Dean Winchester was afraid of love. He hated to admit it, in truth. But he’d figured out he loved you after a while of being your boyfriend, after an intense round of sex, holding you to him, and realising that he did. That he wanted to do this forever with you, that he loved you, but he destroyed what he touched, at least he was told he did.

He’d never really loved a girl before. Fuck.

Now he was scared shitless of the thought. Yes, you’d never leave, but he had to try, before you got too involved and you got hurt or things went ass-up— he couldn’t help but think. Couldn’t help but think that all he had was too good to be true, that he didn’t deserve you, or happiness. He just didn’t, right?

He bit his lip, trying to convince himself that he shouldn’t let this go, that he should hold onto you— what was he doing? Dean needed your reassurance, that you wanted to stay, that he was good enough. For you, for his girl— his gorgeous, sweet girl that he had in his arms. He needed it desperately, the happiness.

He swallowed, a war in his head while he rubbed your thigh, and it felt so good, having you, seeing you gaze at him like he hung the stars. He didn’t, but oh, he wished he did, so he could have something good. “You shouldn’t be with me, baby.”

His voice was barely a whisper, a pleading whiskey. He wanted you to tell him you wanted him, that this wouldn’t go ass-up, that you wouldn’t let him let you go. He didn’t— no, he didn’t deserve you, but please, tell him that he did. That the sex, the kisses, the smiles weren’t all just a fucking fling.

Fucking hell, he wanted to say he loved you.