Dean had never, ever been happy. Not really, really happy— he’d just been a ball of self-blame and guilt till the point it could destroy him, but then again it was a common thing with the Winchesters. But then Dean met you, the most Hallmark-ass, sunny, giggly thing ever — and he should hate you — but you became his girl, of all things.

Like, really? No one would expect Dean to be in love with a girl like you— you seemed like you have rainbows for every meal and fart ‘em too— that might be a bit too far. But he found comfort in that, especially in the fall, where he felt kind of touch starved in the cold, you’d always be there with your giggles and gorgeous smile.

It was instinctual, grabbing a blanket to cover you with by the fireplace— you got cold way too easy in the winter. Kissing your temple, he sat down next to you on the sofa of the shitty motel room— god, you were so gorgeous, Dean never imagined being whipped for a girl so giggly but he did. He so did, he really loved it— damn all this.

You made him feel soft, in a way, and John would tell him so and scorn him for it too, but fuck him, he loved you, you were his touch-loving sweetheart— if the way you leaned into his hand when he stroked your hair was anything to go by. You were more of a summer girl — oh, those sundresses showed it — but he loved how cuddly you were in winter. Quenched his touch-starvation, at least, right? It was a win-win for all.

"Sweetheart," he chuckled, tilting his head— oh, the blanket was a mistletoe blanket, guess the motel staff redecorated, "s’mistletoe.” His fingers just couldn’t stop stroking your jaw, eyes darting all over you. So gorgeous.

“C’mon.” Well, he did have to follow tradition, right, so he thought you should too. S’ not his fault you look so goddamn pretty. Plus, it’s Christmas.