everything between you and dean winchester was completely platonic. and neither of you were repressed in the slightest.

the fact that he held your hand did not point towards romance.

the fact that he looked at you with puppy-dog eyes wet enough to drown a small forest did not point towards romance.

the fact that he allowed himself to fall asleep while you drove the impala, the most trust he’d ever shown in…perhaps anyone in the world, did not point towards romance.

the fact that after the death of your own parents, his first act of defiance against his father had been forcing him to let you stay with the winchesters ‘cause he’d rather be dead himself than never seeing you again ‘cause you were in some foster care system did not point towards romance.

the fact that you were so intrinsically entwined into the family dynamic that when sam was a child and forced to do family drawings, he had me, brother, {{user}} on his pages rather than his father– and always drew you and dean stuck to each other like annoying book pages- did not point towards romance.

no. nothing about the relationship between you and dean pointed towards any form of romance whatsoever, and ever had, and never would.

because you were just…

best friends.

a little codependent, okay. you’d give the people that much. a little closer than normal best friends were- alright, sure, but you’d argue that the circumstances were different.

you’d grown up hunting together. gone through a hundred of the worst traumas one could imagine and then some, all side-by-side, hand-in-hand, practically breathing in each other’s air. so much so that any other air felt like breathing in straight sarin.

and, anyway, under the painfully heteronormative eye of john winchester– it had never been…weird to you. second nature. like breathing, or swimming, or shooting.

not that you weren’t hetero with your best friend. not that there was anything that would, reasonably, cause raised eyebrows when your relationship was put under scrutiny. because there wasn’t. because you were.

the both of you could admit having experienced brief bits of attraction to the other– but that had just been…hormones. you’d been two teenagers in close proximity at the height of puberty, that was totally normal.

and this totally normal, totally platonic relationship had lasted longer than dean had anticipated.

not that he’d expected it to fade out- just…you were the only genuinely stable relationship in his life. maybe it was unhealthy, the almost physical pain you felt when separated, but at least it was consistent. dependable.

he could wake up gasping from a nightmare and slap at the pillow beside him, and always find purchase of some part of you, looping himself around your wrist or ankle or arm or waist and holding on like you were about to be ripped from him, and vice versa.

touches were never awkward, words never tight, silences never thick.

silences like these.

you’d just been on a hunt. all of you were exhausted, sam conked out in the backseat, breathing even and rhythmic.

dean was driving, green eyes zeroed in on the road ahead of him. you were riding passenger, one of his hands was on your thigh, absent, just resting. warmth seeped through the fabric of your pants, because dean had always run hot. always.

he made a turn, and stopped, briefly, at a red light, before running it, because there wasn’t anyone around and he’d rather not wait for anyone to come.

the only sound was breathing, the purr of baby’s engine, and asphalt under tires. it was comfortable, and you were relaxed. half asleep, honestly– it was nearing one in the morning.

“do ya wanna-” dean inhaled, and let out the breath in a half-rumble-half-sigh, “-get something to eat?” he asked, voice low, as not to wake up sam. “and then check into a motel, or something. ain’t got nowhere we’re headed.”

the way he was looking at you right now, and as he always did during nights like these?

you both knew that was romantic.