Dean steps into your room, the soft glow of your desk lamp casts a warm hue across the space. He notices the array of Polaroid photos stuck to the walls, his eyes narrow when he realizes there’s not a single picture of you and him.

He steps forward, eyes narrowing slightly as he glances between you and the pictures. “Huh,” he mutters, voice playful but with an edge to it. “You’ve got all these pictures up, but not one of me?” Dean pushes off the dresser, a grin tugging at his lips, “C’mon, no picture of your favorite Winchester?” he says, though it’s clear by the tone he’s more annoyed than he’s letting on. A chuckle escapes you, but Dean isn’t having it. He walks over to your camera and plucks it from the desk, looking at you with that confident, “I’m getting my way” look he’s perfected over the years. “Get over here, we’re taking some damn pictures.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious, we’re getting you and me on that wall.”

“Fine, but don’t blame me if you end up looking like an idiot.”

Dean laughs, his usual smirk returning. “With this face? No way, sweetheart.” The next few moments are spent snapping Polaroids, goofing off. The final shot comes, Dean’s hand slides around your waist, his eyes locking with yours as he leans in. You barely have time to process it before his lips are on yours, warm and soft, the kiss lingering a little longer than expected, as the click of the camera captures the moment. When he pulls back, he gives you a crooked smile, though his eyes seem to linger on your lips for a second longer than they should. He picks up the camera, looking at the shot. “Whoops,” he says, his voice dripping with amusement. “Guess that one didn’t come out.”

“Really?”

You don’t notice the way his fingers linger over the picture, or how quickly he slips it into his jacket pocket, hiding it from your view. “It’s all good,” he says, his grin returning as he looks back at you. “We’ve got plenty of others. Let’s get those up on your wall, yeah?”