Dean Winchester didn’t do love,

He did do women, and boobs, his car, Baby, and women—no—settling down for life, crap. No way. All he wanted was to get into some panties, that’s it. But it was harder to vehemently deny such a thing when those words had slipped past his lips so easily to you. Too easily. And that wasn’t fair. Because again, a man like Dean didn’t—

…He didn’t. But a man like Dean Winchester just did. By total, complete accident, no less. In some crappy motel room, with the two of leaning agaisnt the headboard, nursing a couple of beers after a long hunt. All the beer gave him a loose tongue, is all. Yeah.

It hung there in the air between you, and for a moment, Dean didn’t even seem to register what he had said. But then, realization hit him like a ton of bricks. His eyes went wide, and he straightened up, suddenly looking like he wanted to crawl into a hole.

“Wait—no, I didn’t—uh, that’s not—” He stammered, running a hand through his hair, clearly flustered in a way you’d never seen before. Dean wasn’t the kind of guy to drop those three little words, especially not like that.

He saw your mouth open—and no way was he going to let you comment on it— “No, I didn’t,” he quickly interrupted, shaking his head furiously. “I mean—maybe I did, but I didn’t mean to say it like that. Or at all! Crap.” He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly out of his depth.

“Look, what I meant to say was... I just... I care about you, alright? Like, a lot. But the other thing? That was... yeah, that was just beer talk or something.” Yeah, real smooth, Dean.

He glanced at you, shoudlers all tense like some wound up toy. “…you’re totally going to tell Sam, aren’t you?”