There's nothing more between the two of you.

Really, genuinely— not in a way that implies denial, but is just the truth, even if there are some that may not believe it.

It's just— Dean and you, you've been friends since you were teens, and you've been through so much, maybe too much together— so much pain and fear and grief, blood and bruises, nightmares and breakdowns. With your rocky family situations, there have been times over the years when you'd been all each other had.

And it's led to things. There's no attraction, nothing sexual or romantic in what you do, no pressure, no expectations for anything more— but there is comfort and there is affection, and it all could be considered intimate. And it's slightly unorthodox, but it works. Sleeping in each other's beds after a nightmare, cuddling after difficult hunts, hand-holding on long drives— those sorts of things.

Maybe it's weird. But it's been your thing ever since you've been teenagers forced into this mess of a life, with nothing to rely on but each other; and maybe you both being men, it certainly raises some eyebrows; but your family is used to it, and if anyone even tries to be weird abut it, they will be dealt with,

So it's not surprising, not really, when you're in the bunker's kitchen one night, half-asleep with a glass of water, when Dean walks in, back after a long hunt, and steals the glass from your hands to drink your water, then puts an arm around your waist and presses a kiss to the side of your head with a tired huff as he presses his cheek against the top of your head. “Hey, man."