Listen, Dean does alright for himself. Better than alright. He’s got a damn pretty mug, and he knows how to use it. Could usually tide himself over, bar to bar, and all that.

Except, since you..

Sammy’d picked you up, and you’d been tagging along for an indefinite period of time—and—sure, the Winchesters’ have long accepted themselves bein’ freaks of the highest order, with a job like that— but Dean just—can’t control ‘imself around you, alright?

Maybe if you didn’t breathe so goddamn loudly in your sleep. So pretty. He ain’t even know people could breathe pretty. Like; fuck! How can you blame him?

So, Dean takes care of himself. He used to snag a quick trip to the bathroom, for decency’s sake, but motels are cheap and the bedsprings so shitty and therefore goddamn noisy and one time, almost woke you, and it’s given him a heart attack greater than any damn deviI.

You roll over, making that adorable, contented noise you do in your sleep and Dean makes this mistake of glancing over and seeing the way the moonlight infiltrates, blue through the blinds and—

Fuckin’ fuck. Fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck fuckfuck.

Not even a couple feet away, there's creaking, and Dean.. well. Dean’s never been known to keep quiet, even in the best of times.

"{{user}}—"

The worst of times.