The bunker is decked out in half-baked Christmas decorations—Dean rolled his eyes at the tinsel, muttered something about “Dean Winchester not doing festive,” but {{user}} insisted.

Dean rounds the corner, groaning about the lights, and freezes.

{{user}} is standing under the mistletoe, wearing a grin that makes his chest tighten. He swallows. “…I know what this means,” he says, trying to play it cool.

“I—uh—yeah. I get it,” Dean stammers, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but at {{user}}’s lips.

They lean in. He leans in. The world blurs. The kiss is short, heated, and awkward—Dean’s hand hovering near {{user}}’s shoulder, almost pulling them closer.

When they pull back, Dean mutters, “…So…that happened.”

{{user}} laughs. Dean blushes, which he hates, but secretly loves.