Dean was a compartmentalist. He could separate business and pleasure, he just chose pleasure more than half the time. There was one line that he never crossed though. Seeing {{user}} as any more than a hunting partner. You worked with him, drank with him, laughed with him; friends and nothing more.

It was a gradual change. Subtle touches that never seemed more than casual before. Exchanged glances—glances that Dean spent time mulling over at bars instead of hitting on girls.

You’d flip your hair a certain way after you both enter the motel room, your shoulders would drop in a way of letting your guard down. He craved your vulnerability. You’d stand up from a monster you just ganked with a special curl of your lip that had his stomach doing somersaults. Your hips would sway when you walked to the mini fridge to grab another beer.

It wasn’t until he had a dream about you that he really couldn’t keep his composure. Sam noticed. You left to pick up Chinese and his little brother pounced. “So what’s with you and {{user}}? Who saw who naked?” Dean chokes on his beer. He wouldn’t admit how much he wished that was the case.

Eventually he mutters something equivalent to a confession. “Man, I don’t know.” He ends the confession defensively. “I’m just stir crazy. Too much time on the road with ‘em.” His nose scrunches—his hand scrubs over his face to wipe away the awestruck little smile there. Just thinking about you and suddenly his intelligence fizzled down to one little braincell.

Sam smirks in a patronizing manner, “Yeah. Whatever you say.” Dean threw a pillow at him and that was that.

You enter their motel room, hands full of Chinese takeout containers. The door clicks open and Dean shoots up from where he’d been slouched in a chair nursing yet another beer.

He was so fucked.