#spns

Was this really worth it?

I mean, yeah, Jensen Ackles is gorgeous, charming, and basically the human embodiment of a Pinterest dream boyfriend-but was the agony worth it?

If you'd known that dating him would lead to this, with searing pain, blood, and a sincere belief that your uterus was actively trying to evict itself from your body, would you have gone through with it?

Honestly? Probably. Jensen was the best thing that ever happened to you. But that was beside the point.

Why do women always get the short end of the reproductive stick? Why did you have to endure this pain just to avoid having a baby?

That's exactly what you'd done: compromised your body. For love. Or at least for really good sex.

Sure, it had only been two weeks of dating, but you'd known from day one that while you adored Jensen, you weren't ready for kids. Especially when he already had two of his own.

His kids were amazing, and you'd already fallen for their cute faces and relentless energy, but parenting was not on your bingo card right now.

So, you'd taken action. Made a responsible, adult decision. You got an IUD.

Holy hell, why had no one warned you how much it would hurt? The cramping, the stabbing, the horror. It felt like a vengeful demon was using your ovaries as stress balls. The doctor said the pain and bleeding were "normal." Normal for what? Torture victims?

Now, you were curled up on your couch, heating pad blazing, hoping you might survive the night.

Your phone buzzed. Through bleary eyes and shaky hands, you answered. "Hey, you," you answered, biting your cheek to mask the pain.

"Hey, sweetheart," Jensen's warm voice rumbled through the speaker. "Haven't heard much from you today. Everything okay?"

God, he was perfect. "Hey, yeah, I'm good. Just...kinda rough day." You bit your lip as another cramp hit.

"Rough day? What happened?" His tone shifted from casual to concerned.

"Doctor's appointment," you said vaguely. "Nothing big."

"Aw, babe. Want me to come over? Or you come here? I can make soup, or we can cuddle. Or both." You could hear his smile.

"Jensen, I'm like...disgusting right now."

"You're cute even when you're disgusting." He paused. "Was that romantic or creepy? I can't tell."

You chuckled despite yourself. "A weirdly sweet mix of both."

"Perfect. Come over. Please?" He sounded like a little kid begging for a puppy.

"Fine," you groaned, pushing yourself up. "But if I die on the way, it's on you."

"Deal. See you soon, babe."

Twenty minutes later, you pulled into his driveway. The cramps were still there, but more manageable. Jensen was already outside, smiling brightly as you stepped from the car. "Hey! I'm so happy to see you. Feeling any better?"

You mustered a smile and hugged him. "A little bit. Thanks for convincing me to come over."

"Always," he said, leading you inside.

The moment you crossed the threshold, a sharp cramp hit. You doubled over, hand bracing against the wall as a pained groan escaped your lips.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Babe? What's wrong? Where does it hurt?" His voice climbed with each word, eyes wide as he hovered helplessly.

"I'm fine," you ground out through clenched teeth. "Just... woman stuff."

"Okay," he said, nodding rapidly. "Right. Okay. I can handle woman stuff. I have daughters. I know things." He guided you inside, mumbling to himself: "I mean, I don't really know things, but I'm learning."

He guided you to the couch, concern etched on his face. "Talk to me, sweetheart. This doesn't seem like just cramps, what's going on?"

You rubbed your hands over your face. There was no getting out of it now.

"I got an IUD today," you confessed quietly. "I didn't want to make it weird by talking about the future or anything, so I just went and did it. I knew I didn't want kids right now, and... yeah."

Silence.

You peeked at Jensen. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide. "A...What?"

"It's a...thing they put in my uterus to prevent babies. It's small. T-shaped. Very stabby."

"They stabbed you?" His jaw dropped. "In your uterus?!"

"Basically."

He looked shocked, horrified.

Yup. Grossed out. Typical guy.

You stood abruptly. "I should go."

"What?" He jumped up after you. "Why?"

"Because you're clearly grossed out, and I shouldn't have come."

He chuckled—not cruelly, but softly. "I'm not grossed out. I'm surprised, yeah. But mostly, I'm laughing because this whole thing could've been avoided if we'd just talked."

You tilted your head up. "What?"

Jensen bit his lip, suddenly sheepish. "I, uh...had a vasectomy last year."

Your brain short-circuited. "I'm sorry. You...what?"

"Yeah. Snip, snip. No swimmers."

Your jaw dropped. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Nope," he said with a sheepish grin. "I thought it was too soon to bring it up. I mean, we were only two weeks in."

You groaned, the weight of the situation crashing down as laughter bubbled in your chest. "Jesus, we really need to work on our communication."

"Yeah," he agreed, laughing along. "But hey, you took one for the team, so props to you."

You grabbed a throw pillow with a laugh and smacked him.

"Ow! Hey! I'm sorry!" he laughed, shielding himself.

You kept swinging the pillow. "I went through uterus warfare for nothing!"

"I'll buy you ice cream!"

"Not good enough!"

"Ice cream and wine?"

You paused mid-swing. "...Red?"

"Of course."

You flopped back into his arms with an exaggerated sigh. "You're lucky you're cute, Ackles."

He kissed the top of your head, grinning. "I'm lucky for a lot of reasons. Mostly you."

And when he made good on his promise of wine, ice cream, and Netflix, you figured the IUD debacle was almost worth it.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!

The music pounded in the hunter's ears as soon as their boots touched the concrete. The bass thumped through their bodies, a deep pulse that made the ground seem alive beneath them.

Dean and Sam exchanged a look, confusion flickering between them. The driveway of the bunker was a chaotic mess of parked cars and trucks-some familiar, some unexpected. What the hell was going on?

The last thing Dean had heard from you was that you were planning a quiet night alone. But this? This was anything but quiet. And you were anything but alone.

Dean took the lead, pushing open the heavy door. The instant it swung open, the music rushed out like a tidal wave, slamming into them. His sharp gaze scanned the room below, taking in the scene. The place was packed with familiar faces-almost all of them women.

Jody and Ellen were at the far end, locked in a fierce dart game. Meg leaned against a table, exchanging a sharp-witted banter with Rowena. And there you were, laughing with Jo as the two of you took shots, a radiant smile lighting up your face.

Dean's breath caught.

It wasn't just the way your laughter filled the room, effortlessly drawing people towards you. It wasn't just the way your eyes sparkled under the dim, golden glow of the bunker's overhead lights.

No, it was something far more dangerous.

It was what you were wearing.

Because it wasn't yours.

It was his.

His green Henley draped over your frame, the sleeves pushed up, the fabric hanging loose over your curves in the most delicious way. And beneath it? Boxer shorts that were definitely not yours.

Dean swallowed hard. His chest tightened, his pulse quickened and his jeans grew tighter as an undeniable heat surged through him.

God help him, but you were killing him. And the worst part? This wasn’t new.

Dean had been harboring a secret crush on you for longer than he cared to admit. It had started as something small—a passing thought about how your laugh made his chest feel lighter, how your presence made the bunker feel less like a tomb and more like a home.

But over time, it grew. It became a weight in his chest, a constant ache every time you walked into the room, every time your hand brushed his, every time you gave him one of those smiles that made him feel like he was the only person in the world.

And now, standing here, watching you in his shirt, looking so effortlessly gorgeous, he felt like he was on the verge of losing his goddamn mind.

From the middle of the room. you felt it.

That pull, that familiar presence. Your body reacted before your mind even registered it. Your eyes searched the space instinciveyl, heart skipping a beat like it always did, when your eyes landed on him.

Dean.

His gaze was locked onto you, a mixture of awe, adortion and something deeper-something raw and unspoken. A slow, shy smile tugged at his lips, one that made your breath catch.

You grinned and before you could overthink it, rushed towards the stairs, your body humming with excitment. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the courage bubbling to the surface, but suddenly, keeping your eyes off of him felt impossible.

"Your home! Come join the party!" You called out, your voice carrying over the music.

Sam chuckled, descending the stairs first, greeting everyone with easy familiarity. But Dean? He hesitated.

His eyes never left yours as he made his way down, slow and nervous.

The air between you crackled with unspoken words, with something you couldn't quite name but desperately wanted to.

You stepped forward, opening your arms for a hug.

Normally, Dean wasn’t one for hugs unless it was Sam or someone like Jody. But tonight felt different. Something in his eyes told you this was okay.

His breath hitched, but he stepped into your embrace, His hand rested at the small of your back, fingers pressing lightly, like he was anchoring himself. Even when you pulled away, he didn’t.

When he finally pulled back, he ducked his head, rubbing his neck. A faint blush spread across his cheeks.

He was flustered. But all he could think about was how good you felt in his arms. How natural it was. And how much he wanted more.

He told himself you were just tipsy, caught in the moment, that tomorrow you wouldn't remember the way you looked at him like he was something worth wanting.

Little did he know, you had spent countless nights tangled in the same heartache, the same longing. Pining after a man who you thought would never see you the way you saw him.

That was why you called your friends, why you threw this party.

And for a while, it worked.

Until he walked through the door, looking like sin on legs, and you were right back where you started.

But this time, it was different. There was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. And God, you hoped he felt it too.

You smirked, grabbed his arm, and tugged him toward the kitchen. "Let's drink!"

The night blurred into a haze of music, laughter, and stolen glances.

The music got louder, drinks flowed faster, and you and Dean drifted closer.

It started as playful teasing—an innocent invitation to dance. But the moment he touched you, something shifted.

At first, it was lighthearted. Then the space between you disappeared. His hands ghosted over your body, his breath mixed with yours, his gaze locked onto you.

The music faded into the background, and it was just you and him.

Jo announced some kind of game, but you barely heard her. You couldn’t focus—not when Dean looked at you like that.

Without thinking, you grabbed his wrist and led him away, out of the crowded room and into the dimly lit hallway.

Dean leaned against the wall, smiling at you, waiting.

You opened your mouth, searching for words, but what could you possibly say? How could you put this feeling into something as fragile as language? Your thoughts tangled, but one thing was clear—you wanted this.

So, you didn’t speak.

Instead, you stepped forward, placed a hand against his chest, felt his heartbeat stutter beneath your palm. You tilted your chin up, letting your lips brush against his with a quiet, hesitant urgency. A question. A plea.

Dean didn’t hesitate.

His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back with a hunger that left you breathless. It was deep, aching, like he had been waiting for this just as long as you had.

And then—

He pulled away.

Your heart plummeted.

You barely noticed the way he was breathing heavily, the way his eyes were blown wide with shock and something deeper. All you saw was the rejection.

"S-Sorry," you stammered, stepping back. "I shouldn’t have—I know you don't feel that way-"

"Wait, what?" His voice was rough, laced with disbelief. "What do you mean I don’t feel that way?"

You turned away, but he caught your wrist. "Sweetheart, talk to me, please."

You swallowed hard. "Dean, I’ve liked you for so long. Maybe even more than that. And tonight… I thought maybe—"

Dean let out a breathless chuckle, running a hand through his hair. His cheeks were tinged pink. "Sweetheart, I do feel the same way. Completely."

You blinked up at him. "Then why-?"

His expression softened. "Because you’ve been drinking, and I’d never want you to think I took advantage of that."

Your chest tightened, warmth spreading through you at his words. God, this man.

A slow smile stretched across your lips. "You… are amazing."

Before he could respond, you pulled him back in, fingers tangling in his hair, lips molding against his in a kiss that left no room for misinterpretation. This was real. This was everything.

Dean groaned softly against your mouth, his grip tightening as he deepened the kiss, pouring everything he felt into it. When you finally broke apart, breathless and grinning, he pressed his forehead against yours.

"If you promise I’m not taking advantage… maybe we can keep doing this," he murmured.

You giggled. "Dean, you’re not. But I wish you had sooner. We could have figured this out ages ago."

His smirk was wicked as he laced his fingers through yours, tugging you toward his room. "Guess we've got some lost time to make up for."

Tonight, there were no more distractions.

Tonight, there was just you and him.

Finally.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!

The bunker was quiet when you got home, a striking difference from the chaos of the mall you had just battled through.

Between the crowds, the pushy salespeople, and that one cashier who acted like scanning your items was super inconvenient, you were exhausted.

All you wanted now was a long hot shower and to curl up in bed with your boyfriend when he got back.

You set the shopping bags on the bed before heading to the bathroom, sighing in relief as the warm water washed away the tension of the day.

You were halfway through your shower when the sound of heavy boots echoed off the tile, followed by a soft knock. A second later, the curtain pulled back just enough for Dean’s smirking face to peek through.

“Mmm, hey, sweetheart.” He grinned, his eyes shamelessly roaming your body.

You rolled your eyes, fighting the blush creeping up your cheeks. “Hey, baby. How was the hunt?”

He sat on the edge of the tub, running a hand through his hair. “Longer than expected but we got the job done. What about you? How was your day, did you go out?”

You hummed, rinsing the shampoo from your hair. “Mmhmm. I did a little shopping. Got you something—it’s in the bag on the bed.”

His eyebrows lifted in interest and surprise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Go check it out while I finish up.”

After finishing up, you pulled on your robe and made your way to the bedroom, expecting to find Dean grinning like a kid on Christmas.

Instead, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head bowed, staring at the plaid shirts laid out in front of him. The whiskey bottle sat unopened beside them. His hands rested on his knees, fingers curled like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

Your smile faded. He didn’t look happy—he looked stunned. Maybe even… sad?

You frowned, quickly making your way to him and sitting beside him. Your hand covered his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You okay?”

He nodded quickly, but his voice wavered. “Y-Yeah. I just…” He exhaled, shaking his head. “This is for me?”

You narrowed your eyes, watching as his forced grin slowly faded. “Dean, what’s wrong? You don’t like them? That’s totally fine, I can return them—”

“What? No!” His head snapped up, eyes wide. “I love them. It’s not that.”

You tilted your head. “Then what is it? Because you look like someone just kicked your puppy.”

Dean sighed heavily, his shoulders rising and falling like he was carrying a weight he didn’t know how to put down. He turned to face you, his hands hesitantly reaching for yours, but his head stayed low, like he couldn’t quite meet your eyes.

"I just... why did you buy me all this?" His voice was quieter than usual, rough around the edges, as he gestured toward the plaid and whiskey behind him.

You blinked, glancing at the items before looking back at him. "Well, your plaid got ruined, and I figured you could use some more… And I noticed you were running low on whiskey, so I thought a new bottle might be nice."

He let out a slow, shaky breath, his head dropping even lower. "No, I mean... why would you do this for me?"

Your heart clenched at the way he said it—so soft, so unsure, like he genuinely couldn’t comprehend the answer.

You reached out, fingertips brushing under his chin, gently tilting his face up to yours. "Because I love you."

Dean’s lips parted slightly, his green eyes searching yours like he was looking for some kind of explanation, something that made sense in his world. "But… I don’t get it. It’s not my birthday. It’s not our anniversary. You didn’t owe me this."

“Dean,” you said gently, lifting his chin so he had to look at you. “You don’t have to earn love. You don’t have to wait for a reason. I did this because I love you.”

He stayed quiet, jaw tensing, eyes fixed on the flannels like they were something rare and fragile.

"Dean," you murmured, squeezing his hands. "Talk to me. What’s going on?"

"I…" He swallowed hard, struggling to find the words. "No one’s ever done this for me. Not unless it was for a reason, or because I asked. No one’s ever just… wanted to."

Your heart clenched. There it was—the reason he was struggling, the reason he looked so lost. Dean Winchester, who gave and gave until there was nothing left of him, had never had someone do the same without expecting something in return. And now that someone had, he didn’t know how to accept it. He didn’t think he deserved it.

"But I do. I wanted to."

He smiles a little sadly, still processing the information.

“You take care of me, right?” you continued. “You buy me coffee, make sure I eat, kill the spiders I pretend I don’t see.” That got a small huff of laughter from him. “So let me take care of you too. No reason needed.”

His breath hitched slightly, and for a second, he just stared at you, like he was trying to memorize your face. Then, without a word, he pulled you into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

"This means more to me than I can ever explain, Sweetheart," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."

You hugged him just as tight, running your hand up and down his back. “Of course, babe. You deserve it.”

After a few moments, you pulled back with a playful smile and grabbed one of the shirts. “So, do you like them?”

His smile widened as he took them from your hands. "Are you kidding? I love them. Especially this black and white one—that looks badass."

"Then c’mon, fashion show time!"

Dean chuckled, rolling his eyes, but there was no hesitation as he shrugged off his jacket and pulled on the new plaid. When he turned back to you, leaning against the dresser, you couldn't help but stare.

"Whoa," you breathed, eyes trailing over him. “I knew it would look good, but that’s just unfair.”

Dean smirked, waggling his brows. “Oh, I know.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Alright, now how about we get drunk and watch a movie?”

Dean pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. "Sounds perfect. But first—" He grabbed the other shirts and smirked. "I gotta show Sammy these. He’s gonna be so jealous."

Before you could say a word, he was already heading down the hall.

"Sammy!" he called, his voice echoing through the bunker. "Where are you? I gotta show you why you need to get a girlfriend!"

Laughter bubbled up in your chest as you flopped back onto the bed, shaking your head. That man.

Dean Winchester deserved love—the kind that didn't have to be earned, the kind that just was. And you were going to keep proving it to him, every single day.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!

It had only been a week, and already, it was complicated.

One week of dating Dean Winchester, and you were losing your mind-not because the relationship was bad, but because it was too perfect.

From the moment you met, you fell hard. He told you he had too. And when you finally confessed your feelings, it had been effortless, like the universe had been waiting for it to happen.

But love, even when perfect, can be complicated.

Because your love language was touch.

Some people gave gifts, some used words, and others showed love through acts of service. But you? You needed the physical connection-the warmth of a hand on yours, a casual touch on the arm, a touch just to feel close.

And as sweet as that might sound, not everyone saw it that way.

Your past relationships had made that painfully clear.

They thought it was too much. Too needy. Too clingy.

They didn’t like that you always wanted to hold their hand on walks. That you wanted to cuddle even in the middle of a summer heatwave. That your fingers would drift to their arm at dinner. That, even in sleep, your hand always found them—like your heart wouldn’t settle until it knew they were still there.

So you learned to hold back. To resist the urge. To keep your hands to yourself unless touch was initiated.

But with Dean, it was different.

Because you had never loved anyone like you loved him. And you weren’t about to ruin it by being too much.

Still, resisting the urge was torture.

Every time he made you laugh, you wanted to rest your hand on his chest. Every time he came home from a hunt, you wanted to throw yourself into his arms, burying kisses into his skin. Every time he drove, you ached to reach for his hand.

But you didn’t.

And tonight, in the Deancave, as the two of you finally got some much-needed alone time, it was even worse.

Dean had set everything up—movies, snacks, cold beers. He was fully relaxed, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch. You, on the other hand, were perched on the opposite end, your legs across his lap but your hands gripping your beer bottle like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Because if you let go, you knew what would happen.

Maybe you’d reach up and run your fingers through his hair. Maybe you’d start absentmindedly tracing his knuckles, spinning the ring on his finger while the movie played. Maybe you’d do all the things you craved to do but couldn’t.

And Dean noticed.

Of course, he noticed.

His hand moved to your knee, fingers rubbing slow, soothing circles against your skin. It was an innocent enough gesture—casual, absentminded. But to you, it was everything.

You stiffened, forcing yourself not to react, but it was useless. The warmth of his touch spread through you like wildfire, making your grip on the beer bottle tighten.

Dean’s gaze flicked to you, brow furrowing. “Sweetheart? Everything okay?”

You plastered on a smile, nodding. “Yeah. Fine.”

But Dean Winchester wasn’t stupid.

He smirked, pausing the movie and turning toward you. “Okay, now I know something’s up.” He stretched an arm along the back of the couch, shifting slightly closer. “I’ve been waiting for you to spill, but you haven’t. So, tell me—what’s going on?”

You sighed, setting your beer aside and tucking your hands beneath your thighs like a child hiding something behind their back. “Do you know what love languages are?”

Dean’s brow quirked, but he nodded. “Yeah, Sam tried explaining ‘em once. Something about communication and blah, blah, blah.”

You let out a small laugh. “Well… mine is touch.”

He tilted his head, waiting for you to continue.

“That’s how I show love,” you explained, voice quieter now. “And it’s, uh… been a problem before.” You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “People get annoyed with me really fast because my hands are always on them. I don’t even think about it, I just… reach out. But it’s too much for some people, and I don’t—” You swallowed thickly. “I don’t want you to get sick of me and leave.””

Dean frowned, sitting up straighter. “Wait. People actually told you that?”

You nodded, exhaling. “Yeah. And I just… I don’t want you to feel like that. I don’t want you to get sick of me, or feel like I’m too much.”

You nodded, exhaling. “Yeah. And I just… I don’t want you to feel like that. I don’t want you to get sick of me, or feel like I’m too much.”

Dean blinked at you. Then, in a single fluid motion, he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you—so tightly it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured against your hair, pressing a firm kiss to your temple. “I love you.”

You blinked. “What?”

Dean pulled back just enough to smirk at you. “Give me your hands.”

Hesitantly, you pulled them from under your thighs, and he took them in his own before lifting them to his face, pressing them against his cheeks.

And just like that, the dam broke.

A relieved, breathy sigh escaped you as your fingers instinctively curled against his skin. It was as if your body had been holding its breath, and now, finally, finally, it could breathe.

Dean grinned. “See? That right there? That’s adorable.”

Your cheeks burned. “Dean—”

“I love when you touch me,” he said, eyes locked on yours, voice steady. “I would never get annoyed with it. Those other people? Jerks. They should’ve been grateful to have someone love them that much.”

“But… it always starts fine, and then—”

“Not with me,” he interrupted gently. “I love when you sneak into the kitchen in the morning and wrap your arms around me. I love that you need a kiss or a hug before I leave. I love waking up in the middle of the night and feeling your hand still on me, like you’re afraid I’ll disappear.”

“Really?” you whispered, searching his face for any sign of hesitation.

Dean smirked, pulling you closer. “Hell yeah. It’s adorable. You let out this little sigh whenever you touch me—like it calms you. And you know what? It calms me too. Even when I’m pissed off, if I feel your hand on me, it just—” He exhaled. “It just makes everything better. So, please, for the love of God, never stop.”

Your heart flipped as you melted against him, finally letting yourself indulge in what you had been denying for days, letting your hands finally roam freely—over his shoulders, through his hair, down his arms. And he let you.

No—he leaned into it.

Your lips found his cheek in a feather-light kiss before capturing his lips in a slow, lingering one.

When you pulled away, he grinned. “See? Who the hell would complain about that?”

You giggled, resting your head against him. “But… what if you do?”

Dean hummed in thought. “Alright, let’s make a deal. If—and that’s a big if—I ever need space, I’ll just say so. But sweetheart, I swear, that’s never gonna happen.” He paused, smirking. “I mean, you could even touch me while I’m taking a leak if you wanted.”

You gasped, smacking his arm. “Dean!”

He laughed, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “See? That’s the only time it might be a little weird.”

You giggled, curling back into him, your fingers drawing lazy patterns on his arm, threading through his hair, tracing the fabric of his shirt.

And not once did he flinch. Not once did he shift away.

Instead, he leaned in, sighing into your touch, letting you soothe him, ground him.

As the night stretched on, you stayed curled up against him, hands resting wherever they pleased—his arm, his chest, his fingers interlaced with yours. Dean made no move to pull away. If anything, he leaned further into your touch, letting out soft, contented sighs every time your fingers traced lazy circles on his skin.

At one point, he shifted, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before murmuring, “You know, I think I figured out my love language.”

You glanced up, smiling softly. “Oh yeah? What is it?”

Dean smirked, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “You.”

Your heart swelled as he tilted your chin up, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips.

“My love language is the way you curl into me like you belong there,” he whispered. “The way your hands reach for me without thinking, like I’m the only thing that makes you feel safe. The way you touch me like you need to remind yourself I’m real.” He nudged his nose against yours. “My love language is knowing I get to be the one person in the world you trust enough to love like this.”

Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but before you could say anything, Dean grinned.

“Oh, and kissing. Definitely kissing.”

You let out a watery laugh as he pulled you closer, sealing his words with another slow, sweet kiss.

Maybe touch was how you showed love. But for Dean, you—your laughter, your presence, your hands on him—were all the love he’d ever need.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!