Your cheeks were burning, you could actually feel the heat of it and you ducked your head to the notebook in hand as Sam’s footsteps faded down the hall. Try as you might to stare at the blank paper in front of you, you could feel Dean’s eyes on you.
“So,” he started. You risked a glance up at him, clenching your teeth together to stop any more damning words to get out.
“How long have you been in love with Sammy?”
“What makes you think–”
“Sam isn’t funny,” Dean interrupted. “He tries, I’ll give him that, but most of the time his jokes are a big swing and a miss.”
“Alright, well we don’t have to say that he’s funny in your speech,” you said, looking back to your page and putting your pen to it. “There are a lot of other things you could say.”
“Y/N.” Dean’s voice was gentler now, and you met his eyes with tears beginning to brim in your own. “How long?”
“I don’t know. Over a year now, I guess,” you replied. But it didn’t seem to matter much now anyway. The time of it was nothing. Sam was getting married and you were too late.
The woman at the optician today clearly doesn’t wear glasses herself because she cleaned mine and left smudges on them but I didn’t want to clean them again because that would be rude so I sat there for twenty minutes with smudgy glasses thanks to my dumb Britishness.