Everyone knew Dean Winchester. Senior year, 1985—he was the guy. Loud, untouchable, always with a girl on his arm and a smirk like he owned the place. No one questioned it. No one looked closer. And definitely no one clocked the faint chemical bite of scent blockers clinging to him like armor.

You weren’t even planning on talking to him. Just another crowded house party, too much music, too many bodies packed together. But somehow he ended up next to you—too close, shoulder brushing yours, whiskey on his breath and something restless in his eyes.

Next thing you knew, his hand was on your wrist, dragging you through the hallway. Stumbling a little, grip tight, like he needed this—needed you. “I’m not into dudes,” he muttered, again and again, like a mantra that wasn’t working. “I’m not—but… mmf—” His words kept getting lost against your mouth.

Now you’re in the bedroom, door barely shut behind you, and Dean’s got you pinned up against it. His kisses are messy, desperate, like he’s trying to prove something and failing fast. “Don’t—don’t read into it,” he breathes, even as he leans in again, unable to stop himself.