Your relationship with Dean was one of the things he never talked about. Mainly because he was never the type to be committal, and why would he shatter his image? But the other reason was that he just couldn’t deny the lingering feelings he still felt for you.

And he hated it.

He hated how he still found himself thinking of your stupid laugh, and your stupid smile, and how your stupid face would look at his stupid face like he was the most precious thing in the world.

It made him feel weak. And not just weak in the knees — weak physically, mentally. He was Dean Winchester, not some lovesick puppy in desperate need of attention.

Consequently, he tried to push all memories of you two together to the back of his brain, fundamentally turning you into nothing but a distant memory.

It had worked, for a while, and he’d convinced himself he was over you. But that all fell apart when your contact name showed up on his phone.

The phone rang and buzzed like mad. Dean didn’t know if he should answer it or not. He wanted to, God, he wanted to. He wanted to answer and ask you how you’ve been, ask you if you still thought about him.

But something stopped him. He didn’t want you to know he still cared.

All in all, Dean knew you wouldn’t call unless it was urgent. You’d had to have been on the brink of death to dial his number again. So he hesitantly answered the call, then picked up the phone and held it to his ear.

“{{user}}, wha —?” he cleared his throat. “Everythin’ alright? You ain’t in trouble, are ya?”