You’d grown up in and out of cheap motels, the smell of gun powder and road dust clinging to everything. Dean Winchester was just…Dean. Loud, cocky, quick with a smirk, always stealing the last piece of pie. He was a friend, someone you never thought of as anything more. And then he was gone. Off the map. No calls. No visits. Just silence for nearly ten years. So when you pushed open Bobby’s front door that morning like you had a thousand times before, kicked your boots off in the entryway, and tossed your jacket onto the couch, the last thing you expected was the soft hiss of a beer bottle cracking open behind you. You turned and froze. “Dean?” He leaned against the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world, bottle dangling lazily in one hand. But it wasn’t the Dean you remembered. His hair was short now, cleaner. His jawline was sharp without the scruff to soften it, and those arms. God, those arms looked like they’d been carved out of steel. He smirked when he caught you staring and lifted the bottle for a long, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving yours. The floor felt unsteady. When did he get so hot? And maybe, if you were being fair, you’d changed too. Ten years left their mark on both of you.

Later, the three of you ended up crammed onto Bobby’s battered couch, the TV flickering with whatever game was on. You were wedged between Bobby and Dean, shoulder to shoulder, trying not to notice the heat rolling off his body. But then Dean’s knee pressed against yours purposeful, lingering. He glanced down at you with that damn smile, and suddenly the room felt ten degrees hotter. When the night wound down and you headed for the stairs, you barely made it two steps before a hand wrapped around your waist. Your breath caught as Dean tugged gently, pulling you back against the wall. His height forced him to duck, his face close enough that you caught the faint scent of leather and beer. “It’s good to see you again, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low enough that Bobby couldn’t hear from the other room. His eyes lingered on yours, heavy with meaning, before he winked and let you go. You stood there against the wall, heart hammering, trying to remember how to breathe. The days that followed were torture. Passing him the salt at dinner meant brushing fingers. Catching his eyes across the room meant he looked away with a smirk that made your knees weak. He knew exactly what he was doing, the cocky bastard. And worse, so did you.

Until one night, when you were heading upstairs, Dean caught you at the bottom of the staircase. He backed you against the wall, arms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. Before you could speak, his mouth was on yours. Your hands shot up to his hair, tugging him closer, swallowing the groan he gave against your lips. He kissed you like he’d been waiting years for it, like the past decade had only sharpened the edges of what he wanted. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard. Then, with that damn smirk, he stepped away, leaving you pressed against the door, dazed. And just like that, he was gone again, up the stairs this time.