The night was going well. Great even. For a first boyfriend, Dean was like winning a lotto ticket. Dean was a player, he had experience—and he had never been one for commitment, but you had him locked down. He wasn’t complaining one bit. He was plenty content right by your side.

He would never call himself a ‘lover-boy’ but from the drive in movie in his Baby to stopping and picking up pie at the convenience store on the streetside, you might just be his soulmate.

You weren’t half as experienced as Dean, and he even surprised himself with how willing he was to be patient. You two get ‘home’ to his motel room, his father and little brother out so he can learn to handle a shotgun. Apparently something normal for 9 o’clock with the Winchesters. You don’t dwell on it.

The moment you two shut the door, finding the place deserted, he stops you by placing his hands on your hips and whirling you around. His sandy brown hair bristled with the movement, he had a slight smile, his virescent eyes held a question. Was this happening? He scanned your face for any sign to stop or slow down, he found none. Yes it was.

“Talk to me sweetheart.” He murmurs, nose brushing over the column of your throat. “Too much?” He whispers, lips tickling the juncture of you jawline. His thumbs trace your hips, like you’re something to be cherished.