Dean was a working man. A fighting man. A man with working, fighting, hands. Whether wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle or gripping the steering wheel of his baby—they always seemed perfect. Strong, calloused, prominent veins, large.

His hands never failed to capture your attention. It simply wasn’t fair. The contrast of the rough and toughness of his scarred knuckles with the silver ring that settled on his finger, the leather band of his bracelet accentuating his wrist.

The things you wished those hands would do.

Dean notices the way his hands capture your attention, innocently, he offers to let you mess with his jewelry. Thinking that was what had captured your attention. Of course you jump at the opportunity (perhaps too enthusiastically).

So it became a habit. Twirling his ring when his hands capture rested on the dash of the Impala, waiting for a light to turn red. Fiddling with the charm on his bracelet, watching it glint in the light. Even tracing the ridges of his amulet round his neck.

You had been sitting on the too-sunken-in cushions of the motel room couch whilst twirling the ring upon his finger. His hand settled in your lap—he paid no mind to it, thinking it was a perfectly innocent fascination.

“You have nice hands.” That statement tore his attention away from whatever melodramatic medical show was on the TV. “Uh- thanks.” He looks at you curiously, feeling a bit like an idiotic dope, why, again, had he assumed this had been about the jewelry?

A pause passes between you, he attempts to focus on the ridiculous soap opera before doing a double take. “Why- uh…why do you like my hands so much?” He asks with an almost sly smile tugging at one corner of his lips. He could very well take a guess, but the egotistical fucker wants to hear you say it.