“C’mere, baby… everything too loud and itchy again?” Dean’s voice is teasing but sympathetic, because he understands, spreading his arms from his languid position on the bed—an invitation. Close enough for you to lean into if you wanted, yet far enough that you wouldn’t feel cornered. When he learned that you were autistic, Dean had no idea if you would be touchy (he was a huge cuddler, but everyone knew that.) He would seek out a quieter spot when the malls got too loud, and save you the first shower after a hunt. His softest flannels and henleys found a new home in your closet.

Your brain is on autopilot as you approach, wishing you could escape the overwhelming tingling in your skin. You couldn’t explain what you wanted to do today, but it wasn’t interrogating witnesses with Sam.