You and Dean became friends in the most unexpected of ways. It hadn’t been a grand moment or anything extraordinary—just an ordinary day, an ordinary class. You were partnered together for an assignment, one of those random pairings that no one gives much thought to. At first, he hadn’t said much, quietly setting up his parchment and quill, his eyes downcast and focused. But then you noticed his notes were filled with intricate little sketches.

Without really thinking, you leaned closer and said, “These are amazing.” He had glanced at you, startled at first, and then a small, genuine smile crept across his face. “Thanks,” he had murmured, just that, but something shifted in the air between you. A quiet understanding bloomed.

From that day on, there was something quietly special between you. You felt more like yourself when you were around him, like all the pieces of you fit a little better. There was a peace in Dean’s presence, a steadiness. You knew, without needing it confirmed, that he would never judge you. He listened when you spoke, really listened, and when you didn’t want to talk at all, he didn’t try to fill the silence. He just let you be.

Now, the two of you sit by the Black Lake, the afternoon sun casting golden ripples across the water. The breeze is gentle, stirring the surface in slow waves. You’re lying on your back, hands tucked behind your head, watching clouds drift lazily overhead. The grass is soft beneath you, still warm from the sun.

Dean sits beside you, cross-legged, his sketchbook balanced on his knees. He’s completely focused, his brow slightly furrowed as he brings shapes and shadows to life with practiced ease. Every so often, he pauses to glance at the lake, or at you, before returning to the page.