Dean liked the way you looked in his t-shirts. Always slipping off your shoulder. Sometimes you didn’t even wear pants underneath, just wandered around the hotel room barefoot. “You know,” he muttered from the bed, watching you pick through the snacks he’d brought back, “most people say thank you when someone goes out of their way to get their favorite crap.”

You popped a chip in your mouth and smirked over your shoulder. “I’m not most people.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, I figured that out the night you let me take you home and didn’t ask for my name until morning.”

You turned, slow, giving him that look, the one that always made him forget what the hell he’d been talking about. “I didn’t need your name,” you said. “I needed your hands.” Dean’s jaw ticked. It was always like this with you. Half-teasing, half-serious. You let him take care of things: let him pick you up, drive you around, wrap his arm around your waist like you were something expensive and breakable. But you never gave him more than that. And it drove him insane. He liked to think you were into the perks: the way he lit your cigarettes for you and left the key to the Impala in your hand without a word. You liked having him around, but only when it was convenient. He told himself that’s all he wanted too.

So when you leaned down to steal a sip of his beer, Dean didn’t ask where you’d been earlier. Didn’t ask who had your attention when it wasn’t him. Instead, he grabbed your wrist, pulled you into his lap, and said, “Try not to use me up all at once, sweetheart.”