#wybrose

There was never a timeline where it could end well between the two of them.

Not those younger years in jean jackets and sweet smiles.

Not those years were the hate consumed and demons possessed.

Not even in the foreseeable future where it all got sour and just ever so nuttier.

So Dean doesn’t have much to process.

Bray doesn’t have much to loose.

Not yet anyways.

For now it’s an intricate and violent game of tag. Where Dean is crazy to get his hands on Bray in every sense of the word.

And Bray doesn’t mind.

Doesn’t mind watching Dean trip over his second guesses. Doesn’t mind how the other man seeks him out in the darken corners of the arenas. He likes to see desperation dance in those pretty eyes, loves to watch the twitch of his muscles as he saves face.

So when Dean gets right up on his face, trying to egg him on into pushing first, Bray simply smiles, let’s his forehead rest against Dean’s and digs a hole for himself in the other man’s heart.

“Silly little lamb” He whispers low enough for Dean’s glare to twitch, dimples in his cheeks to show.

There isn’t a timeline where this ends well.

Dean grins, he can’t fucking help it. He digs his forehead closer, crazed look in his eyes and a need to palpable to just shove Bray into another darkened corner. “Fucking prick” Is all he can push out as he does just that, pushes Bray away from any potential eyes.