You weren’t a trusting person. It was a thing, that you’d grown up in an environment where you couldn’t trust anyone but your family, and it’d taken a damn long time for you to trust Sam and Dean considering you lost your family. God, he got that, he understood all of how you didn’t feel like you could trust anyone but those close to you, so he’d taken it in baby steps. First it was pouring a beer out in front of you so you’d know it wasn’t roofied. Then it was showing you your room in a motel or in the bunker so you’d feel safe. Checking the locks with you. He was willing to do all that, cause he had all those habits when he took care of Sammy.

But now you were more reserved than usual — still a badass — but more than usual, after a case where you’d gone strangely overkill on a vampire. He’d seen the freaked look on your face when he pulled you off the thing, and had seen the cold, almost detached look in your eye.

Like a programmed response. A machine.

“Don’t shoot.” He joked, hands raised in surrender, though probably not the best time to joke— no, it wasn’t, his bad. He just wanted to help you— fuck, that look in your eye had kinda freaked him out. Probably not as much as you, though, being honest.

So here he was. Shit.

Dean leaned against the door to your room, noticing the photos on the dresser, and then wondering if you’d talk, because he’d understand, he’s been there, in your place. He’s a kindred spirit. Alright, just play this right. “D’you wanna talk ‘bout it, sweetheart?”

Did he know what he was doing? No. He didn’t exactly get training on how to deal with women, with Sammy he could just say ‘go get laid’ if he was being a prissy ass. No. Not the route he should be taking with you, no siree. Just act cool.

If he can.