This wasn’t supposed to happen. Dean didn’t ‘fall in love’. He just didn’t. Period.

But he has seen you at your very worst, and at your very best. You could say the same for him. You’ve laughed together, cried together, fought eachother, fought together…

And as he watches you about to enter the bar, discussing the next hunt to pursue—he sees the blue-red glow reflecting on every contour, cleft, and angle of your face. Your eyes sparkling with the decorative yellow-white bulbs lining the outer walls.

Distorted chatter and music came from within the bar, but all his ears were honed in on was the sound of your voice. A voice he had grown accustom to. A voice that filled him with indescribable warmth.

He can’t help the expression on his face, lips agape, brows creased in infatuation. He’s bewitched. He’s in love.

“You look nice, tonight.” He says as a super ‘casual’ and ‘cool’ passing comment—trying to seem smooth, which he had no trouble doing before—except now he sounds like a lovesick dope.