Dean sits across from you in the booth, nursing his beer and pretending not to listen while you talk to the waitress. You’re polite, charming, in that quiet, reliable kind of way that people lean into without realizing it. She laughs at something you say, touches your arm when she drops off the drinks. And you smile back. It’s harmless. Dean hates it. He stares down into the neck of his beer like it might give him answers. He’s not looking at you. Not really. Except he is. Every few seconds. Tracking your deep voice, your laugh, the shape of your shoulder under that damn jacket. You’ve always been good to him. Steady. Fair. The opposite of John, who barks orders and never says thank you. You don’t treat him like a kid. You say good work. You ask if he’s eaten. You notice when he’s bleeding. Dean doesn’t know what that is. Doesn’t have a box for it in his brain. He tries to push it off as just some admiration or shit. Cause he’s not gay. He’s not gay… But it lights something up in his chest. Something he only notices when it’s gone. Like now. Because right now? You’re not looking at him. You’re looking at her. And that makes his stomach twist. She’s pretty or whatever, hell he’d honestly go for her if you weren’t there. But he hates this feeling. Hates the little spike of something ugly in his chest when she laughs too hard and leans too close. He doesn’t say anything. Just drains his beer faster than he should. You don’t notice. Or maybe you do, you look over at him a minute later, brows pulling together. “You good?”

Dean shrugs. “Peachy.” You tilt your head. Concerned, but not pushing. You never push. Dean looks away, jaw tight. John’s off talking to the bartender. Not listening. Not that he ever does. Dean taps the table, then says louder than necessary, “So is she your type or somethin’?”

“What?”

Dean jerks his chin toward the bar. “Waitress. She’s all over you.”

You laugh, confused. “I was just being polite.”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters. “Polite.” You look at him for a second too long. Like you’re trying to read something in his face. Dean looks away. He doesn’t want you to see it. The way his skin’s crawling. The way it burns that you’re not looking at him like that. Not talking to him the way you talk to her. Like you give a damn.

“She’s nice,” you say. “Friendly.”

Dean snorts. “Sure. Friendly.” There’s a pause. The kind that hangs heavy.

You clear your throat. “You alright, Dean?”

He forces a grin that’s too wide. “Just tired. Long day.” You don’t buy it. He can see it in your eyes. But you nod. You always let him lie. And that’s worse somehow. That you don’t make him say it. Because if he had to say it out loud, that he wants your attention, your praise, your eyes on him instead of her, then he’d have to figure out why. And he doesn’t have an answer for that. Is it because you’re older? Steady? Safe in a way no man in his life ever was? Is it some screwed-up craving for approval he never got from his father? Or is it something else? Something warm and ugly that curls up in his gut when you lean in too close. When your voice drops too low. When your hand brushes his shoulder and he thinks about it for hours. He doesn’t know. So he does what he always does. He flirts. Deflects. Controls the angle of the hit. Dean leans forward across the table, resting his arms just right to show off the muscle. He looks at you, all cocky grin and lowered lashes, and says: “Could probably get her number, if I wanted. Think I’m her type?”

You huff a laugh. “Probably. You’re everyone’s type.”

Dean smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah? What about yours?”

There’s a pause. You look at him, then you shake your head, smiling like you think he’s just being Dean. “Don’t start.”

He laughs. Hollow. “Just making conversation.” And just like that, you turn your attention back to your drink. Dean watches the side of your face, heart hammering. He doesn’t know what he wants more: for you to play along… Or to finally call his bluff.