dean winchester

Transfer orientation is a room full of strangers pretending they don't feel like the new kid, and you're twenty, three hundred miles from your old life, standing in the quad holding a campus map you can't make sense of, when a black '67 Impala rolls up beside you and the driver leans out of the window like he's been waiting

"Wrong way, sweetheart, the science building is behind you."

You turn the map around, and he's already out of the car, worn leather jacket, a flannel that's seen better decades, green eyes that hold on a second longer than a stranger's should

"Dean, I'm a senior, I'm on the welcome committee, and as of right now I'm your personal guide."

It's meant to sound like a joke, but there's something in the way he says personal that settles in your chest and stays there

He shows you the library, the good coffee, the bench where the sunset hits just right, and by the end of the day you've told him more about yourself than you told anyone at your old school in a year, where you're from, what you're afraid of, how you take your coffee, and he remembers every bit of it, which feels like being seen

By Wednesday he's waiting outside your lecture hall, by Thursday he knows your schedule better than you do, and he always has a reason, he was passing by, he had a free hour, he just wanted to make sure you got there okay

You don't remember telling him which lecture hall, but you must have, you tell yourself, you must have

Then there's the small stuff, the kind that's easy to explain away, the coffee that's waiting for you before you've said a word, exactly how you take it, the playlist in the Impala that's suddenly full of songs you mentioned once, in passing, days ago, and the way he says "you looked tired this morning" when you hadn't seen him all day

"I just notice things about you, sweetheart," he says with a shrug, easy, boyish, a little embarrassed. "Is that so bad?"

It doesn't feel bad, not really, it feels like being someone worth noticing, and you let it go

Then there's the guy from your lab group who starts walking you back to the dorms, friendly, harmless, a little too eager to make you laugh, and the next day dean is just there, leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, smile easy and eyes not

"Who's your friend?" he asks, light, curious, watching the guy until he finds a reason to be somewhere else, and after, he slips an arm around your shoulders like it's nothing. "Careful with guys like that, sweetheart, I've seen how they talk about people when they think no one's listening, I'm only looking out for you."

You don't remember hearing anything bad about him, but dean says it so gently, so certain, that you almost start to see it too, and the following week the guy switches to a different lab section, and dean never mentions it, only squeezes your shoulder a little tighter than usual, pleased

A girl from your dorm invites you to a party, and dean has a quieter plan, a drive, a diner, the radio low, and when you say you'd rather go, he doesn't argue, he only goes still, then smiles, the kind of smile that takes effort

"Yeah, sure, whatever you want," he says, "I just thought we had something good going, that's all."

So you cancel, and the way his shoulders loosen, the way his hand finds the back of your neck and squeezes, feels like a reward

Your phone starts dying faster than it should, and when you mention it he offers to take a look, thumb moving over your screen too confidently, and he hands it back and says it's fixed, and it is, but now there's an app on it you don't recognize, and when you ask he says it's just a battery thing, and you believe him, because why wouldn't you

He always knows where you are, you notice that later, looking back, that he never has to ask, that he'll text "heading to the library?" while you're still on the steps, or "the study room on the third floor is quieter, try that one" when you hadn't told anyone you were struggling to focus, and every time it feels like care, until it starts to feel like something with edges

You wake one morning to a message from your old friend, I'm coming to visit this weekend!!, and you're typing out a reply when dean's name lights up your screen, a call, then another, then a text, where are you, then another, you're quiet today, is everything okay, and you realize you haven't told him about the visit, and you realize you don't want to, and that realization sits in your stomach like a stone

When you finally do tell him, he's very calm, very warm, and he doesn't say no, he only asks questions, where will they stay, how long, are they the kind of friend who makes you feel small, and by the end of the conversation you're the one suggesting a shorter visit, and by the end of the week your friend has written back, no worries, maybe another time, and the message sits unanswered, and the Impala is always outside your dorm, engine low

Weeks pass, and the calls from home get shorter, the invitations stop coming, and somehow it's always just the two of you, the Impala, the diner, the bench with the good sunset, and dean has never once raised his voice, he only goes quiet, hurt, patient, until you're the one apologizing

You come back to your room one afternoon and the window is open, though you always keep it closed, and there's a mug on your desk, still warm, the coffee exactly how you take it, and when you ask him about it later, lightly, almost laughing, he looks at you with such wide, hurt eyes that you feel cruel for asking

"Your roommate let me in, sweetheart, I wanted to surprise you." He frowns, then softens, then tucks your hair behind your ear. "You're not mad, are you? I just hate it when you're having a bad day, and I can't be there."

Your roommate says she never let anyone in, but she says it quietly, uncertain, and you don't push, because pushing means admitting you saw it, and you aren't ready to see it

There's a spare key in his glovebox that you notice once, only once, and it has your dorm number on it in his handwriting, and when your eyes linger he reaches over and closes the compartment with a soft click, humming along to the radio, smiling at the road

One night, parked outside your dorm, the engine ticking as it cools, his thumb traces the edge of the steering wheel, and he looks at you with something soft and almost desperate

"I don't have anyone else, you know that, right?" His voice is low. "You're the only person who gets me, I'd do anything to keep it that way." Your phone buzzes in your pocket, your old friend again, a text asking if you're okay, you haven't talked in weeks, and dean's eyes flick to the screen before you've even looked at it, he reads it from where he's sitting, you realize, he can read it from there, and he looks back up at you, smiling, not asking, and the silence between you is heavy with everything neither of you says

Then, gently, almost kindly, he reaches over and turns your phone face down on your knee

"Whatever it is, it can wait until morning" he says, and the click of the door locks sounds very loud in the quiet car.