College was a bore when you had the most boring lecturer known to man, but there was one highlight to your day, just the one, and that was Dean Winchester. The bad-boy-next-door who sat in the row in front of you in your lectures, and fuck, was he the most gorgeous man you’d ever seen. With his big green eyes, pouty pink lips, sandy hair and a jawline that could cut steel, not to mention his voice and easygoing grins that had your stomach fluttering.

Sure, half the girls on campus had a crush on him and sure, he was the most attractive ladies man you’d ever meet, but you were acting as if he’s noticed you this whole time. He had, in fact, a few times, and if you’d known that you’d probably swoon, cause it was Dean fuckin’ Winchester, duh.

In the middle of your Criminology lecture, you heard a quiet “fuck” leave the mouth of Dean in front of you — even him cussing was sexy — and a small groan. “Hey, sweetheart?” Oh, fuck, he’d turned around— he’d actually turned around and was now looking to you with that pretty smile.

Oh, mama, you were screwed, screwed for life, with those green eyes and the voice that had finally called you sweetheart, you were done for, mark it now. “Got a pen I can use? Mine’s outta juice.”

On second glance, Dean thought you were really pretty, girl-next-door pretty (and he’s had his fair share of those, goddamn), and his gaze became more appreciative— respectfully appreciative.