Reading the lore so late at night has you squinting and straining your eyes, you think it’s time to break out the glasses. They’re old, and not often put to use. You hate wearing glasses—they always slide down your nose or get fogged up when it’s hot out. It isn’t glamourous.

It didn’t help that the only time you’ve worn them around one of the brothers, it was around Dean, and one ‘Four Eyes’ comment was enough to put the glasses back into retirement.

You slide the glasses on for some heavy reading time and watch a half awake Sam at the other side of the table suddenly perk up. “When did you get glasses?” He asks, and rubs his own eyes to see you clearer.

His throat bobs like it does when he’s nervous and suddenly the lore book is slid to the side—not even intentionally—and is left long forgotten.

“They…They look good on you.” He murmurs, “Should wear ‘em more often.” He adds, “Looks nice, your face…—I mean not- your face, but the…the glasses look…” He clears his throat and runs a hand down his face, maybe he’s more tired than he thought. “…Look nice.”

You’re starting to get the notion that Sam likes you in glasses.