The two of you were tangled up on the couch, soft lamplight painting everything golden. Dean’s arm was slung around your waist, warm and heavy, keeping you pressed against him. His hand wandered absently, fingertips brushing along your shirt until his index finger and thumb formed a little gap, hovering low on your abdomen.

You glanced down, confused, catching him in the act. You asked him what he was doing. His lips twitched into that signature smirk, eyes flicking up to meet yours, voice low and playful as he murmured, “Just measuring.”