean. 

But he makes you do crazy things. Things like pretending to be his girlfriend, and wanting to kiss him in front of his family. Like your mouth parting in a public place, your body leaning forward as your legs shift. 

Dean sees it this time. His eyes dart down and flash with shock, but his grip on your chin only tightens. It’s all fake. You must just be going insane-

Sam coughs loudly, and you and Dean break apart. Whatever that little show was, it seems enough to quell his family. Mary smiles at you, Sam grumbles something about trying to eat, and John stares at you in a way you’re really trying not to think about too hard. Something prickles over your skin, and you have a horrible feeling that he can see right through you. 

But he doesn’t say anything. Dean starts to talk with his Mom and Jess about wedding decorations and choices, and he has a lot more opinions than you thought he would. You listen with a hopelessly dreamy smile that Dean seems too absorbed in his wedding talk to see, and almost jump out of your skin when Sam says your name.

“Sorry.” He smiles at you gently. “Just wanted to ask- Dean says you’re a teacher?”

“I, um-“ You take a slightly shaking breath, then nod. “Yeah. I am. But it’s only Kindergarten-“

“Only Kindergarten.” Dean snorts, and you blink at him. “She’s being humble. They adore her. Last spring they did this secret appreciation thing, where they all drew her and wrote her card. Pictures weren’t shit. I put one on our fridge.”

The table falls silent, and Dean takes a large bite of his spaghetti, completely oblivious to the bomb he’d just dropped. 

Sam knew you lived together. You’re pretty sure Sam knows about the whole charade, because he’d met you a while ago over the phone as Dean’s roommate and friend. But Dean told you that his mom just thought you were friends. That he’d been avoiding the roommate thing, just because she’d assume you were dating if you lived together.

In your cover story, you don’t live together. But he just said the truth. And like the handsome fucking dumbass that he is, he’s just eating his spaghetti. 

“Our fridge?” Mary echoes. “Do you… Live together?”

You almost laugh at the expression on Dean’s face as he chokes on the spaghetti. “We, uh- I- Mom, we’ve been-“

“We moved in together like a month ago.” You take a small amount of mercy on him, grabbing your napkin and reaching up to dab at the sauce on his face. You use it as an excuse to give him a death glare. Let me handle this.

He nods, expression still panicked, and you turn back to Mary with a soft grin.

“He was going to tell you later, but I guess he got excited. It’s just still new enough, we wanted to be sure.”

Mary nods slowly, looking suspiciously between you and Dean, and you sit a little taller. She’s a lot more intimidating than John. You won’t cave. Not when you’ve already come this far. 

“I was wondering, how did you guys meet?” Jess asks causally, poking at her own plate. “Sam hasn’t actually told me.”

You peer at her, because you’re pretty sure that’s a lie. Dean says Sam tells her everything, and that it’s really freakin’ annoying. But she’s smiling at you so innocently, and… You think she’s giving you a way out. 

Dean beats you to taking it. He clears his throat and sits up taller, like he’s ready and proud to tell the story you’d agreed on. You were at a bar. He walked over, and tried to hit on you, you turned him down. 

“But you were already soooo in love with me,” he’d said while you brainstormed, his words slurred from drinking. “And you were obsessed with me, and you kept tryin’ to make me notice you again until you gave up, and just knocked on my door. Confessed your love in the rain-“

“I can’t knock on your door and be in the rain at the same time, De.”

“Well, then you were wet from the rain.” He’d winked. “Then I told you I’d been secretly in love with you the whole damn time, and I made you wet in other places-“

You’d thrown a pillow at his face, half because of the stupid joke, and half because he was citing straight from your dream world. Where he’d done that exact thing, in at least fifty different variations.

“Why didn’t you just chase me, if you started by hitting on me.” You’d sprawled on the floor, Dean sitting over you, and poked holed. The story needed to be perfect. 

He’d shrugged. “’Cause maybe I’m a good guy, sweetheart. And I took your no to mean no.”

“Ah. The lowest bar.”

He’d rolled his eyes, and you’d smiled sweetly.

For a second, you’d just stared at each other. When he’d spoken again, his voice had lost its edge. 

“What if I was just in love with you. We became real friends after you kicked my ass at pool, and you’d been seein’ other people, so I backed off, then I showed up in the rain and did the confession.”

“I’m bad at pool.” You’d whispered. He’s smiled.

“Then we just won’t let you play, sweetheart.”

You’d nodded. It was all you could think to do. It had been a good story. You’d workshopped it when you were sober, and now it was almost flawless. 

That’s the story you were supposed to tell Dean’s family. It’s not the story Dean says. 

“I was running around in a parking lot,” he drawls, reaching his arm around the back of your chair. “Looking for someone, not paying attention to where the hell I was going. Ran right into her, then ran into the fuckin’ door. I hadn’t stopped to apologize, but she helped me anyway. Then she slipped, I helped her. She was grabbing my arms and all mouthy, but the prettiest damn thing I’d ever seen, and I was still late but I couldn’t move my damn feet.” He smiles down at you. “Realized I’d found what I was looking for. Just ended up takin’ me a few years to ask to have it.”

You stare at him, your heartbeat in your ears. It’s real. Too real. It’s a better lie than you came up with, but you don’t know why he would possibly choose that over your agreed upon backstory. Why he would remember it in such great detail, when it was so long ago. 

You remember it. Of course you remember it. You love him, and you’d spent countless nights imagining what if. What if you hadn’t been there for the roommate interview, and he’d asked you for coffee. What if you’d been braver and taken the moment, told him you didn’t care about the complications, and asked him out. What if Dean had decided the moment was worth holding onto, and tossed aside safety and the. chance of a roommate to bring you to dinner. What if you ended up moving in anyway a while down the line because one of you had stood up and decided that it was worth the risk.

There’s some small chance that it was only you who felt something, in that moment. When you’d grabbed him and snapped, and he’d taken a chance on you out of desperation. 

But what if he did feel it too. And it faded when you moved in, but he’d felt it. 

What if it hadn’t faded. Why does he remember. 

Not real. You have to remember it’s not real, but Dean’s still smiling at you. His arm is draped around, his fingers lingering on your upper arm in such a sweet, casual gesture of possession that isn’t real, but sure fucking feels it- 

“And you’re a teacher.” John cuts through your thoughts, and you rip your gaze away from Dean to find him examining you again. 

You flush, but force your voice to stay even and strong. “Yes, sir.”

“Hm.” John narrows his eyes, and Dean’s grip tightens on your shoulder.

“Dad, c’mon-“

“I’m not sayin’ anything.” John grunts. “Just thinkin’. Teaching doesn’t pay much, does it.”

“No, but- I’m lucky. And I get- Donations.” Your fingers are pulling at your cloth napkin. “Sometimes families give me things for holidays, and- Once a girl made me a stuffed bear-“

“A six year old made you a stuffed bear.” John says, obviously unimpressed, and you swallow. 

“She was five. Her mom helped, and- It came with chocolates.”

“So you’re plannin’ to live off stuffed bears and chocolates for the rest of your damn life?”

“Dad.” Dean snaps, and you don’t know when he grabbed your hand, but you’re squeezing it tight. 

This isn’t real. You’re not Dean’s actual girlfriend, you don’t need to impress his parents, but- You do. It’s an itch over your skin that refused to be scratched, you need to impress John and Mary, they need to buy what you’re selling, they need to like you enough that you’re not just driving yourself insane dreaming of a life with Dean, that you’re watering your own secret little garden and can tell yourself that maybe if it was different, you might actually have something.

But John doesn’t look impressed. He just looks bored. “You work hard, son. I’m trying to make sure she’s got a bigger plan than just donations and low pay you’re gonna have to support-“

“You helped support Mom when we were kids.” Dean holds John’s glare, and Sam coughs. You focus your energy on the food in front of you. It’s an odd, washed-out shade of black, but that might just be your vision clouding. 

“Dean,” Mary says gently. “I was raising children, and- Your father is just trying to be careful-“

“Careful of what, that someone’s gonna steal my million dollar salaries.”

Sam snorts at that, Jess elbows him again, and John just shrugs.

“You get paid well for the shit you do. Relationships need to be balanced, look at Sam and Jess, lawyer and doctor-“

“Pre-med.” Jess mumbled, and Sam gave her a tight smile before glaring at John.

“Dad, don’t use us for this.”

John rolls his eyes. “Fine. But my point is, Dean, it can’t be one-sided. I won’t let you fall into something where you’re doin’ all the work, people are always gonna have cars that need fixin’-“

“People are always going to have kids that need teaching.” Dean raises his chin, and you blink at him. “And yeah, I get paid well, but until she showed up I’d been balling up all my laundry and didn’t know who Robert Moses was, so I think we’re doing fine.”

The table falls silent, and you keep staring at your plate. Your head feels a little light. You’re not his real girlfriend. He didn’t need to defend you. Your eyes are watering and your mouth is dry, but they’re never going to see you again after this weekend, so it really doesn’t matter- 

“It’s a noble profession.” Mary murmurs, her hand landing over John’s. “I still remember the boy’s kindergarten teachers. They were good women. One of them just had her fourth child and got something published in one of those big magazines, and- You remember Miss Garrity, Sam?”

Sam nods, his mouth full of ravioli, and Mary smiles. 

“Her eldest just had their first. And I heard she was honored with an award last summer.” Her smile turns to you. “There’s a good life, in teaching. Right, John?”

John grunts. You don’t think he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t seem thrilled by any of this. 

Mary nods in approval. “And it’s good how much you’re making, Dean. Just like me and Dad, when she needs to take time off for your children, you’ll be able to keep everything stable-“

“Who wants dessert?!” Sam shouts, loud enough to make you jump, and Dean presses your still intertwined hands down into your lap. Just managing to keep you from jolting the table. 

You’re pretty sure Sam just saved your ass. The way he exchanges a look with Dean’s red face—the way Dean’s palm is sweating in yours—makes you almost certain that he did. From a conversation with Dean’s mom about a future you’ve dreamed of, and are never going to actually have. From Dean hearing you give real answers to questions Mary wouldn’t know are fake. From the conversation after, where he’d carefully half-joke that you had the answers real well loaded, and you’d have to just laugh like you hadn’t spent so long refining them to fit your dreams. 

Instead, you just silently eat your chocolate mousse and listen to Sam and Dean talk about their different kindergarten experiences. Dean remembers having a crush on his teacher, and he squeezes your leg as he says it, and your whole body floods with heat. 

It’s still a small torture. The idea of a little Dean bouncing around on a playground, wearing an oversized firefighter hat or hugging a stuffed animal. It’s a little cruel, how fast your brain can twist that into what Mary was implying. A little combination of you and Dean, with his smile and your eyes, all his energy and sweetness, hugging your legs and sitting in Dean’s lap while he reads with a bunch of silly voices, and you feel kind of sick-

“You tired?” Dean mutters in your ear, and you turn to find him examining you. There’s a deep furrow in his brow. 

He’s rubbing your leg now. Slowly up and down, soothing and igniting all at once. Not real. So unfairly not real.

You nod, and he sighs. Leans forward to kiss your brow gently, and your eyes flutter. He’s just putting on a show. Just putting on a show. 

He excuses you both, you hang off his arm as he leads you upstairs and back to your room. Neither of you speak, but Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. You risk leaning forward and pressing your head against his back. It’s firm. Safe and warm. You never to be anywhere else again. 

You think Mary hugged you good night. You might’ve shaken John’s hand. You really can’t remember at all. It’s been a really long day.

You shower again, letting the hot water drain your frantic thoughts and nerves down the drain. You stare at the fogged-up mirror until it clears, and dress slowly. This was a really bad idea. When you agreed to this, you really should’ve thought more about how in love with Dean you are, and how that was going to color the whole stupid thing.

You’re not going to back out. You can’t, when you promised him. But you still feel sick. And this might break a tiny part of you that you’ve tried so hard to keep safe. You don’t have a name for it. You just know it’s made of maintaining a facade, a friendship, a reliable dance that you’re not in love with Dean, and even when you are it’s okay that he doesn’t love you back. 

You have to remember that he doesn’t love you back. 

But he’s still up, when you step out of the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the mattress in his pajamas, frowning at his phone but looking up at you with the softest smile. Not real. i

“I’m sorry. About Dad.” He says as you shuffle across the room. “He means well, I swear, but- He did the same thing to Jess, when Sammy finally brought her around. I’m gonna talk to him in the morning-“

“Dean.” You give him a small smile, crawling onto the bed. “It’s fine.”

He twists around, mouth in a tight line. “No, he shouldn’t have said that shit to you-“

“I know.”

“Right, so I’m gonna talk to him-“

“You really don’t have to. I know- You’ve told me how he is.” You scoot a little closer, covering Dean’s hand with your own. “You really don’t need to fight with him. Not for me.”

Dean’s jaw flexes. His eyes dart down to your hand over his, then back up to meet yours. He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna.”

“Dean-“

“No. He doesn’t talk to you like that.” He looks back to his phone, then tosses it into the bags. “You did awesome, though. Mom loved you.” He shoots you a small grin. “Told you she would.”

You laugh softly, and his words echo in your head. She’ll love you. She’s like me. 

“They all loved you.” Dean mutters, his thumb wrapping around to the back of your hand. Dragging small circles, a habit he seems to be building fast. “You fit in.”

That makes you laugh for real. “I wanted to throw up.”

“Yeah, I saw you makin’ the face.”

“And you didn’t do anything about it?”

“Hey, I pulled you out of there.” He grins, flipping your hands so yours is under his. “A thank you would be welcome, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not thanking you for saving me from the viper pit you shoved me into.”

“But it was such a heroic rescue, I’d call it my best-“

“I wouldn’t.”

“You’re a critic.” He smirks. “And you still love me, so I’m callin’ it a fair save.” 

You flush, and whack his hand away. Too close to the truth again. Too intimate. “Shut up.”

Dean’s eyes sparkle. “Aw, you callin’ it off with me? When you just met my family? That’s low, baby-“

“Dean.” You give him a flat, tired look. You don’t want to joke about this. It hurts too much. “Your mom was seconds away from asking me about babies and marriage.”

He shrugs. “And? I’m guessing Dad’s gonna ask that too, when I talk to him.” He frowns at the air. “Make it real fuckin’ clear, that I’m serious. He doesn’t say that kinda shit to you.”

You sigh. “I said you don’t have to do that-“

“And I said I’m gonna.” 

“Dean, it’s not- It’s just me.” You give him a desperate look. “You don’t have to. Not for me.”

He stares at you. His hand tightens in yours, his mouth twitching, and he shakes his head.

“Is it so hard,” Dean drawls, twisting fully around. Moving forward, as he speaks. “For you to believe that I actually just wanna defend your honor?”

“I- I don’t-“ You stare at him, crawling back as he approaches. He can’t get too close right now, when you’re so exhausted your mouth might not listen to your brain. You’re going to say something true. “I don’t have honor-“

“Yeah, you do.”

Your back hits the headboard. “Dean, you know I don’t-“

“Nah. I don’t know anything.” He’s over you. Over your legs, his arms braced around your body, his face only inches away. 

You breathe out shakily, and he licks his lips. 

“I know you.” He mutters. “Know you real well, sweetheart. And you’re worth defending.”

His voice is so low it seems to vibrate through you, and your thighs clench. 

He sees it. His eyes dart down and darken, his shoulders heaving as he takes a heavy breath. Dean looks back to you, something glinting in his eyes that only stokes your own fire.  Your hand shoots up to press against his chest, but you don’t shove. Dean grabs your wrist, tracing one of those small circles, before moving to touch your face. 

Brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. Fingers playing with a loose strand of hair, then dropping down to hold your chin. Keeping your gaze trapped on his, as he traces your lower lip. Your mouth falls open, and his throat bobs.

He stares at you, the tip of his thumb resting right between your lips. His breath is ragged and warm on your face, his gaze searing into you, the light bending around him. But it’s not another dream. His chest is flexing under your hand, and this is so impossibly real.

Dean mutters your name, and your legs fall open. Offering him more space, offering him whatever he wants, just so long as he keeps looking at you like that- 

There’s a knock on the door. Sam’s voice calls from the other side, and the spell breaks. 

Dean scowls, and drags himself away like it takes real effort. He stares at you with that impossible face, then shakes his head.

“You can have the bed.” He grunts. “Gonna sleep on the floor.” 

“Dean-“

“’S fine.” He gives you a small grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, sweetheart. Let me have this.”

You stare at him, then nod slowly. Dean’s mouth twitches, and for a second it looks like he’s going to move back. 

Then Sam knocks again. And Dean stands with a heavy sigh. Leaving you on the bed, eyes already drooping with exhaustion, head still spinning. You don’t know what the fuck just happened. Your voice can’t seem to remember how to ask. 

And you pass out. Not even under the covers, sleep drags you under. You wake up tucked in. Dean’s snoring on the floor. No real proof that last night happened at all. Only your memory, and the absolute certainty that it was real. 

Whatever it was, it was far, far too real. 

The hotel is on the edge of the town Sam and Jess dragged everyone up to. It’s attached to the ranch, giving them plenty of space for the wedding, but it’s a ten minute to get through the brush fields and small wood to anything else. 

You’d been hoping you wouldn’t have to go see it. That you wouldn’t have to do much at all. You’d gotten away with it the first day, just lounging around the room and hiding from reality while Dean moved in and out.

“You good?” He’d ask every hour or so, even just poking his head in without grabbing anything else. 

“Mhm.” You’d mumble, tucked under the covers. 

He’d frown. “You sure? We can go for a walk-“

“No, thank you.” You’d pull the blankets tighter, and he’d sigh. Stare at you for another moment. 

Then Sam would call his name, and he’d shuffle away. Neither of you had spoken about last night. At rehearsal dinner, he’d started off touching you a little less than before, and you’d plastered a wide smile on your face, trying not to let it affect your show. Hands still held, but without fingers woven together. Elbows touching while you sat and ate, Dean offering you some of his whine and you adjusting his tie, but no casual stroking of his hair or secret laughter. 

He’d given a sweet toast that made you smile at him stupidly. No matter how strange things were, you still adored him. 

You’d glanced down the table and found John staring at you. Eyes narrowed, posture stiff. Dean must have talked to him. You’d looked back to your plate and bitten your tongue, hoping any tears that pushed through just looked like an overemotional reaction to your boyfriend’s speech. 

He’d looked at you when he finished it. You’d smiled back, and something had flashed in his eyes. His hand had come up to touch your chin. Just like in bed. 

You’d swallowed, and grabbed his wrist. The crowd has read it as romantic. You’d meant it as a silent, panicked plea for him not to play with you like this. But you don’t know how he read it. Dean had just sat down when he was done, wrapped his arm around your body, and kissed the side of your head. 

It had been the first hole, punched in the dam. Now, in the morning, you can still feel the tattoo of his lips on your skin. 

You’d wiped some sauce off his cheek with your thumb, then sucked it clean. He’d kept his arm around the back of your chair. You’d both drank, relaxing slowly. A few people came up to you. Spoke mostly to Dean, no matter how he tried to include you in the conversation. He’d started to get tense about halfway through the night. 

You’d taken a risk. Placed your hand, right on his thigh, and rubbed gently. He’d jerked slightly, and you’d started to move away.

He’d stopped you. You’d looked at his handsome, slightly flushed face, and he’d offered you the first real smile of the night. You’d smiled back, and that had been real too. 

Such small parts of this—getting a little too drunk together, picking out people in the crowd of Sam and Jess’ friends to make fun of, stumbling back to your room at midnight and watching something you can’t remember, but made both of you giggle like teenagers—are so real. So real it feels like you’re back at home, and you’re going to wake up to Dean in the kitchen, presenting you with the worst muffin you’ve ever tasted in your life—he’s been trying to bake, and he’s really not good at it—before offering a sandwich to make up for the disaster. 

Instead, you wake up with your head on Dean’s shoulder, the TV still playing neither of you under the covers, his shirt missing and draped over your body like a blanket. It smelled like him. 

You’d shoved it under your pillow like a dragon hoarding treasure, and watched TV until he woke up. 

The plan had been to waste the day the same way as before. Dean runs around doing wedding things. You sit here and fester in your own guilt, indulging in your secret world where all of this was real. You tried to tell Dean that was your plan, when he got up. 

He’d made the executive decision that it wasn’t. That town wasn’t that far, and if he had to go out with Jess and Sam, you did too.

“But they know, we don’t have to sell it-“

“Yeah, but I want you to come. Just to hang out.”

“I want to stay in bed-“

“C’mon.” He’d said your name, giving you a winning smile. “We’re still friends, right? Friends hang out, and support other friends when they gotta go shopping with their brothers.”

You’d narrowed your eyes. “Friends do each other favors, like fake dating for a wedding.”

Dean had sighed. Winced, like you’d actually hit him, then retreated with a muttered agreement. And you had been right. You’d almost gotten away with staying in bed, and Dean wasn’t going to push you. 

But he’d looked so sad. And he wanted you there. All you ever want is to be wanted by Dean.

You’d gotten changed, shoved on your shoes, and stomped out into the room with a scowl. Dean had said your name in surprise, and you’d grabbed the keys out of his hand.

“I wanna drive.”

His face had split into a wide, open grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

It’s a ten-minute drive into town, and you really have to learn how to resist Dean’s puppy eyes. You feel out of place again, trailing after them and smoothing your clothes whenever they stop to talk about something. You’re staring at the pavement, out of place in their lives, counting the cracks and trying to find an excuse to stay home-

Dean links his arm through yours. Doesn’t even look down, just holds you at his side and drags you into the conversation.

You smile to yourself. Let yourself lean into his side, and decide it’s for the small amount of guests you’ve seen milling around the town as well. Not because, just for now, you’re allowed to have him and you don’t want to waste a single second by letting go. 

“Do you like flowers?” Jess asks, leaning down to look at some pots on the street.

You shrug. “I mean, I guess.”

“You guess?” She rises back up. “Well, what does your boyfriend get you.”

Next to you, Dean tenses. You glance up, and he’s still deeply engrossed in a conversation about horses or something with Sam. You shake it off, and turn back to Jess.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You shrug, fixing your gaze on a bee buzzing near the pots. 

“Really?” Sam says suddenly, and you blink. “I thought Dean told me you were seeing this guy named- Uh- Steve? Right?”

He looks to Dean for confirmation. Dean looks at him like he’s plotting a murder. 

“It was Shawn.” You offer, placing a light hand on Dean’s bicep. “And we broke up a while ago.”

“Oh.” Jess exchanges a look with Sam. “Well, what did he get you?”

“Um- He didn’t, really. He wasn’t- It didn’t mean that much.” 

Jess frowns. “That much.”

“Yeah. You know. Flower much. But-“ You glance back over to Dean, who’s started glaring at the sidewalk. “I have some flowers that Dean grabbed for our place. Those are nice, I just- Dean, what are they called-“

“Hyacinths.” He grunts, hand flexing on the table, and squeeze his arm.

“Okay. I like those.”

His eyes flick up to yours, nostrils flaring, and he wipes his mouth with a tight, controlled movement. You offer him a smile—he’s so tense you’re worried he’s going to have an aneurism, even if you don’t understand why—and his lips twitch. 

Jess clears her throat. “How long were you and Shawn together?”

“Like, three months?”

“Oh. Hm.” She shoots a look at Sam. “I just thought- Never mind. Why’d you break up?”

You stare at her, your brain suddenly fogged and moving too fast all at once. A demand to know why she’d think you and Shawn were together for a while—it had barely been a month—almost spills out like vomit, but it’s blocked by the lump rising up in your throat. The thick, tense reminder that Shawn called it off the same reason they all do. The same reason you never get to flowers. 

It’s Dean. It’s always Dean. Still rigid and silent next to you, but also still holding you right against his side. Your fingers have started mindlessly tracing his bicep, the sunlight moving around him and narrowing the whole world down again, and Jess asked you a question, but- You can’t answer it in front of Dean.

You could just lie. The halo forming around Dean is hypnotizing. You can’t stop staring at him, and can’t remember how to lie. 

He’s looking back at you now, brow furrowed, and you’ve been silent for way too long. But his eyes are shining, and you don’t know why he’s this close, but you really don’t want him to move away, and this is another thing that’s too real. Dean’s looking at you like he’s trying to work out the answer, but it’s written all over your pathetic face for him to see, and the heat from his body is going to melt you into something sweet for him to either devour or kick into the gutter- 

Sam coughs. Neither of you look away.

“So, uh- While we’re talking about exes, and everyone’s in a good mood.” Sam takes a deep breath. “Lana’s coming. To the wedding.”

Dean’s eyes shoot away from yours, wide and burning, his jaw ticking the way it does when he’s really angry. His grip on you tightens, and it somehow douses you in ice-water as the moment is broken, all while rekindling a different, tighter heat. He’s holding onto you, so, so tight. Reaching around to grab your further arm as he glares at Sam, and you’re really not sure what’s happening, but it takes a titanic effort not to give into the hazy fever of his proximity, and drop your brow on his chest.

“Sam.” Dean’s words are pushed through his teeth. “What the hell-“

“It was Dad!” Sam protests, and you glance back to see him retreating fast. Literally hiding behind Jess with his hands raised in surrender. 

“Dad? You’re willing to push him, Sammy, we both know you got no problem with that, but Lana is where you cave like- Like a fuckin’ pussy-“

“He’s still friends with her dad, Dean.” Sam whines, and Dean’s lips curl like he tasted something sour.

“And you’re carin’ about that over me?”

Sam winces, looking like a kicked puppy, and Jess sighs.

“Sam did try to push, but your dad was really aggressive about it.” She offers. “You know how he is, and we did what we could. She’s in the back of the room. You won’t even see her.”

Dean glares between them, still holding you tight, then gives the tiniest shake of his head. 

“Whatever. C’mon.” He squeezes your arm tightly, still glaring at Sam. “They got Italian ice cream down the block.”

You blink at him, stumbling slightly as he starts to pull you down the street. “You- You mean gelato?”

“Yeah.” He steadies you, not breaking pace. “That.”

Sam calls after you, and Dean flips him off over your head, never releasing your grip. You shoot Sam an apologetic look, but don’t fight Dean as he half-carries you away. 

You end up sitting in the small parlor, Dean beating up his gelato with a spoon while you open and close your mouth, trying to think of an acceptable way to ask what the fuck that was about. His knee is pressed firmly against yours, his attention flicking up every few seconds before dropping back down with a deeper scowl. Something starts to wither in your chest the longer the silence goes on. You look down to your own gelato with your lips pressed tight, trying to swallow down that painful lump and breathe through your nose until your head clears. 

The world is blurring a little bit. There’s dusty light swirling around the parlor, and it makes Dean look like an angry polaroid photo, and you feel a little sick as pointless tears prick at your eyes-

“Lana’s my ex.” He grunts suddenly. “Wasn’t even that serious, but still ended like shit. Used to be that every time I dropped home, we’d hook up.”

The lump grows. “Oh.” 

Dean’s silent for another moment, and you can feel something worse than the silence burning under your skin. It’s seeping in, toxic and hot, rushing through your blood to your head, an ugly feeling twisting in your chest, and-

“Stopped doin’ that last year.” His voice is a little stronger. He looks up at you with that strange expression you can’t read. “When I headed back in August. Remember, I called you to tell you about running into my math teacher at the bar?”

“Yeah.” You smile despite yourself. “You were wasted, you spent fifteen minutes telling me about your crush on her. And your teacher kink-“

“Hey, hey-“ He kicks you lightly under the table, the light creeping back into his eyes. “That was a secret, sweetheart, don’t shout it for everyone to hear-“

“You never told me it was a secret.”

“It’s a fuckin’ kink, smart ass. I don’t run around shouting about all of yours-“

“You don’t know mine.” You shrug, and that was the wrong this to say. 

Dean’s eyes glimmer, something dark crossing over his face that you’d been trapped under that first night on the bed. There, it might’ve been a trick of the night. A little too much drink and stress from dinner, real but in the same was of smoke and mirrors. 

Here, it’s inescapably real. And you can’t bring yourself to look away.

“You think that.” He drawls, leaning over the table. “Don’t you.”

“Um-“ Your voice is getting weirdly high. “Yes?” That was weak.“Yes. I do.” 

“Hm.”

You frown. “Hm?”

Dean shrugs. Smirks at you, as he takes a large bite of his gelato. “Hm.”

“You- You don’t-“

“Don’t I?” He teases, and your mouth falls open. 

“No. You- I’ve never told you any-“

“Words aren’t everything, baby.” Dean pokes your gelato cup with his spoon. “Eat up, we gotta get back to Sammy and Jess before they start manhunting us.”

You blink at him, he smiles back—wide and charming and doing nothing to help the haze in your head—and you start to eat your gelato slowly. Dean waits for you to have one bite, then two, and smirks. Presses his knee further against yours, dropping his voice to something low and dangerous and hot.

“Good girl.” 

The spoon slips out of your hand. Your eyes widen in embarrassment, panicked shame wrapping around your heart, but Dean’s smirk just widens. He keeps eating his gelato, an almost innocent expression on his face, and you might’ve imagined it. Maybe your fantasies and the strange, blurred lines of this week are getting to your head. Maybe it’s the heat, and you’ve started to hallucinate. 

But you’re sure that it was real. 

And there’s no faking Dean’s arm wrapping around your low back when you leave the shop. His hand splayed on your hip, his posture relaxed and grin wide again. When you find Sam and Jess again and Dean doesn’t try to throttle anyone, they give you looks like you drugged him. You just grimace and smile weakly, because you don’t know what happened either. He was mad and sullen, then you were jealous, and now you’re… Here. 

Drinking in a bar, Dean’s smile wide on his face, his body around yours as he fails to teach you how to play pool for the millionth time. His lips brushing over your ear as he speaks, sending a shiver up your spine that he seems far too smug about. He squeezes your hip too close to your ass, when you draw the cue back. It makes you grind back into him like some wanton whore, and he makes a deep sound from his chest, and you feel like you’re going insane. 

You’re a little tipsy—everyone started drinking the moment you got to the bar—but this is real. All of it is real. Whatever had been bothering Dean about Lana is gone, and he seemed to have taken your own worry with it. 

She was the kind of thing that should’ve freaked you out. That would’ve freaked you out, if he told you back home. It would’ve sent you out to the club a year ago, would’ve locked you in your room to cry last week. 

But Dean’s gaze isn’t wandering from you for more than a moment, and all you can think about is his smug expression from earlier. How it hasn’t wavered all afternoon, how he’s teasing you the same as always, but slowly crossing boundaries that have always been open to him. 

He kissed the side of your head, when you sunk a ball at the table. Let you go back to the bar with the single victory, but squeezed your hand before you walked away. He’s still looking for you through the crowd, every few moments. He smiles when he sees you, and you don’t know what’s happening. 

“He talks about you.”

You blink over at Sam, who’d been silently sitting next to you for a while. “What?”

“Dean.” He shrugs, taking another sip of his beer. “He talks about you.”

“We… Live together.”

“Yeah. You do.” Sam watches you strangely in the shadows of the bar. “He didn’t talk about Charlie, though. I mean, he’d tell me stories about stuff they did. But he didn’t talk about her.”

You frown. “That’s the same thing-“

“No. Not for Dean.”

“No, like, semantically, it’s the same thing-“

“No.” Sam says firmly. “It’s not.”

“Sam-“

“It’s- Look. When he and Lana were dating, I never heard about her. He’d say he was going out, say he had a date, tell me that she didn’t like things or wanted Dean to do something. Can I tell you the first thing he said to me about you?”

You nod weakly, and Sam sighs. Smiles slightly, like he’s fond of the memory.

“He said she likes my waffles. I did them with the strawberries. Think I’m gonna try banana next.”

“I- That’s-“ You frown at him. “Why do you remember that?”

Sam takes another long drink of his beer, making a face like he’s thinking far too hard about what should be a simple question.

“Ask Dean what the first thing I said about Jess was.” He says finally, something shining in his eyes. “He remembers that.”

Dean’s supposed to stay with Sam tonight. Something about keeping him on lockdown, the night before the wedding. 

The room feels bigger without him. Even if he would’ve only slept on the floor, the bed is colder. You pace for an hour, still lost in the events of the day, still turning Sam’s words over in your head. 

You hadn’t asked Dean. There hadn’t been a good time. You’d gotten back to the hotel, and he’d gone with Sam. Kissed your forehead, then gone with Sam. And that might’ve been for the show of it. There had been a few cousins and family friends in the lobby. It had barely been a graze of his lips over your hairline. 

But his hand had also squeezed your hip. And he’d smiled at you so softly after, and Sam’s claim was still ringing in your head. He talks about you. 

Dean talks about everything. Sam said that like it meant something, but Dean literally never stops talking. It doesn’t mean anything. 

None of this is supposed to mean anything. Not to him. It means everything to you, but you’re in love with him. You’ve spent hours turning him over in your head, fantasying about the way he’d feel and taste, about a world where you just get to hold his hand, and life where you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder and he smiles at you like you’re sharing a secret. Where he doesn’t even think about other girls, because he’s too busy with you, the same way you’ve never been able to really think about another man. 

A life like this week. But it’s not real. It still feels real. And that’s nothing, but it’s everything, and you’re so confused. 

You have the room to yourself. Your legs get tired from pacing, so you take a hot shower. You pull on one of Dean’s shirts and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling and unable to make sense of anything in your own head. Most of your usual daydreams are blurring with reality, and it’s almost all to jumbled to lead anywhere but more confusion.

Almost. One thing is burning through the rest. 

The heat. Dean’s voice drawling good girl like he knows. His hand on your hip, your lower back, your stomach. His crotch pressing against your ass, his weight around your shoulders, pinning you to his body. His lips brushing over your skin, teasing and so hot. 

Your core aches, and you realize your body has started to move of its own accord. You’re grinding into the sheets, one hand under your shirt to palm at your breasts. You pinch your nipple and a soft moan leaves your mouth, your fingers slipping between your thighs. Your underwear is soaked. Your body shudders, when you press your clit, and a soft moan escapes your lips. 

“De- Dean…”

The sheets still smell like him. You roll over, pressing your face into the mattress, and start to hump into your hand like an animal in heat. It’s so easy to pretend that it’s his big, rough fingers slipping into your pussy. How they’d fill you up, scissor you open as he pressed behind you like at the pool table. The pad of his calloused thumb swiping your clit back and forth, his deep voice right in your ear as he’d kiss up your spine. 

“Good girl, baby, so fuckin’ pretty, takin’ my fingers so good, gonna be nice and ready for my cock-“

You moan again. Louder this time, barely muffled in the pillow. Your ass rises higher into the air as you try to get a better angle, the sheets sliding off your body, and you’re so close- 

There’s a soft knock on the door, and you freeze. Flip onto your back, sitting up in a second, brushing your hair from your eyes as you take short, breaths. 

“Ye- Yeah?” Your voice wavers, your thighs still rubbing under the sheets. 

Dean calls your name from the other side of the door. His voice is so strangely soft. Almost nervous, and it clears your head fairly fast. You push to your feet, mind narrowing down to only Dean, and making sure that he’s okay. 

You open the door, and find him slouching in the hallway. His head is bowed, expression open and vulnerable, eyes drooping. The low light of the hotel makes the shadows on his face seem longer, the red on his face clearer. 

“Dean?” You whisper, your hands itching to reach out and touch him. Just trace his face, make sure everything is in the place it’s supposed to be. “Are you okay?”

He’s silent for a moment. His gaze slowly drags up your body, the red of his face deepening, and you forgot to put on pants. You swallow, wrapping an arm around your stomach, but still smile softly when his eyes meet yours. His throat bobs, tongue flicking out over his lips. He shakes his head.

“Yeah, uh-“ He shakes his head. “Yeah. Just-“ His throat bobs, and he takes a step back. “Never mind. I’m gonna- Sorry-“

“Wait, Dean-“ You grab his hand, and he freezes. 

Stares at you like a cornered animal, his chest rising and falling too fast. 

You drop his hand. “Do you wanna… Come inside.”

He’s silent for another moment, then gives the tiniest nod. You step to the side, and he stares at you. Looks into the room, face twitching strangely, then back to you.

“If you- You’re busy-“

“I’m not.” You say quickly. “And- It’s your room too. You don’t have to knock.”

It’s a good thing he did knock. But right now, your own at wearing his shirt and nothing else save for soaked panties doesn’t outdo your worry for how fucking tired he look. And those words make him smile tightly, makes something relax in his shoulders, so you’d call it more than worth it. 

He shuffles over to the bed, but just stands at the edge of the mattress. You grab his hand, and gently guide him to sit down. He doesn’t resist you. Almost molds over you, the moment you have him down. Leaning against you, his head carefully angled away from your body, and you’re so worried. 

You slowly pull him closer. He lets you. Watches you in the dark with that same, vulnerable expression. His body curls over your lap, his legs tangled in your own. His arms wrap around your stomach when you guide them there. His head rests on your chest, between your breasts. He lets out a ragged breath. You brush your fingers through his hair, and his body shakes. 

“Nightmare?” You whisper, and he nods. 

He doesn’t seem to be willing to move from your body, not even enough to speak. You sigh, and rub his spine.

“Okay.”

You lean down, and kiss the top of his head. Dean makes a low, sad sound like a wounded animal, and holds you tighter.

Time passes slowly, or quickly, but it doesn’t really matter because nothing matters more than Dean in your arms. It could have been five minutes or three hours, and it all feels the same. You keep touching him gently, and his body slowly relaxes. His breathing evens out. You’d think he was sleeping, if he didn’t shift every few moments with a heavy sigh. 

When he rasps your name, you only hum. You don’t want to risk breaking the moment, or spooking him away.

“You ever dream?”

You pause. “Dream? Like- Instead of-“

“No, not like-“ He sighs, hand splaying on your back. His face presses further into your body, words vibrating pleasantly over your skin. “Like- The future. Ever think about the future.”

“Oh.” More than he can imagine. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. I, um- Yeah.”

Dean’s silent for a moment. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.“ You laugh nervously, tipping your head back against the headboard. “A lot of things, I guess. What does anyone think about, with that? What do you think about?”

“Family.” He answers so fast, it makes you look right back down. 

He’s staring at you in the dark. Eyes lined with red, drooping but fixed on your surprised expression. 

“Family?” You echo, and he nods. You swallow. “Like what?”

Dean’s mouth twitches. “You know. What it’ll look like for me. Who it’ll be. That kinda shit.”

“And-“ You bite your lip, but it’s not enough to hold back the words. “What does it look like?”

“Hm.” He sighs, thumb drawing small circles on your back. “You really wanna know?”

You nod, a little too frantic, and a smile ghosts over his face.

“I like my job. Pays better than it should-“

“You work hard-“

“I make money for a hobby.” He corrects, and you frown.

“It’s not a crime to like your job. I like my job.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, but you should make more than I do, but- if you like it.” He sighs. “Guess it’s good I make so much. Keeps us afloat. Makes it all easier.”

You blink. “I- I guess-“

“And I got better insurance. Better in the long run. Plus, it’s gonna save a lot on certain costs, like when the kids need their own cars.”

“The- The kids?” You whisper, and Dean nods. Yawns, and turns his face back into your stomach. 

“I’d like five.” He mutters. “But I’ll go down to three. Four, if I can pull it off.”

Your mouth falls open. “Four kids-“

“They’re gonna look like their mom.” He mumbles, and you carefully try to move his face. Try to get a good look at him, to work out if he’s fucking with you. 

But when he turns, he’s just staring at you strangely under long, pretty lashes, his eyes slightly glazed. Tired, still clearly a little drunk, face more open than you’ve ever seen it. 

And that expression. It’s almost reverent.

“We’ll need a bigger house.” He mumbles, and you swallow.

“We don’t own a house, De.”

“Yeah. Shit.” He yawns, mouth pulling into a smile. “I’ll work on that.”

“Work on… A house?”

“Mhm. I’ll make sure we got a backyard. And- Big room. Big bed. Lotta space.”

“Do you want space?” You whisper, and he hums.

“Nah, but in case you get sick of me.”

“I- don’t. Ever.”

He’s silent for a moment, eyes shining on yours. “Yeah?” He finally rasps, and you nod.

“Never. I- I don’t think I could.”

He smiles again. Wide and affectionate and real. “Awesome.”

“Dean…” Your heart is beating in your throat. “Can- Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.” He mutters, and it’s so sincere it almost splits you in half.

“What was the first thing Sam told you about Jess?”

He chuckles, then yawns, turning his face back into your stomach without an answer. “Weird question.”

“I- I know, just- Can you answer it. Please?”

Dean nods, but still doesn’t speak. His hands are wandering over your body, slowing down to a drag, his breathing growing deeper. 

“Dean-“

“She called me sweet.” Dean murmurs. “Said she liked the book I was readin’, then called me sweet.”

“Oh- Okay.” You blink, tearing burning behind your eyes. “And- Why do you remember that?”

“‘Cause.”

“Cause why-“

“Sammy’s my baby brother. I know ‘im.”

“I know, but-“

“Never heard him in love before.” Dean mumbles, and your breath catches. “Was nice. Gonna remember it.”

You can’t think. Can’t speak. Can barely breathe. 

In love. Dean’s first snore rips through the air, and he’s out in your arms. You take a shaky breath, and press your head back, lips pursed tight.  

In love. The words ring in your ears, until you fall asleep. In love. 

The day moves too fast. You’re starting to get trapped in your own head. 

Dean’s up before you are. Wiping his eyes and groaning as he comes out of the bathroom, running a hand through damp hair and giving you a sheepish grin as you blink at him. 

“Gotta go get Sammy ready.” He says. “You can go back to bed, you got time.”

You nod slowly, scanning over his face to try and test if he remembers anything at all. If it meant anything at all. 

He’s out the door before you find the words to ask. You’re left sitting alone, the sheets tangled around your body, wide awake as the days start to play back in your head. A broken record you’re trapped in. A world you’re not even sure is real, because it’s far too close to everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Everything you’d been so certain you’d never get to have. 

Dean spoke about the future like it was for you. He touched you like he was for you. Smiled at you and kissed you and it can’t have all been for the show—there wasn’t even an audience to perform for—but it being for you feels far too good to be true. 

He said keep up afloat. He said he wanted kids, said the kids like they’d be yours too, said he’d get to work on a house, and in love, and this was such a bad idea. You should’ve told him no, when he asked. Shouldn’t have given into your instinct to please him, should’ve held your ground for the sake of your sanity, let him come here alone so you could wallow in bed about a future you’d never to have- 

A future he might want. With you. There had been no one for him to say that for, but you. In love. 

And if you’d let him come alone, he’d be alone with the ex that he has sex with. Stopped having sex with. Seemed to stop thinking about all together, when he started teasing you. 

You take a shower, hoping the water will wash away the spinning in your head. It doesn’t. You just end up smelling Dean’s shampoo and thinking about him in this same shower a few hours ago. How the water might’ve ran down his bare chest. How he might’ve smelled your shampoo, how his broad frame would take up so much of the space, how he’d crowd you if you shared the water. 

How he’d hold your hips like yesterday. Hold you against his chest. Brush his mouth over your neck, and whisper low praise as you writhed on his hand. Good girl. 

He said that. Actually said that. It wasn’t just another fantasy your mind conjured up, those were words that left Dean’s mouth. 

You stare at yourself in the mirror for half an hour, before the reminder alarm goes off on your phone, and you actually have to get ready. 

He picks you up in his suit. His eyes gleam as they take you in, and you flush under the attention. You don’t even remember getting ready, but suddenly you’re here and Dean’s smirking at you like you’re a something lewd.

“You look awesome.” He says with a wide grin, and you swallow. 

“You- You too.” You whisper, because he really does. He always does, but right now it’s like the world is finally just tunneling down to Dean, and he’s the last fixed point that keeps the world from slipping out from under your feet. 

He fills out the suit in a way that makes your mouth water. His tie is a little crooked, and he grins down at you when your fingers shakily adjust it.

You blink up at him. “Hi.”

“Hi.” His tone is a little mocking, but not mean. Just bright and clear and comfortable. The rest of the world is just shadows, compared. “Ready?”

You nod weakly, and Dean folds his fingers through yours. Swoops down and kisses your cheek, before herding you out of the room. To the wedding. 

And you might be blacking out. All you’re certain of are moments where Dean’s hand is in yours. He kisses the back of it, then lets go to stand with Sam at the alter. You’re sure the wedding is lovely, but you can’t remember a single detail but Dean’s eyes, burning into yours as Sam and Jess say vows. Your heart thunders in your ears and drowns them out. All the sunlight seems to bend into Dean, until the world is truly only you and him, staring at each other through the whole ceremony. 

It’s too easy to think about what it would be like if he was right across from you. If the small smile on his lips was because it was your wedding. The one you’ve dreamed about in your head, so many times. The one that drags you away from the moment, until people are cheering and Dean looks away, and suddenly you’re at the wedding party. 

Dean’s holding your hand again. You don’t look anywhere but him, as he leads you around through the crowd. He’s introducing you to people. You can’t hear yourself when you speak, can’t really focus on anything but his presence at your side. 

You dance together. Dean holds you like you are his, but you’re not. You are in the eyes of the crowd, but it’s just a lie, but it doesn’t feel like a lie, and it’s somehow more confusing and clarifying than anything else. 

He tells you that you’re beautiful like a secret he wants to keep to himself. You smile. The cool lights of the party are moving around him, making him look like one of your countless dreams, and you just drop your face into his neck. He sighs, and keeps guiding you through the dance. You’ve had this dream. 

It’s not a dream. Dean smiles at you, his nose bumping yours but without a single kiss, and it’s so real. How he holds you. Looks at you. Makes a soft joke that you giggle at, even if you feel like you’re getting high and crashing down all at once. 

In love. That strange look. He looks at you like he’s in love, and the world is crumbling around you.

Mary corners you after the speeches and dinner. You smile at her sweetly. Hold Dean’s hand so tight it hurts, and he pulls you close. Rubs your back, as he talks to his mother about work. 

“Did you get any ideas?” She asks you. “For your turn? I mean, I love the winter wedding in a sunny place, but Dean- I’ve always pictured him getting married in the fall.” She laughs to herself. “Probably because that’s what John and I did. And he gets my mother’s ring, which goes with fall the most. But it’s up to you, honey, right? Are you thinking of the fall?”

You’re not. You’ve always pictured the spring. But you can’t speak. Not even on auto pilot. Not about wedding, to Dean, like it’s real and not something you’ve sworn to keep confined to your head and the walls of your bedroom, and- 

“Jesus, Mom.” Dean cuts in for you, and you blink at him with a desperate expression. “Let me propose first, you’re gonna spook her.”

Mary laughs, and says something about you not seeming like they type to spook easy. You stare at Dean. 

He looks back, worry furrowing in his brow at your slack expression. 

“You good?” He murmurs as John wanders over, saying something to Mary your brain doesn’t care to process.

You nod weakly, and his frown deepens. 

“You wanna go for a walk?

You shake your head, and he looks really worried now.

“Sweetheart-“

“Hey, Dean?” Sam appears from nowhere, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder and giving you a small grin. 

You don’t smile back. You just stare at Dean, who seems to be trying to stare back, but keeps getting distracted by Sam. He’s dragged away to talk about something allegedly important, and tries to take you with him, but Mary grabs your shoulder and says something about bonding.  

You black out again, the moment Dean’s arm leaves your body. You might tell her about your idea of the future with Dean. The one you’ve sworn not to tell anyone, but pours out of you with every question, because your skin feels like it’s about to fly off your body. Your every nerve is wired and buzzing and raw. You’re running on a thin, fraying line of electric, and if you’re touched, you spark. 

Maybe you tell Mary you love Dean. You don’t know. 

Then, suddenly, you’re alone in the middle of the room and everything is dark. You’re swaying on your feet. Lost at sea, the only lighthouse the same siren that lured you here, and now you’re confused and sweating and alone- 

Someone says your name, in a voice you don’t recognize. It’s cold, and mocking, and when you turn it’s like you’re in a waking nightmare. 

You’ve never met this woman before, but she’s all too familiar. You’ve seen her, a million times before. Inverted in the mirror, glowing with a confidence you’ve never been able to find. Smiling not softly, but like a beautiful monster that knows it’s got its claws in something. Put together like she rolled out of bed like this, her every feature swallowing and casting the shadows. 

She’s every girl you heard Dean fuck through the walls, every girl you pretended not to care about, everything you’ve craved to be while never being able to figure out how. 

She doesn’t need to introduce herself. You already know who she is.

“Lana.” You say, your voice faraway. She smiles. 

“He’s told you about me.” She holds out her hand, and you can see yours moving to shake it. Your skin burns at her soft touch.

“Sam did.”

“Hm. Sam.” There’s something cold in her voice. “He’s always so annoying, isn’t he. Has he told you’re not good enough yet? This family, I swear-“

“No.” You breathe out. “Sam’s been nice.”

Something venomous flashes across Lana’s beautiful face. “Hm.”

You smile at her, but it makes your face hurt. You shouldn’t have worn heels. It would’ve been easier to run.

Lana’s still holding your hand tight in hers. When she lets go of it, she wipes her hand on her elegant dress. Like she knows the foul, selfish things that go out in your head, and they’re leaking all over her perfect skin. 

“So you’re the new toy?” She looks you up and down, lip curling. “Dean’s lowered his standards. Or maybe he just… hit his head. Would explain why he turned me down last time.” She sniffs. “For you.”

You blink at her. His name cleared your head a little. Those last words make everything sharp.

“He what?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. This sweet little bunny routine doesn’t work on me. He might think he’s loyal right now, but he always thinks that. Then he gets sick of it, and comes back to me. It’s just taking a little longer this time.”

“He-“ You take a deep breath. Loyal. For you. In love. “Lana-“

She smirks. “Aw. You say it like Dean does.”

Your eyes narrow. This is something that would’ve folded you in a second, just a few days ago. Before all the touches and whispers and slowly stripped away veil. The light that might still be warping the world, but at least isn’t blinding you anymore. 

It’s helping you see. He turned her down last time. Months ago. For you. 

“What exactly.” You take a large step forward. “Did Dean say to you about me?”

Her nose twitches. She raises her chin. “Doesn’t matter. He’ll come back to me-“

“If it doesn’t matter.” You counter smoothly. “You should have no problem telling me.” She recoils, and you raise your voice. “Did he turn you down for me, last time?”

Lana scoffs. “Like you don’t know. But you were worse than I was, just stringing him along. At least I love him-“

“I didn’t even know who you were.”

She blinks like you slapped her, and you take a step forward. Things are falling into place too fast, a perfect storm that’s going to sweep you away in a moment. But right now, the sky is clear. Your head is quiet. 

And you have no doubt about which parts are real, as you hold Lana’s gaze.

“He’d never told you about me, until this weekend.” You say softly. “And I do love him. I love him, and I like him, and- He won’t get sick of me. But he seems a little sick of you.”

Lana’s eyes narrow. Her tongue flicks over her lips, and you hold her gaze. But her lips twitch up. Cruel and hateful. Her voice cold. 

“It’s so sweet that you think that.” She coos. “But girl to girl, I should tell you I was trying to warn you. About how he thinks he’s loyal.” She takes a step forward, voice dropping to a hushed taunt. “But he was in my room last night.”

You blink at her, the words ringing in your ears, and it’s like she pulled on a single thread. It unravels fast, the whole world going with it. Months and months of doubt, of fear, of the reality you’d taught yourself to pick apart and dissect, suddenly merged with your fantasy, unspooled into your greatest fear. 

You take a step back, eyes wide, and Lana’s smirk grows. Dean isn’t there to ground you, as the world slips from under your feet. And you-

You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. You can’t be here anymore. 

The pillows still smell like Dean. It clears your head, after a few hours of crying into them. 

You hadn’t had enough strength to just run. You’d stumbled out of the wedding and back to your room, mostly just trying to get away from the flashing light, noise, and sound of Lana’s voice. Your intention had been to leave. To pack your bags, text Dean that you needed to go home, and leave. Instead you’d found your clothing mixed with Dean’s and your knees had started to feel weak. You’d collapsed on the bed with shallow breaths and tears streaming down your face. 

It had smelled like Dean. So you’d ripped the dress off your body, buried yourself under the covers, and sobbed. 

It helped. It usually does. Dean couldn’t have gone to Lana last night, because he was with you. He wouldn’t have go to her first after a nightmare, especially because he’s told you that you’re one of the only people that knows he had them. It’s you, Sam, and his mom. 

And you trust him. You really do. He wouldn’t do that. Not after being so disgusted just by Lana’s name. She’d just wanted to hurt you. Something you understand. You’d like to hurt the other girl’s you’ve seen with Dean too. 

But now you’re the girl. The one he danced with, and brought to his brother’s wedding. Who he crawled to in the dead of night, and ran out the moment she got scared. 

You mostly just feel stupid, now. You’d felt stupid for trusting him, then not trusting him, then stupid for hiding and stupid for being so confused over something so dramatic, stupid for caring, stupid for crying, stupid for being unable to do anything but cling to him all night, and stupid for hugging his pillow to your chest like some lovesick teenager. 

And stupid for falling back into old patterns. Because you have this habit, when you’re upset. It’s another part of that secret world in your head. 

You think of Dean. Imagine him comforting you the same way he’s done before, but in bed instead of the living room. His arms around you, voice deep and soothing in your ear, hands tracing your body in a gentle remind that he’s here. He’d brush his lips over yours, before kissing the space between your eyes. Mutter that everything was going to be okay, then kiss your cheek. 

Hold himself gently over you, blocking you from the pain of the world, and smile gently. Say something stupid to make you laugh, and get those crinkles by his eyes when you try to hide your face. 

And you’re going to be ashamed of this later, but not now. Now, you let your thoughts run wild, alone in bed. Let them carry you where they always do, when you think of Dean. 

His lips on yours. The heat of him pressing down, the low grunts that would leave his chest, how his muscles would flex and hips would roll when you dragged your nails over his chest. Working yourself up fast, whining his name as he knee pressed between your thighs. 

The heat is starting to build. You whine his name into the dark, and he’d chuckle to himself. 

“So needy already.” He’d whisper in your ear. “Don’t know what you’re askin’ for, baby. I’ll make you forget all about those pretty tears.”

You bite your lip, and let your hand wander between your legs. Your hand fists the sheet, a soft breath escaping your lips as your fingers start to tease your folds.

“Such a dirty girl. Thinking of me touching her, still fuckin’ crying about. You can be a real brat sometimes,” he’d kiss your cheek, a smirk in his voice. “Get real dumb, for how smart you are. You think I’d ever want anything else? When I got this perfect fuckin’ pussy-“ He’d pinch your clit, and you’d squeak. “Soaked and ready for me whenever I want it?”

“Yes.” You whimper. “Ready, Dean- So ready-“

“Hm.” The Dean in your head drags his thumb down, pressing it over your slick entrance. “Look at you, crying for me everywhere. Jesus, you’re really this desperate for it, huh? Need my cock so bad I could bend you over at a damn bar and you’d beg me to take you.”

You nod at the air, trying to cover your mouth with your free hand as you start to fuck yourself with your fingers. It’s so so easy to imagine they’re Dean’s.

He’d press them into you fast and rough, unforgiving and brutal, all while teasing his thumb around your clit. Keep your mouths attached until your eyes were rolling back, lightheaded from the pleasure and lack of oxygen. He’d whisper filthy things, call you his slut and his perfect girl in the same breath, watch as you came undone below him from barely anything at all. His hand flying back and forth over your pussy as he dragged your orgasm out, your mouth falling over in a cry of his name- 

Dean says your name. Not the Dean in your head. The real Dean. 

You shoot upright, your face burning, and he’s standing in the shadows near the door. His face is red, your head still spinning from your orgasm—the thrill and embarrassment of being caught only making your stupid, traitorous body more aroused and needy—but you have enough of a mind to know you should’ve ran. Should run right now. Should jump out the fucking window, because he caught you.

It was all supposed to be a secret. Something you died with, a love that burned inside of you until it made flowers bloom over your grave. He was never supposed to know, but this another thing that’s real. Too real. Dean really caught you calling his name as you came. You’re really still shaking with desire like a feral animal. 

Dean gapes at you, his eyes raking over your body. It’s mostly hidden under the sheets, save for your tits. 

His eyes linger there, on your hardened nipples and swollen breasts. He takes a ragged breath, his tongue flicking over his lips. You pull the sheets higher, and his eyes snap to yours. 

“Dean-“

“I thought you- I was worried. Just lookin’ for you, and you- You were shoutin’ for me. Through the door.”

“I- Oh.” 

His throat bobs, voice dropping lower. “Thought you needed me.”

You blink at him, and maybe it’s the aftermath of the orgasm, but your every nerve feels like it’s lit up. Like he’s touching you, without a single hand. You open your mouth. Close it. Dean’s eyes flash.

“Do you?” He prompts softly. “Need me?”

You stare at him. Your back is completely bare, and the cold air pricks at your sweaty skin. Just uncomfortable enough for this not to be another fantasy. It’s not in your head. 

Dean takes a slow step forward, his hands fisted at his side, and it’s not in your head. He’s here. 

There’s a bulge in his dress pants, straining through the fabric. That’s not in your head either. 

“Do you need me, sweetheart.” He almost growls. “‘Cause I need you.”

Your mouth falls open. Your legs spread under the sheets, like his voice alone pulled them apart. You nod, and Dean’s eyes flash. 

“You-“

“Yes.” You breathe, rising up a little on your knees. Trying to get closer, but not daring to move and ruin this. “Please.”

He swallows. Takes one step forward, than another, then- 

Dean yanks his jacket off, and almost runs to the bed. Grabs your face between his hands and dragging you up into a long, rough kiss. 

A kiss. Not lips casually or teasingly on your skin. A real, deep kiss.

Sloppy and open-mouthed, as he angles himself over you. His hands fisting in your hair, body towering over yours, consuming your every sense. He tastes like champagne and cherries from dessert, feels warm and strong over you, smells like the spicy, warm cologne he saves for these special occasions. His tongue presses over yours, and you rise up to try and meet him a little closer. He groans, and the sound vibrates through your body.  

You grab his wrists, and his knee lands on the mattress, letting the kiss deepen. One hand drops to your bare waist, and you arch into the touch. 

Dean lays you slowly down on the silken pillows and sheets. Your legs spread wide in invitation, your pussy on full, wanting display, and you gasp when his clothed crotch presses over the aching nerves. He grinds himself against you, mouth working against yours until you’re gasping for air between kisses. 

“De- Dean-“ You grab his shirt, trying to drag him closer. “Yes- Fuck-“ You hump against him, lips spreading in a wide, stupid smile. “Dean-“

“Jesus,” he groans your name, rising up over your body. You whine at the loss, but one massive hand finds your breast, and it’s like a drug. 

Dean’s attention is fervent. Unyielding and hot, as one hand plays with your breasts, and the other keeps you pinned down with his palm flat on your stomach. You writhe into the torturous touch, but there’s nowhere else you’d ever want to be. Not when his fingers pinch and roll you nipple, dragging a high sound from your throat you didn’t know you could make. 

His eyes flash, and he repeats the movement. Over and over until you’re squirming and fucking up into his crotch, clawing at his chest for just a little more pressure. You’re already sensitive from the first orgasm, already raw from the emotions of the night. You need more. 

“More, Dean- Please- Oh-“

He stops playing with your breasts, and drags his hand down your side. The touch is light and teasing, making a soft giggle escape your lips. You look up at him with open adoration, some part of you still convinced this is another fantasy. That you can look at him like this, and there won’t be any consequences. 

Dean swallows, another low noise rumbling through his chest. He moves his hand to trace your face, and you lean into him with a happy hum. His thumb brushes over your cheek, over a tear still stained on the soft skin. 

He frowns slightly, eyes scanning over your parted, swollen lips and glossy eyes. You know how you must look. You’ve seen yourself in the mirror after crying often enough. 

You smile at him hopelessly, hoping you’re a hot enough mess that he’s not changing his mind. He swallows, and lowers down over you with a heavy sigh.

Kissing you slow and gentle, the hand on your stomach dragging down. 

Cupping right over your bare, dripping sex. 

Dean groans, rubbing back and forth. He’s not changing his mind at all.  

“I’ve got you, baby.” He murmurs against your lips, arms wrapping around your thighs. “Gonna make you feel good, pretty girl. So fuckin’ good.”

You moan, trying to lean up and chase his lips as he pulls away again. But once against the brief moment of cold is more than worth it. 

Dean folds you up. Pushes your knees up to your chest, fully exposing your pussy to the air. You reach for him, and he catches your arm. Presses it over your head with a wink, before dropping his gaze down to your glittering, puffy cunt. Already leaking for him, squeezing around nothing in anticipation. He blows on it, and you shudder below him. 

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. “Even damn prettier than I thought, sweetheart. All wet and ready for me.”

“For you,” you breathe out, head spinning with desire. “Just you, Dean, please-“

You moan loudly, as he snakes his hand around to rub your clit. His eyes are fixed on your slack expression, as he rubs tight circles. His jaw tight, as you flush and turn to boneless, pathetic putty. 

Dean smirks, drawing back for a split second, then slaps your pussy. Not harsh. Just enough to see if you like it. 

You go completely limp below him, a slurring sound of need leaving your lips. 

“More,” you manage to whimper, and Dean nods. Slaps your pussy again, then again, eyes locked on yours the whole time. “Dean- Fuck- Dean, please-“

“This what you were thinking about me doing?” He grunts, pressing his hand firm against your sore, throbbing core. “When you were touchin’ yourself, callin’ my name?”

You nod pathetically, and he moans.

“You do that a lot, baby?” He lands another hit, and the pleasure darts through your every nerve. 

“Yes, yes- All the time-“

“Knew it.” He mutters to himself, slapping you again, watching the way your whole body reacts to the single touch. “I fuckin’- Thought I was going crazy, seeing what I wanted, but- Shit, look at you-“

He lands one last, rough slap, and you moan. “Dean-“

He presses forward, somehow folding you into a little ball you didn’t know your body was capable of becoming. It seems to reshape itself, though, to whatever Dean needs it to be. He kisses you, deep and softer than before, almost loving. Like you’re not a wanton, messy wreck in his arms. 

“Can I show you what I think about?” He murmurs against your lips, far softer than before. “Please?”

You nod, too busy trying to get drunk on his kisses to use your words and respond. Dean smiles, kisses your nose, then draws up. He grabs your wrists again, but pulls them down onto your stomach. Lets your sink your nails into his knuckles and palms, squeezing gently back as he kisses your inner thigh. 

Sucks a little mark on it, before kissing it again. Kisses over your clit, open-mouthed and wet. His tongue swirling. Driving you out of your mind, before switching to the other thigh. Sucking another little mark, then licking that one too. 

Licking a thick, long stripe up your pussy. Then another. Pressing his tongue into your weeping pussy, before traveling back up to flick your clit. 

His eyes never leaving yours. He gets faster and faster with every motion. His tongue presses on the sensitive skin between your pussy and ass, then swipes right up. Taunts your clit with the lightest touch, before dragging back down. Over and over until your breathing is shallow and desperate. 

“De- Dean- Fuck- Dean-“

He moans against your pussy, and you try to buck off the bed, but his body presses forward, pinning you easily back down. He chuckles at the desperate look on your face, his mouth never leaving your clit, and you might be about to explode. 

Then his plush lips wrap around your clit, and his tongue starts to work fast. Tiny, controlled little flicks that build you into a frenzy, his eyes still locked on to your, a soft pressure lighting you up as he sucks- 

You cum without warning, every nerve in your body lighting up as your pussy remains trapped against Dean’s face. You try to wiggle away, the feeling overwhelming, but he drags you back with a moan. He’s hard, against your back. Hard and big, rutting slightly like this is getting his off, and that just sends you over the edge all over again. 

You’re trembling, by the time Dean finally lets up. He gathers you up in his arms, humming gently, and hauls you up into his lap. Kisses your neck, then you cheek, then your lips. His shirt is gone. You’re not sure when that happened. But his pants are still on. 

You paw at him. Whimper and grind, giving him a pouting, hopeful expression. He’s so hard, and you want him everywhere. Pounding into your cunt, no matter how sensitive it already is. In your mouth, in your hand, between your breasts, release hot over your skin, whatever he wants. 

Dean just sighs, gently guiding your wrists away. “You were crying, baby-“

“Don’t care.” You whisper. “Dean, please, please, please-“ You rise up, pressing your brow against his. “I need it, please.”

Dean swallows. His tongue darts over his lips, and he rubs with mouth with a worried brow. You think he’s going to tell you no, for a terrible and long moment.

“Alright.” He murmurs, hand moving to his belt. “But- Can you promise me we’re gonna talk in the morning. Please?”

“Mhm.” You nod, your eyes fixed on his crotch.

He’s big. Thick and big, and your mouth is watering. 

Dean chuckles. “You’re drooling, baby- Jesus-“

You’re climbing fully over him, something feral taking over your brain. You need him. Need him bad. You must be moaning it, because Dean holds you close, and doesn’t waste time. 

Strong hands find your hips. Pick you up, then guide you back down onto his cock. You moan happily, your arms wrapping tight around his neck. He groans, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. 

“Fuck... You feel good, baby, so fuckin’ good-“

You smile to yourself, rolling your hips, and Dean moans. 

“Shit- Hell yeah-“ He leans back against the headboard, hands lazily wandering your body as you grind back and forth on his cock. “There you go, pretty girl, take what you want- Jesus-“

You squeeze around him, and Dean head falls back with another sinful moan. 

“Don’t- Fuck-“

You squeeze again, and his hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise. 

“Playing fuckin’ game, baby- Fuck- Keep doin’ that and I won’t-“

You giggle, and squeeze again. Dean’s eyes flash, his hands freezing.

“You think this is fuckin’ funny?”

“Maybe.” You whisper, lowering your lips to inches from his. “Hi.”

His eyes drop to your lips. You squeeze again, and he moans. “Shit, I’m warnin’ you, baby- Fuck-“

There’s something dangerous in his voice that you need to hear more of. You test the waters. 

Dean snaps. He rolls you over, flipping your positions, and starts to piston his hips. The bed squeaks from the force of it, your mouth falling open as he drags you so perfectly apart, and he smirks. 

“Yeah, there you go. Not so fuckin’- Christ-“

Dean drops down, his brow pressed against yours, eyes fixed on where his cock is slipping in and out of your pussy. It’s a lewd, enchanting sight. The way he’s transfixed by it almost makes you cum again. 

“Look at us.” There’s a soft awe in his voice, for how he’s destroying you. “Take me so well, sweetheart, fuckin’ made for this cock-“

“Dean…” You whine, and he looks back to you with a smirk. 

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s my girl.” He kisses you deeply, thrusts pushing every thought but his name from your head. “That’s my good girl, take it, fuckin’ take it-“

You moan, and he doubles his efforts. Groans, his dirty talk slipping into moans and grunts of your name, his mouth barely leaving yours for more than a second. 

When you cum, it’s all consuming. Your vision goes white, toes curling and body arching off the bed. Dean shouts your name, yanking out and beating himself into his hand, cum spaying over your thighs and pussy. You’re gushing with your own release, mixing with his, and when he drags his fingers over your pussy, a tiny orgasm shakes you like an earthquake. 

Dean helps you clean up. Guides you through the motions, even if your brain is still hazy from the overstimulation. Takes care of you like you’re his. 

He said you were. And none of that was a dream.

Dean doesn’t sleep on the floor tonight. He curls up with you after changing the sheets, tangling your legs together, breath hot on your neck. 

“In the morning.” He whispers as sleep pulls you both under. “We gotta talk in the morning.”

You hum, too drunken on his everything to really hear. And you fall asleep peacefully, and dream of things that are, for once, within reach. 

My girl. Dean called you my girl, last night. He wanted to talk in the morning. But he’s gone when you get up.

You touch the mattress, and it’s still warm. You get dressed with your thighs still aching, and poke your head into the hallway. He’s not there either. 

Your hand slips. You take a stumbling step forward, accidentally pulling the door closed, and it closes behind you. Leaving you locked out. 

Something in you wants to cry, but something else doesn’t feel like you deserve it. You fell into the fantasy. You let yourself get swept away. 

Maybe he’s just getting something. You cling to hope, instead of fear. For once in your life, you try to look at what’s in front of you, instead of your head. 

You walk downstairs, because if he’s not there, at least you can get another keycard. The lobby is busy. The line at the desk is long, so you sigh, and step fully outside. Into fresh air. 

And suddenly, you’re back at the beginning again. 

Dean calls your name from behind you, and he’s shoving his through the crowd. So fast, he doesn’t seem to notice the glass door closing behind you. Your mouth falls open as he slams into it, and he stumble back with a groan. 

You swallow a laugh, rushing forward to help him. He grabs you in an instance, his hand over his brow, groaning at the impact. 

“Fucking, Dean-“ You guide his hand away from his face with a sigh, running your fingers over his brow. “What was that?”

“Thought you were getting away.” He mumbles, eyes locked on your face. “You ran last night, just- Worried you were doin’ it again. Wanted to catch you.”

“I was looking for you.” You mutter, and he winces as you find the bump. “Shit, sorry-“

“’S okay.” He catches your hand, pulling it slowly down. Rasps your name, squeezing lightly. 

You swallow, and look into his eyes. He’s wearing that strange expression. The one you finally learned how to read. 

Love.

“I was getting you breakfast.” He mutters. :And I kinda talked to my Mom last night. She saw you with Lana. Said you looked upset. I was- Comin’ to talk to you about that. Last night.”

You flush, glancing around the milling crowd. “Can we- Do this later-“

“No.”

His voice is firm, and you look back to find his face set. Determined. 

You might’ve protested, if he wasn’t right. 

The way the light bends around him, there’s really no one else in the world.

“I don’t know what she said to you.” Dean mutters, thumb tracing over your knuckles. “But- I broke up with Lana ‘cause I didn’t like her. I wanted to be with someone I liked.”

“Dean-“

“You told my Mom you love me.” He says quickly, and your eyes widen. “And you asked if she’s ever gotten sick of my Dad. And- She says that you told her you never get sick of me.” He swallows. “I don’t know how to do laundry, sweetheart. You gotta sometimes be sick of me.”

You shake your head, voice soft. “But- I’m not.”

Dean takes a ragged breath, and you force the question out. 

“Are you? Sick of me?”

He shakes his head, mouth twitching. “Never. I- Hold on-“

He lets go fumbling in his pocket for a second before pulling out his phone. He swipes back and forth with a tight frown, then lets out a heavy breath. Turns the screen for you to see.

He’s showing you a photo of a ring. It’s elegant. Classy and expensive looking. 

You frown. “What-“

“It’s my grandmothers.” He rasps. “Mom gave it to me when I moved out. Kept it in storage, ‘till I- I met you. ’S why Sammy had to know we weren’t fakin’. He asked for it for Jess, day after he met her. I had to remind him that I told him I grabbed it for you. After you-“

“Liked your waffles.” You breath, eyes pricking with tears. “Dean…”

“I was in love with you then.” He says, voice low. “Sammy thought I was crazy. Maybe I was.” He takes a deep breath, searching over your face. “Am I, sweetheart? Crazy.”

You smile. Look at him, and smile.

“No. You’re not.”

He chuckles, shoulders relaxing. “Awesome.”

“Yeah. I love you too.”

“Even better.” 

“It is?” You tease, because you can’t help it. 

Dean smiles. “Yeah. It is."