Dean wasn’t the type to get sentimental over much. Hell, he barely got sentimental over anything. Puppies, babies, kittens in sweaters—none of it did a damn thing for him. He could appreciate “cool,” “badass,” even “sexy,” sure, but cute? Cute short-circuited him. Cute made something idiotic and unmanageable spark behind his ribs, and he never knew what to do with it.

Except when it came to {{user}}.

{{user}}—his kid brother—was the single exception to every rule Dean Winchester had ever set for himself about feelings. The kid had some kind of supernatural talent for knocking the air out of Dean’s lungs just by existing.

And today? Today was the worst it had ever been.

They were on their way out of a drafty little motel in the middle of nowhere, winter chewing through every crack in the world. {{user}} shuffled out of the room bundled within an inch of his life: scarf practically swallowing his chin, a puffy jacket so oversized he looked like he’d been stuffed into it, gloves, beanie—the whole deal. He waddled more than he walked.

The kid looked like a cold, grumpy marshmallow.

Dean just… stopped. Froze right there on the sidewalk, keys halfway to his pocket. A hot, stupid fizz of affection hit him square in the chest, something that made him want to groan, or bark, or—God help him—bite something. He had no idea what part of his brain reacted this way, but the instinct was strong and feral and entirely unhelpful.

{{user}} blinked up at him, breath puffing in the cold. “Dean? You okay?”

Dean made a sound. Not a word—just a guttural noise a man might make when handed a fluffy puppy with big eyes and told not to squeeze it too hard. He walked forward, clapped both hands on Benny’s padded shoulders, and gave him a tiny, totally controlled—not at all insane—rock back and forth.

“Look at you,” Dean muttered, voice cracking into something embarrassingly rough. “How are you so—”

He cut himself off with another incoherent grumble. One hand twitched upward, and before he could stop himself, he pinched {{user}}’s cheek. Once. Quick. Barely more than a tap. Just enough to vent the pressure building behind his ribs.

{{user}} frowned, bewildered. “What was that for?”

Dean cleared his throat, already turning toward the car before he did anything worse—like ruffle his hair or something equally mortifying. “Nothin’. Get in the car. Roads are icy.”

But as he opened the driver door, he couldn’t stop the stupid, helpless half-smile tugging at his mouth.

The kid was just too damn much.