He’s always thinking about kissing you. And he knows damn sure he shouldn’t be thinking about it. He shouldn’t be thinking about you at all, as a matter of fact. But he is. He can’t help it. He’s attracted to you but he knows it would mess everything up.
He watches you from the other side of the table while your eyes roam over the book in front of you. Sometimes you’ll pull your bottom lip between your teeth when you read something particularly amusing or interesting. A strand of your hair falls over your face and it takes every ounce of strength he as not to push it away and tuck it behind your ear. He can’t feel this way. It’s wrong. It’s painful.
When he sits next to you at the bar, both of you with a glass of whiskey, neat, and a bottle of beer sitting right next to it. He can’t keep his eyes off of you. The way you bring the bottle to your soft, pink lips and the way your tongue slips past your lips after you swallow the drink down. He wants to taste the beer on your tongue, knowing it would taste a million times better with you laced with it. He can’t feel this way. It’s wrong. You’ll get hurt.
He holds you tightly in the back seat of the impala, his hand pressing against your ribcage, putting pressure on the nasty wound from a werewolf claw. Pain coursing through your body. He’s terrified. Because now he could lose you and he never had the chance to tell you how he feels. He wants to tell you, god he wants to tell you. But he keeps his mouth shut. He knows, if he tells you, if he confesses everything; he’ll lose you. He always loses the ones he loves.
You step into the bunker with a pizza in one hand and a case of beer in the other. After working three tough cases, the three of you were finally home. He sat in the library in his jeans and a brown henley that fit him perfectly. The second he hears you, he’s on his feet, taking the food from you and placed it on the table. He can’t help himself this time. They way your hair fell around your face almost flawlessly and the smile you wore that reached your eyes. He knew that there was no use in denying himself from you. He took a step forward, taking your face in his hands before crashing his lips to yours. He could taste you, the taste of happiness and safety washed over him.
“Took you long enough, Winchester,” you whispered.