You found him in the kitchen, shirtless, barefoot, and wholly unaware of the problem he was causing.

It was barely 9 a.m., and Dean Winchester — retired hunter, mechanic, general menace — was standing at the stove, flipping pancakes with his hair sticking up in every direction and his sweats hanging low on his hips.

You stopped in the doorway, holding your mug in both hands like it might steady you.

He’d... filled out over the years since your joint retirement. Not in the six-pack, underwear model way—no, Dean had aged like good whiskey and leather seats. Broader in the chest, a little softer around the stomach, those thick arms flexing with every flip of the spatula.

Dean glanced over his shoulder and smirked when he saw you staring.

“What?” he asked, his morning voice all gravely and sleepy. "Something wrong with my pancakes?”

“Yeah,” you said. “They’re in the way.”

That made him laugh — deep and genuine, his head dropping down for a second before he looked back at you with a sparkle in his eye. "You’re ridiculous,” he said, sliding a finished pancake onto the growing stack. Blueberry. Your favorite.

You took a few steps closer, shameless now, letting your eyes trail over his bare back, the little love handles you hadn’t stopped thinking about for days, and the faint trail of freckles dotting his shoulders.

“Seriously,” you murmured, wrapping your arms around him from behind and pressing your face between his shoulder blades. "Walkin' around... lookin' like that..."

He chuckled, setting the spatula down as your hands slipped around his waist. “Like what? Outta shape and forty?”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, frowning. “Um. Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Dean tilted his head, clearly not believing you, even though your hands were very much on his body like it was a birthday present. "You think this is hot?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.