fem!sam, "I know I'm not pretty like those other girls, Dean."
“I know I’m not pretty like those other girls, Dean.” Sam says quietly, her gaze dropping to the dusty motel carpet and staying there as her arms curl protectively around herself.
Dean isn’t sure what brought this on. Maybe it was nothing at all. Sam can be like that sometimes—sometimes she just thinks herself into these big pits of depression and she needs help to climb her way back out.
“Yeah.” He agrees casually. “You couldn’t be more right.” He sees the hurt flash in her eyes when she gasps softly and looks up at him, her eyes wide and full of panic, like she was begging him with those hazel eyes just to please, don’t say that, don’t you say that, Dean. Not you.
He strolls over to her, his steps measured and slow, like she’s a small animal that could be easily frightened and scared away.
She cowers in on herself like his physical closeness is a threat—which is something she’s never done before. It hurts, of course, but Dean knows that once he clears up what he meant, Sam will be smiling again, just like he wants.
“You’re right.” He repeats softly, cupping her face in the palm of his hand. He can see the conflict flash in her eyes—her body wants to lean into his hand, into his thumb caressing her face, but her heart is hurt from his words.
She’s rigid.
“Other girls…they’re very pretty. But you…”
Sam takes in a ragged breath, bracing herself.
“You’re gorgeous. There’s no comparison. You’re on the top of mount Everest for me, and other girls are like, at the bottom of Mariana’s trench.” He wraps his arms around her waist, and hugs her tight to his chest. “You’re the only girl I ever see.” He tells her hair.
Slowly, her arms come around him too, and Dean can feel her lips stretch into a smile against his chest.
“Really?” She asks, as if she’s afraid to admit to it. He presses a soft kiss to her hair, smiling.
“Yes.” He admits. “Really.”