When you turn to look at him, he pulls back on reflex, startled into meeting your eyes. He doesn't mean to do that. You're still—almost painful to look at. It makes something inside of him ache fiercely. You're different here. Your soul is different. But you're still Dean.
He misses you. He missed you. He's sorry.
Green eyes are genetically more uncommon than blue eyes; beyond that, the colour of his vessel's eyes have little to do with him. But he doesn't have a chance to respond because then you lean in. He gasps at the first touch of your mouth, jerking back a fraction of an inch before he stills himself and relaxes, letting you take your time to explore. He wants to deepen the kiss, but he waits for a while, head lolling back against your arm with a low sound of appreciation when you firm the pressure. It's difficult to remain passive. His hand clenches around your thigh, taking the cue to leave it there, palm digging down into the muscle as he pushes back into the seat, neck stiff, almost as though he's trying to get away from you.
He doesn't want to scare you off, or do something you don't like.
"Dean . . . " His lips brush against yours, muffling your name. His neck is starting to ache from holding it at an awkward angle. Opening his eyes, he stares almost cross-eyed at the arch of your cheekbone until you pull back. "Can we—go in the back?"
Like this, the steering wheel's in the way, and one of his arms is pinned uselessly between their bodies. He wants to pull you against him. He wants to touch you. He wants to be able to kiss you back.
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He misses you. He missed you. He's sorry.
Green eyes are genetically more uncommon than blue eyes; beyond that, the colour of his vessel's eyes have little to do with him. But he doesn't have a chance to respond because then you lean in. He gasps at the first touch of your mouth, jerking back a fraction of an inch before he stills himself and relaxes, letting you take your time to explore. He wants to deepen the kiss, but he waits for a while, head lolling back against your arm with a low sound of appreciation when you firm the pressure. It's difficult to remain passive. His hand clenches around your thigh, taking the cue to leave it there, palm digging down into the muscle as he pushes back into the seat, neck stiff, almost as though he's trying to get away from you.
He doesn't want to scare you off, or do something you don't like.
"Dean . . . " His lips brush against yours, muffling your name. His neck is starting to ache from holding it at an awkward angle. Opening his eyes, he stares almost cross-eyed at the arch of your cheekbone until you pull back. "Can we—go in the back?"
Like this, the steering wheel's in the way, and one of his arms is pinned uselessly between their bodies. He wants to pull you against him. He wants to touch you. He wants to be able to kiss you back.