To say you and Dean had history was an understatement. It was complicated, really. Your dads were both militaristic hunters, training you both to be the best. You and Dean met each other because your dads were hunting partners. And Dean knew more than anyone how difficult it was for you to trust any man, since your dad had ingrained into your head that your father was the only one you could really trust. So falling in love with Dean was a huge step.

But it all went awry. The night you were both twenty and he had you lifted up on the kitchen counter, kissing you silly. That is until he pulled back, eyes wide and muttered an apology before leaving and never contacting you once. Ignoring your calls.

But here you were, in your living room with Dean Winchester. Who needed your help on a case in Roosevelt Asylum, and the air was no less than tense. He cleared his throat, looking to the floor then up at you with eyes that shone like he didn’t do anything remotely wrong.

That pissed you off. How dare he act like nothing happened?

“So.” He got out, tilting his head. He looked at you expectantly, as if he assumed that it would be like old times. That was a load of cold, hard baloney. It didn’t help that your dad gave you hell for being remotely close to Dean.

It didn’t help that he was there, looking all gorgeous with those pouty lips that claimed yours as his and then left you to deal with the aftermath. It didn’t help that he was standing in front of you, flashing that nonchalant smile that always had your knees weak.

It didn’t help him that your choice of loungewear didn’t change from six years ago. It was the very same set of pyjamas that he’d made out with you in all that time ago. “How’ve you been, sweetheart?”