Dean was a foodie, and that much was obvious. He had five stomachs, one for breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, and last of all, well, you.

He’d never get enough of you, no matter how hard you didn’t try to make yourself look like a homeless person in the evening, he’d still throw you over his shoulder and march towards his bedroom in the bunker to worship you until you screamed.

So scrolling on your YouTube feed, you found a reel where a woman asks her husband what her favourite snack was to see if he said her, and you had to try it.

Dean was busy washing his hands of motor oil when you decided to ask the question. “Baby, what’s your favourite snack?”

“Hm?” He turned around, shaking his hands before wiping them with a hand towel, thoughts of his answers running through his head. Pie, beef jerky, hot dogs, chicken tikka, but wait, pie’s a dessert, so that doesn’t count. He chuckled, shaking his head. “That ain’t fair, sweetheart.”