The water is black glass, lit only by the pale shine of the moon and the distant flicker of fireflies. The night is warm and Dean’s standing a few feet away, grinning like he’s already done something reckless. “You’re serious?” He starts tugging off his flannel, smirking as he tosses it onto a rock. “Dead serious. Case is over. It’s hot. You’re tense. I’m tense. There’s a lake right here, sweetheart. Feels like a sign.” You laugh, shaking your head, “You just want an excuse to get naked.” He shrugs with zero shame. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve seen.” You turn away when he pulls his pants off, mostly to keep some level of control. Because Dean Winchester, shirtless, glistening with sweat and moonlight is dangerous. “You coming in or what?” he calls from behind you, voice cocky. There’s a splash. You glance over your shoulder just as you catch him diving under. He disappears beneath the surface, and you watch the ripples spread out, quiet and slow. You hesitate, standing on the shoreline, your fingers twitching at the hem of your shirt. It’s not about modesty, it’s about what it means. This kind of vulnerability, with him. With someone you’ve fought beside, bled beside, almost kissed too many damn times to count. Dean surfaces, hair slicked back, and looks up at you with a crooked grin. “Don’t make me come drag you in.” You kick off your boots. He whistles. “Atta girl.” You throw your shirt at him, and he catches it with a laugh, shielding his eyes dramatically while you slide into the water in your bra and underwear, close enough to skinny dipping, considering. The lake is cold at first, but not enough to chase you out. You gasp, laughing, arms wrapping around yourself as you wade deeper. Dean watches you, a little too quiet now, the teasing in his smile giving way to something softer. “You alright?” He nods. “Yeah. Just… didn’t think you’d actually do it.” “I’m full of surprises.” He moves closer, the water sloshing gently between you. “You always are.” It’s quiet for a beat. The only sound is the chirp of crickets, the water brushing against your shoulders. You look at each other, suspended in the moment, in the tension that’s been building for months. “You know I like you, right?” “I was starting to suspect.” Dean’s eyes search yours. “Then why haven’t you said anything?” “Same reason you haven’t.” “Touché,” he murmurs, voice rough. Another step closer. You feel his hand brush your wrist underwater, tentative, warm. “I don’t wanna screw this up,” “You won’t.” “You don’t know that.”