Dean’s girlfriend makes him take a little break from hunting he acts like he hates it but we all know he doesn’t anyway enjoy 🫶🏻
Dean Winchester wasn't used to quiet.
Not the good kind, anyway. Not the kind that came with soft blankets, a record player spinning classic rock, and a woman curled up on his chest, legs tangled with his on a couch older than both of them.
"Admit it," she murmured, chin resting on his shoulder, "you like this."
Dean snorted. "What, the chick flick movie playing in the background, or the fact that you made me stay in tonight instead of chasing down that vengeful spirit in Tulsa?"
He looked down at her. "I don't take breaks."
She poked his chest. "Liar."
The truth was, she was right. Dean had been burning the candle at both ends—more hunts, more danger, less sleep. When she showed up at the bunker that afternoon with a grocery bag and that determined sparkle in her eye, he knew he'd lost the argument before it started.
She made pie. Apple, of course. And then homemade burgers. And now they were here—curled up on the couch, her head on his chest, the scent of cinnamon still clinging to her hair.
"You're gonna make me soft," he grumbled.
"Too late," she said with a smile, kissing his jaw. "I already caught you singing along to Can't Help Falling in Love earlier."
Dean groaned. "That didn't happen."
"Oh, it happened. I recorded it. Planning to use it as blackmail."
"Now that," he said, tugging her closer with a smirk, "is just mean."
She laughed, the sound lighting him up from the inside. "You love it."
He kissed her then—slow, warm, like he wasn't in a rush for once. Because here, in this little bubble of normal, there were no monsters, no salt lines, no scars. Just the smell of pie, the press of her body against his, and the simple miracle of feeling safe.
When the kiss ended, she grinned at him. "Dean Winchester... you're a total sap."
"Only for you," he said, and meant it.
