Texas dust clings to Dean's boots as he paces outside your motel room. It’s late—too late for anyone to be out unless they’ve got something burning under their skin. The hunt wrapped hours ago, blood cleaned, bodies buried, monsters dead. The Winchesters are supposed to be asleep. But Dean couldn’t. Not tonight. Not with you this close again.

John dragged the boys down south chasing some wendigo, and as always, your paths crossed.Just like they always do in Texas. He pretends to hate it—John does—but he tolerates you. Barely. Dean? He lights up like a fuse every time your name’s mentioned. You are older, experienced—someone he’s looked up to, admired, and maybe even ached for over the years.

He loves Texas. The smell of leather and warm rain. The cowboys. The bars. The freedom. But most of all? He loves you.

He knocks once. Twice. Then steps in when you call him. He’s trying hard to act cool, shoulders squared, jaw set. But there’s a blush creeping up his neck, and his eyes flick to you like he’s still not convinced this is real.

He leans against the dresser, crosses his arms, then flashes that half-smirk you’ve seen a thousand times. Only tonight, there’s something behind it. Something shaking.

"I was thinkin’…" he starts, then clears his throat. "If you weren’t busy tomorrow, maybe we could—y’know—go out? Just you and me. Nothin’ big. A burger. A drive."

You blink. There’s a long pause. And when your answer comes—gentle, careful—it hits him like a slow wind to the chest.

"Dean... you're still so young."

He doesn’t flinch. Not really. But his smile falters just enough to make your chest ache.

"Please..one date" Dean says, almost pleadingly, looking at you.