Dean Winchester...

The school day dragged on, but Dean didn’t seem to mind. His eyes always found you in the crowd, and that alone was enough to make math class tolerable and the cafeteria noise fade into the background.

When the bell rang, Dean leaned against the lockers, pretending like he wasn’t waiting. His leather jacket hung a little loose on him, the kind of “too cool to care” look that most people bought without question. But the second he spotted you walking down the hallway, something softened in his expression—like all that bravado was just a cover.

At football practice, he went harder than usual, stealing glances toward the bleachers where you sat with a book. Every completed pass, every tackle, it was like he was trying to impress you without admitting it. When he caught the winning throw, he smirked—only for you.

Later, under the yellow glow of the parking lot lights, Dean lingered by his car. He fiddled with the keys, running a hand through his hair like he wasn’t sure if he should say something or just drive off. Instead, he leaned against the hood, waiting, letting the night air settle between you. His usual cocky grin slipped into something gentler, quieter, just for you.

It wasn’t loud or obvious, the way Dean Winchester liked you. It was in the way his gaze softened when you weren’t looking, the way he slowed down his steps to match yours in the hallway, the way he acted like every small moment around you mattered.

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