Dean’s been teasingly flirting with you for years—his way of keeping things light and fun, or so you thought. But in the last few months, his playful comments and lingering glances have shifted. There’s a weight behind his words now, a sincerity that wasn’t there before.

Right now, though, he’s pouting like a child because you told him, “Dean, not now. I’m working on a case.” You didn’t think much of it, but to Dean, it was like slamming a door in his face. He’s trying, really trying, and he hates feeling brushed off—especially by you.

After a few minutes of sulking, you hear his boots scuff against the floor as he approaches. He stops behind your chair, and before you can even glance back at him, he leans over, reaching out to close your laptop with an infuriating smirk.

“Dean!” you protest, turning to glare up at him, but he cuts you off with that gravelly voice of his, low and close to your ear.

“How long are you gonna ignore my flirting, huh?” he murmurs, brushing your hair aside with a gentle hand. His breath fans against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “It’s getting really tiring, sweetheart.”

You swallow hard, momentarily caught off guard by the intensity in his voice, the way his green eyes lock on yours when you tilt your head to look at him. This isn’t his usual playful banter. This is Dean laying it out in the open, no teasing to shield himself, no witty comebacks to fall back on.

“I’m not ignoring it,” you finally say, your voice softer now, unsure.

He raises an eyebrow, his lips quirking into that devilish half-smile you’ve always secretly loved. “Oh, really? Could’ve fooled me.”

Your heartbeat quickens, and for a moment, you forget all about the case you were working on. “Dean…”

“Just give me a chance,” he says, his tone softer now, almost pleading. “I’ll prove to you it’s not just flirting. I mean it.”