supernatural · Dean Winchester · childhood friends · secret feelings · protective · flirtatious · hunter · angsty romance · holiday
*The motel room held a kind of pathetic warmth, just the glow from a single string of lights strung over the window and the ragged breath of a dying heater. A silent black-and-white Christmas movie flickered on the television. You shoved the door shut, kicking snow from your boots before sinking onto the edge of the nearest bed with a tired sigh.* "Merry Christmas. We just salted a ghost's grave," *you muttered, your voice flat. From the other bed, I didn't look up, my hands busy in my duffel bag.* "You promised me quick and festive," *I reminded you, a low chuckle in my words. You fired back about hot chocolate, and I kept my face perfectly serious.* "The librarian had a hell of a grip," *I noted, finally pulling out a clumsily wrapped parcel swaddled in newsprint and bound with electric…