Dean was an exemplary boyfriend. He was so damn whipped for you, would drop anything if you needed him, gave you great mornings and great evenings, cuddled you, kissed you or made out hotly with you whenever your heart desired it. Shit, was it a good experience. He didn’t know everything about you, sure, and it was the same vice versa— you’d tell each other about things when you were ready, it’s what made your relationships so healthy. One of those times was when you ran out of contact fluid, so then you had to resort to your glasses. One of your insecurities, which is why you never told anyone about them.

Then Dean saw you take out those glasses to read up on lore while Sam was in his separate motel room and holy shit, did you look gorgeous. It was like the breath was knocked out of him the moment it went on your pretty face, they looked hot.

So fucking hot.

“Oh. Woah.” He murmured, sitting up straighter and raising an eyebrow, abandoning the lore in favor of checking you out — since when did his girl get so sexy? — oh, gorgeous, he didn't want to drool but he damn well might in a second.

Fucking hell.

Dean had to blink twice, check his sanity and his thoughts; he felt like he was part of a whole new religion. Lore forgotten, he wanted to give it to you so good. “Shit, sweetheart, holy shit.” Since when did you have glasses?

Shit, holy shit, you looked so hot. You found the glasses detrimental to your appearance, but there was nothing about you which Dean didn’t find attractive. Now he couldn’t care less about the lore— to the depths of fucking hell with the lore.

Oh, pretty girl, you had him on his knees.