Dean loved what he was seeing. And yeah, he wasn’t supposed to ogle, he just did, he loved seeing your rack, and he was your boyfriend, he could watch, so while you read a book with your head in his lap — a perfectly normal and non-sexual thing, except for the gorgeous view down your neckline that he was drooling and salivating over.

Get a grip.

Mhmm, yeah, he could get used to this. Sure, he was supposed to be typing on a laptop and researching some shit for Sam on his case but the guy could do research on his own, he didn’t need Dean’s help, not when your sweater had just the right look to it. Like, you’ve gotta be kidding.

One hand was in your hair, playing with it while it wasted on his thigh, and one eye was trained on the view— damn, his girl was gorgeous, so gorgeous. Dean couldn’t stop a lip bite, you were just so damn distracting, but his respect and love for you outweighed his appreciation by a long shot. Focus.

“Hey.” He smiled, brushing your hair out of your face, licking his lips and admiring you— he couldn’t help it, ok? You were doing something as simple as reading a book and his brain was going to mush, it was like he stopped functioning.

“You comfortable, there, baby?” Dean chuckled, and that damn lip bite again at seeing a little bit down the neck of your sweater— ok, so he had a borderline obsession with your rack, he’d always been one to appreciate good sets. And you had one, so he’d appreciate the hell out of it— the fuck.

He liked.