My first multiple perspective story, and also my first story with sex in. Experimenting with giving the reader perspective a name and more personality than these types of stories normally do, It just reads nicer the (y/n) dotted around. I feel I may get carried away with too much detail that isn't needed, so suggestions for cuts or adding to certain bits will be listened to. Feedback always welcome.

I've recently edited this piece as well - enjoy!

You've always struggled with body issues. And doing what you do you know for a fact that what you're body looks like means fuck all compared to what it does. But it doesn't stop you feeling invisible sat at this bar watching Sam and Dean garner attention from every woman in the place, as well as a few glances from men.

Maybe working with the Winchester Adonises is just throwing it into starker relief or something, but you haven't felt this awkward in your skin for a long time. You look at jean-clad thighs and grimace at the expanse of them. Right now it doesn't matter that they're strong, that they've helped you run so fast it's saved your life or that they've helped you fight your way out of too many dangerous situations. Right now they're fat thighs and you want to be one of those thin, carefree women whose thighs don't rub together when you walk. If only to save on all those jeans you've worn through, you think sardonically.

It doesn't help that this bar is actually kind of nice, and it's a Saturday night, and you didn't make any effort. Now you stick out like a sore thumb while also being completely invisible to every person in the room. You look up as Dean plonks himself down in the booth next to you, throwing an arm over the back of the seat. He catches your eye then nudges your leg with his.

"Hey, we're alive, there's beer and this place is actually nice. What's eating you?" Dean asks over the music.

It makes you wince a little. Dean doesn't know about you the last fifteen minutes you spent berating your thighs, stomach and weirdly wide hips. It's just bad luck that the first point of contact he makes with your body is the part you dislike the most.

"It's nothing. I just feel a bit out of place is all", you say with a small smile. You know it's half-hearted but can't bring yourself to muster up much more enthusiasm. Besides, Dean's your friend, you know each other and he'll just badger you if you lie.

"We can get out of here if you want. Grab a few beers and hang out at the motel instead?" Dean gives you small smile that just melts your heart a little and the idea of ruining his night makes you feel like an asshole. Well, fuck feeling like a fat dickhead for the night. Bringing down the party mood is not what you're about. Especially for Dean.

Especially for kind-eyed, silly-but-serious Dean. The guy who made your heart beat fast and mouth go dry the first time he gave you one those big, mega-watt smiles and a full-bellied laugh because you out nerded Sam with a witty one-liner. He only made it worse by calling you "adorkable" when you blushed. Which then led to you mumbling that you weren't "adorkable", you were a force to be reckoned with and had a knife hidden somewhere upon your body so "watch it, Winchester."

"No, I don't want to leave," you say with resolve, "I want to get changed. I'll be a half-hour, tops. Then gird your loins random-small-town-with-former-vamp-issues, I'm on the prowl."

You flash a quick grin at Dean but cringe inwardly. You're not convinced at your bravado and doubt that Dean is either but can't bring yourself to dwell on it. Grabbing your drink and downing it as a distraction, the bitterness of the alcohol makes you cringe slightly but at least it makes you forget how ungainly you feel.

When you look back at Dean, he's watching you. It makes you feel self-conscious when he looks at you like this. It's not often, but it happens, and you never quite know what to do.

Every so often you'll be talking and then you realise he's just studying you. Those moments always make your stomach turn with nervous excitement. And the first god-know-who-many-times you shrugged it off as being in your head because it's you and it was Dean doing the looking, and how could that shit ever be a reality?

But it did happen. Rarely and never when you expected it. Never hanging out on the couch watching TV, or in the quiet moments at a dinner. Odd times, like in the middle of telling him about some theories you have on the existence of white witches.

You've built up the nerve to watch him back and the last time it happened it lasted a beat or two longer than the time before and the excitement that normally hovered around in your stomach fluttered further south and caught your breath, but nothing ever came of it. You always break the tension, it never builds because it's too difficult, too embarrassing. What if it's not what you think?

Dean is so far out of your league. He's got model looks with that perfectly styled hair (he can pretend he doesn't use product but you've seen the tubs. He totally does), and those downright beautiful green eyes. And his body? Oh jeez.

You saw him topless for a brief few seconds once as he went into the motel bathroom. He was an amazing mix of muscle with a layer of softness that comes with being out of your twenties and still loving burgers. But all you could think was how hot and firm his chest would feel against your hands. That you wanted to follow that smattering of hair on his stomach downwards...

You dissipate the atmosphere this time with a quirk of an eyebrow, "something on my face?" you joke. Ignoring the part of your brain calling you the strangest coward on the planet for being able to risk your life weekly but not find out if a look can become something more.

Dean studies your face for a second then smiles, "nope. Beautiful as ever." There's not a trace of a joke in it.

Dean stands. You don't move immediately because you're trying to rein your heart rate back in after it jumped so spectacularly at Dean's comment. You shuffle out of the booth towards him and hope the extra blood pumping about and the heat you can feel hasn't made you noticeably blush.

As you right yourself you realise how crowded the bar is. You're in Dean's space, he's in yours and there goes the full blush. You adjust your shirt and jeans as a distraction but can still feel Dean watching you. You bring your eyes back up to face and notice he's still looking down. At your cleavage.

His eyes flick back up to your face quickly and he has the decency to look a bit sheepish. Clearing his throat, he says "so, see you in a bit?"

You nod and begin to push your way through the mass of warm bodies to towards the door. You don't really notice the people bumping into you because your mind is still stuck in the realisation that Dean was checking you out. He looked at you as something more than, well, he looked at you like something more. Something desirable.

It made you happy but goddamn your stupid lack of body confidence because so much of you is trying to explain away that look.

It was just one look after all…