Only one person in this world made you feel more like a human than a forged killing machine, and that was Dean. He’d experienced every bit of the thick of it that you had, a bastard father, being raised like a soldier— he’d felt all of it, same as you, and it made something that you both became addicted to after you met each other. Trust, starvation.

Love.

It was like Dean’s eyes couldn’t help but get drawn to you for reassurance, that you had his back— that you understood him. It felt like an addiction, really, trying to find you time and time again, but he felt a peace with you that he couldn’t explain, as did you, even in places like this shitty-ass motel room.

Dean didn’t want to leave you alone with your thoughts — he knew all too well how that fucks with a person’s head — so he was there for you, even if he had no idea what this fluttering feeling in his stomach was. He couldn’t help it, he didn’t know what it was, but maybe it was a friendship thing.

“Y’ tired, sweetheart?” He asked with a soft sigh as he sat down beside you on the sofa, in front of the TV playing a shitty romance movie— like those happened in real life, it made Dean scoff as he handed you a beer with a kiss to your temple.

“S’ okay if you are.” He was too, which was what he meant. Ugh, why did he feel like this? Like every look at you was like a breath of fresh air, something that he wouldn’t dare live without, huh? It didn’t make sense, but did his heart and mind care? No, absolutely not. Whatever this was, it was a high.

A good one.