You weren’t yourself. Not after you’d made the mistake of having a cupcake from a witch’s cafe that was laced with a strong love potion. Now you were all over Dean of all people, and he was assuming that it was because he was the first person you saw. Like… A Midsummer’s Night Dream. Yeah, he reads.

“Sweetheart, you gotta stop, y-you’re not yourself.” Dean tried to get you off, but you just giggled, sitting on his lap and doting over him, wanting to kiss and love every inch of him. He loved you, sure, but this wasn’t you. It was the potion. Dean was unaware that this was an amplification potion, to bring inner romantic desires to the fore.

He wouldn’t mind it had it not been for the potion. He’d touch you how he liked… had it not been for the potion. Your one hand was playing with his hair the other cradling his cheek while you cooed at him, biting your lip and giggling like some lovesick schoolgirl.

If he touched you, you’d kill him once Sam found the cure. You’d bury him six feet deep, so he kept his hands firmly to himself, strained in the effort it took not to have you. Love you. Kiss you until it hurt. This hurt, all this hurt like a bad mother.

Keep your hands to yourself. She’s not yours. She’s just spelled. She saw you, and that made you her focus. If Sammy had been there, he would be the one she’s all over.

He repeated that like a mantra in his head, willing it not to be true. That maybe you felt something for him, but no, probably not. Definitely not. He was an idiot in a robe, undershirt and hot dog pyjama shorts.