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The first time Dean met her, she was towering over him, literally. Blood dripped from a gash on her cheek and a friendly grin spread across her lips as she holstered her gun. "Need some help, handsome?" She joked, bending over slightly to offer a calloused hand to Dean. He took it, and she hoisted him up off the ground with surprising ease. "I'm Y/N," she said, smiling. "I would've told you that earlier at the police station but I thought you were an actual fed, and I'm probably wanted for multiple counts of arson and assault. Apparently police won't believe you if you tell them you just saved them from a vengeful spirit." Y/N's cheeks reddened as she realized she was rambling. "I'm Dean," he replied without wasting a second, flashing her a reassuring grin. "Well, Dean, I'm gonna go back to my motel room and cleanse myself of this delightful werewolf blood. Afterwards, do you maybe wanna get a drink with me?" She trailed off at the end, awkwardly scuffing her boots on the abandoned house's dirty flooring. Dean grinned. This girl may be a scary, badass, werewolf-killer, but she was adorably awkward. "Yeah, I'd love that," Dean beamed.
That night didn't go as Dean had expected, but he was strangely okay with it. They didn't go back to his motel room to have "fun"; instead they hung out at the bar well past midnight, just talking and laughing. For awhile, Dean forgot about everything. He forgot that the bar had a weird smell, he forgot about the all the monsters out there in the real world, he forgot about the feeling of the world resting on his shoulders. They ended the night with a sweet, soft kiss and each other's numbers in respective pockets, scrawled messily on paper napkins. Every time they saw each other, Dean couldn't keep his eyes off of her. He never realized anybody could be so perfect and not even realize it. Their relationship wasn't like anything he'd had before; it wasn't rushed, it wasn't filled with needy kisses and nights of passion. Instead, it was slow and soothing. They would spend hours on a motel couch, just watching crappy movies on a grainy television, wrapped in each other's arms. They'd go out to eat and stuff their faces with burgers and fries, not caring if the diner was shabby or if the booth was strangely sticky. They didn't care about anything, so long as the had each other.
Waking up to a cold bed, Dean groaned and rubbed sleep from his eyes. Peering over at the clock besides the bed, he grumbled about being awoken at an ungodly hour. Swinging his socked feet over the side of the bed, Dean heaved himself up and made his way towards the door, slowly cracking it open. When he saw a faint light coming from the library he headed towards it, finding Y/N sitting over a book, a nearby lamp illuminating the pages. Dean sat next to her, smiling as she turned her head to give him a quick peck on the lips. "What're you doing?" He murmured, glancing towards the book on the table. "Couldn't sleep," she answered, offering no further explanation. Satisfied with the answer, Dean leaned forward and examined the book, realizing it was an old scrapbook she had forced him to help make one day. They'd been snowed in and had nothing else to do. Taking a look at the picture at the top of the page, he smiled. She had taken on her phone the day they met, all those years ago. There they were, sitting in the bar with a weird smell. They hadn't known that one day would change their entire life. They hadn't known that the person sitting across from them would be their favorite part.
