Dean was, in a lot of ways, a bad influence. He was the type of guy that girls would take home to mom and pop, if only just to piss off their folks. He walked around in a beat-up leather jacket and jeans, and damn near always had something smart to say.

It was a mystery to most how in God's name Dean had managed to get so close with you. You were sweet, soft-spoken and warm, often dressing in soft sweaters in colours nowhere near black. Dean's perfect opposite.

But it worked. The two of you spent a lot of time together.

One evening, you and Dean were sitting in Bobby's living room, watching the phones while he went on a hunt. He was packing salt rounds, and you were reading.

"Hey. What the hell are you reading?" Dean glanced over at you, then back at his work. "That book is as big as your head, dude," he snorted.