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Dean can’t fight the smile that’s creeping onto his face. He’s staring, and he knows it’s a little weird—even if you are his girlfriend. But something about the way you look, so focused on your book, your whole body enraptured, perched so precariously in the overstuffed armchair on the other side of the table. Something about you makes him weak. So he allows the smile, and the blatant staring.
You haven’t noticed yet, and Dean is grateful that your book is so intriguing, because it gives him time to study you, to make a list of everything he loves about you as he tries not the fall asleep at the uncomfortable library table.
He starts with your hair. Right now—and most of the time, honestly—it’s piled on top of your head in a haphazard messy bun. Strands are falling out to frame your face, and he just can’t help the little sigh he makes at the sight of your stray hairs forming a sort of halo around your head. The imagery is accurate, he thinks; you’re his sweet, innocent angel. Altogether too good for someone like him.
He mentally shakes himself and takes a sip of his whiskey. You wouldn’t want him thinking like that. It was taking some getting used to, not talking down to himself every chance he gets. But the disappointed look, the sad eyes and small frown he got from you when he said anything even the slightest bit self-deprecating was enough to make him want to ever say a negative thing about himself again.
He shifts in his seat, ever so slightly, trying to find a comfortable position in the hard back wooden chair. Sleep pulls at his already heavy eyelids, and he knows he can head to bed; you told him two hours ago that you were planning on finishing that book tonight if it killed you, and that he should go to bed. But he’d made up some excuse about needing to look into a Tulpa case in Nebraska just so he could stay up and admire you.
He takes another sip of his almost gone whiskey and smiles when you let out the smallest of gasps, and almost laughs when you reposition your legs underneath you so that your upper body is leaning almost entirely over the book in your lap. God he loves that. How you can just give your attention so wholly to whatever you’re focused on. It’s nothing short of a gift, and he should know. When he’s on the receiving end of that attention he feels like he’s the only goddamn man in the world. He’s tried to explain your superpower to you before, but you always blush and laugh him off, telling him it’s your love that he’s seeing. But he’s not so sure.
He loves Sammy, and he knows his brother loves him, but when Sam talks to him he doesn’t feel at the center of his attention. With you he does. And besides, he’s seen you do it with other people, too. It comes in incredibly handy when you’re on cases. The way you position your body and lean in, to make your audience feel listened to, the way you hold eye contact—not too intense, but soft, caring. It makes people open right up. Himself included. He never could talk to anyone like he talked to you. And he knew part of it was because he never—not for a single second—felt like you were going to judge or mock him for anything he said. You would only listen, and if he asked for advice, you would say something from a place of love. And that was invaluable.
He glances up at your face again to see the corner of your bottom lip pulled between your teeth and your eyes narrowed at the page. A quick skip down from your lips to your exposed neck and low cut tank top sends a soft thrill shooting through him despite his fatigue. While he loves all those things about you—your focus, your intelligence, your kickass yet gentle and loving attitude—he couldn’t deny the simple physical attraction that drew him to you in the first place. Your soft lips that always look so ready to be absolutely ravished; the curve of your neck, always looking like it needed to be sucked on. Although he does love biting it, too. And your breasts. Goddamn your breasts. He always thought he had a type before he met you. He knew what he liked, and he was happy to stick to it. But you. You managed to make him rewrite everything he thought he knew about women. About sex. Because you were one of a kind, and he soon discovered his type was you.
You shift again, interrupting his direct view down your tank top to lean back against an arm of the chair and drape your legs over the side, your eyes never leaving the page. His eyes run down the length of your outstretched legs, and he can’t help the sudden tightness in his jeans at the memories of what those amazing legs of yours could do. And not just hunting things. Sure, you were fast and strong and could outrun the nastiest monsters out there, but those legs were also amazing at trapping his face between your legs, or wrapping around his back and squeezing his body to yours.
He shifts again and tries to control his body’s natural reaction to thinking about you naked, sprawled out underneath him. A sudden wave of fatigue hits him, despite his arousal, and he almost groans. Maybe he could rest his eyes, just for a second. They felt so goddamn heavy. He folds his arms on top of the table and rests his chin on top of them, still able to watch you. Your whole body was tense now, and your eyes were flying down the pages; you must be near the end. Dean sighs and lets his eyes fall shut. He’d just rest for a second while you finished, then he’d carry you to bed. Just a second—
You glance up from your book when you hear a soft snore coming from your right. You almost jump when you see Dean, still at his spot from earlier, now fast asleep in his chair. You honestly didn’t know he was still in here, and you felt a little bad. Maybe you should have been talking to him while he finished up his research…
You glance down at your watch and gasp. 3:30am? You groan and roll off of the chair. Time for bed. You set your book down on the table after putting your bookmark inside—less than a hundred pages from the end, dammit—and round the side of the table to come up behind Dean. He was still in his flannel and jeans from earlier, and you couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable he was, especially in that hard wooden chair.
You rest your hands on his shoulders and rub him softly through his shirt. You lean over him and drop your head onto his shoulder, your mouth right next to his ear. “Dean, baby, wake up. Time for bed,” you whisper.
He makes a noise and stirs, slowly lifting his head from his arms. He looks to the armchair where you’d been for the past few hours, then looks confused until you squeeze his shoulders, bringing his gaze to you. He gives you a tired half smile. “Hey, sweetheart. You finish your book?”
You make a frustrated noise. “I have like, a hundred pages left.”
He grunts and resettles his chin on his arms. “Finish it. I’ll wait.”
Your heart swells at his seemingly meaningless statement. You shake your head and squeeze his shoulders again. “’m tired. Let’s go to bed.”
He grunts again, and slowly sits up. “Okay. Only because you’re tired, though.”
You laugh and pull him out of his chair by his hand. “Come on, Lancelot. I can’t sleep unless you’re cuddling me.”
He huffs, “I don’t cuddle,” but drapes an arm around your shoulder and walks with you through the bunker towards your shared room. “Lancelot, huh?”
You can feel his grin on the side of your face. You smile and twine your fingers through the hand hanging off your shoulder. “You’re my knight in shining armor. Stayed up with me all night just so I could finish my book? Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”
He’s too tired to argue with you, but he still rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to your temple. Then, in one solid, swift motion, he’s picked you up and is carrying you bridal style. You shriek in surprise, your arms automatically going around Dean’s neck for balance, but he’s still walking down the hall like nothing happened.
You smack his chest and glare up at him. “What the hell, Dean?”
He smirks and kisses your forehead. “I’m your knight in shining armor, right? Knights carry their princesses.”
You blush at being called a princess, but don’t protest any further. You just enjoy the soft lull of Dean’s steps, the firm strength of his arms underneath you, and the strong smell of his cologne and whiskey in your nose. It was all so Dean, and you found yourself drifting off, lulled to sleep by the feeling of security.
You’re dimly aware of Dean dropping you softly to the bed, and you hear some rustling before you feel Dean get in behind you, pulling you flush against his bare chest. You hum and cuddle back against him, maneuvering until every inch of you was pressed up against him. He drapes a solid arm around your waist and pulls you impossibly closer to him, and he drops a barely-there kiss on your temple. “I love you, sweetheart.”
His breath is soft against your hair, and you sigh. “I love you too, Lancelot.”
You drift back to sleep, chased by the soft sound of his gentle laughter.