Dean never considered himself the kind of guy to fuss over things like skin care. His morning routine was straightforward—shower, throw on his jacket, grab some coffee, and hit the road.

Yet somehow, here he was, sitting on his bed in the bunker, staring at your determined face as you approached him with a small tub of moisturiser in hand.

You had somehow managed to convince Dean to let you moisturise him to help with his stress wrinkles.

And he had stupidly accepted.

You sat beside him on the bed. You scooped a small amount of moisturiser onto your fingertips and gently dabbed it onto Dean's forehead. He shifted awkwardly, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of someone else's hands touching his face.

He watched your face carefully, noting how your brows furrowed in concentration. Your fingers moved in small, gentle circles, rubbing the cream into his skin. For a second, Dean almost forgot to be annoyed.

Almost.

"This is ridiculous," Dean muttered, half a grumble, half a plea for salvation. "I don't know why I agreed to this."