By the time they had finished cleaning the kitchen, Dean couldn't even remember what he'd been so angry about - or, he could, but it had been pushed aside at the sight of that familiar little smile on Roman's face. There was a need stuck along the inside of his skin, not above gluing them to the hip so that he could make double sure that Bray fucking Wyatt wasn't gonna get anywhere near Roman.

Instead of joining the other two back in the living room, the brown and blue dragged dark and gray toward his bedroom, a swirling feeling settling along his body as he recognized the feeling he was no stranger to. However, this time, it wasn't brought about by lust, for some feral need, some intense itch he couldn't scratch, no...

This was awakened by that message, and was fueled by the overpowering need to protect.

Once they were inside his bedroom, Dean could barely get the door closed fast enough before Roman pulled him into his arms, leaving kisses on his forehead and down his face until he captured his lips at last. A noise rumbled out of Dean's throat, and immediately Roman sought it out, burying his face in the column of the light-haired's neck, tongue and teeth working together and drawing out more sounds, equal in their need and relief.

"Mm, wait-" Dean tried, but his body betrayed him as he wraps an arm around Roman's neck and drags him down onto the bed with him. Only, instead of letting the larger man hang over him, he turned them over so that he could quickly throw his leg over and do the hovering himself, hands on either side of the Samoan's body before he leaned forward to allow Roman a little more time on his skin before he was tempted to return the favor.

Maybe there was something in the Chinese food, Dean mused hazily.

It was as if he was not used to being the one lying down, because suddenly Roman was pushing upwards, trying to sit up so he could properly flip them over, but Dean was not having any of it as his hands pushed him back, holding him in place, a groan leaving the larger man's lips before he started to sit back up again. Blue eyes narrowed. Don't even think about it.

Taking his bottom lip with his teeth, the Samoan stares up at him, looking a little vulnerable and suddenly, it's Dean ducking his head to nuzzle against the side of Roman's neck, nose to jaw, teeth to throat.

"Dean-" Roman mutters, a little breathless and honestly, it's the most bliss-filled sound the other had ever heard. "Where's... ah, where-" it's difficult to form words as teeth and tongue tease the sensitive angles of his neck, so he gives up trying, much to Dean's satisfaction before he drops a kiss to the junction where his neck and shoulder meets.

"Gonna keep you safe," is all Dean could manage to make coherent, body rocking slightly with the need thrumming through him - he'd never been this consumed by it, not really, even if he was no stranger to this sort of thing; the group of people he'd been around a handful of years ago had made sure of that, devolving into what was probably close to an orgy when they were high enough, tensions running high and sexual tension running higher and inhibitions so, so low.

Dean wasn't a virgin. But ... romance? One might consider him one in that department: a romantic virgin, perhaps.

The tremors that rocked through his body were only stopped when muscular arms wrapped around his waist, steadying him as legs scooted them up the bed until Roman was laying against the pillows and he felt Dean exhale, a groan laced around a breath as his fingers of one hand clutch at Roman's shoulder.

A chuckle escapes Roman, understanding now what all that had been - marking his territory, or perhaps, staking a claim? - and it draws Dean's face upward, cheeks flushed from the sudden risen temperature of the room from their exertions. The chuckling turns soundless as blue searches gray, and he pulls him up so their faces are each other's reflections, and Roman pushes his lips against Dean's in a slow, languid kiss.

They lay like that for a while before a breathy sound leaves the smaller man, asking for release or more or air or no air, the hand pawing at Roman's chest neither pushing or pulling. Touching.

Their lips release with a wet pop and Dean pants against the man below him, his hairline lined with droplets of sweat but he leans against Roman's forehead anyway, eyes drifting shut slowly. One word passes behind his eyelids as he searches for some kind of stability that didn't have a stifling heat and addicting lips and silver eyes.

Mine.

Time goes on as it usually does - unpredictable, fast some days and slow others, barely leaving room for the little bit of social life that Dean actually had. It was school, work, homework and sleep; a never-ending cycle he could admit a thousand times to not missing a single bit about school, and would continue to say such a thing in the many years to come. Eventually, things get busier, though.

Because his final prom is finally, finally around the corner.

It wasn't something that he'd have paid particularly close mind to in the past, seeing as how not a lot of people seemed to bother looking in his direction at school - and the ones that did certainly didn't like him. Not that there was some unrequited pining going on on his end, either. He didn't like anybody there but Sami.

Dances weren't usually his thing - the whole 'going out and partying' scene was something he could get behind in any other context, out and mingling with people and talking and laughing and yelling obscenities that might or might not have an added edge or slur (or both) with the assistance of cheap beer - it all sounded like a good time. He was game.

But Dean didn't dance. Nor did he like feeling constricted, like he thought he might while wearing a tux - still, it wouldn't hurt to just... look, right?

He had stopped in front of the table by the front of the school where they were selling the tickets, glancing at the paper that held the specifics of the prom: at a large hotel in the busiest part of town, in the dining hall; a dinner starting at 6 until 7, and then dancing from then until 11. He feels his teeth catch his bottom lip almost before he gives permission to do so.

Before, he didn't have anybody he could go with.

But, now...

"You looking to buy a pair'a tickets?"

Looking up at the voice - the Senior class president, John Cena - Dean scrunches up his mouth in a show of confusion. "Not sure yet. Gotta ask 'em first."

Nodding with a smile, John goes back to talking to a kid standing next to Dean, who moves out of the way with the question burning in the back of his brain; would Roman even want to go to a high school prom? Odds were he probably went to both of his, or all of them, and the thought made something settle heavy in the pit of his stomach.

Maybe it was a stupid idea. School dances weren't usually that fun, right?

Unfortunately, the thought nagged at him for the rest of the day, and while he tried to forget about it as he walked home with his hands dug into his pockets and backpack pulling his shoulders dragged down, he just couldn't get the thought of dragging Roman to his senior prom out of his mind; laughing, drinking punch that somebody probably wouldn't spike, enjoying each other's company (in a more muted manner, because you can bet that Dean wouldn't ever let Roman kiss him the way he has, was known for, in front of his peers.)

When he gets home, he can hear Shane in the kitchen making dinner - or, maybe he's making music with the pots and pans; when it's Shane cooking, he can never be sure - and immediately he heads inside, glancing at the pots on the stove and the sink growing with dishes that he probably could have done without using.

"Ah, you're home! Dinner will be ready in a while - why don't you go start on your homework?"

The brunet waves off the older man, who has half of a frown on his face before he's perked up, waving his spatula in Dean's direction. "I got an e-mail newsletter thing from your principal today. Prom is coming up soon, right? You gonna go?"

"I didn't really think about it," the lie is smooth, almost too smooth, but his face must have given him away because, immediately, Shane is back on him.

"-because if you are, we have to go out and get you fitted for a tux! Or, at least a nice suit, with a tie and everything, but we have to make sure your tie matches the other's outfit, so-" the words blend together in an excited jumble of syllables and tones, the brunet having started daydreaming long before Shane had started rattling off the things that they needed to prepare.

"-not to mention, we'll have to hire a limousine and- are you planning on renting a room at a hotel or something, because that's what we need to consider here, because I need to know if I should wait up for you or not and-"

"Whoa, whoa!" Dean's hands shoot up in a feeble attempt to give pause to his foster father's rattling-on. "I never said I was going! 'sides, I don't have anybody to go with!"

The look on Shane's face was almost as hysterical as the one that crossed Dean's when he realized the message he was trying to convey. Apparently, it was heard loud and clear, but still… "Of course you do. Why don't you ask Roman? You like him enough, right?"

'Enough'. Yeah, right.

"Doubt he'd wanna go to some senior prom," griped the brunet, probably pouting.

(Definitely pouting.)

Shane's eyes softened in that way they did when he knew Dean's heart better than he did, and he walked around the counter - completely abandoning the simmering pots on the stove, which was also common Shane behavior when he was in the kitchen. "I've seen the way he looks at you. He'd go stand in the middle of the hot desert in a turtleneck if you asked him to, Deano."

Dean's eyebrows furrowed slightly, but he tried to keep the narrowing of his eyes a secret, shaking his head to hide his confused blues. He saw the way Roman looked at him, too, and something in him knew he was right. Or, hoped at least. But there was always that underlying anxiety that accompanied him every day; since he was a child, it had been take take take no matter what it was, who did it, whatever.

He wouldn't have been able to take it if that's all that Roman wanted, too. He'd let himself get too damn close. Hadn't even thought of the possibility of it, had let the Samoan's presence become a constant, and-

Uttering a scoff, Dean turns around to walk toward his bedroom, his foster father's words spinning around in his head, impossible poetry reciting in his ears as if somebody was chanting the words to cast a magical spell on him or something.

The fuck did Shane know, anyway.

I have been to exactly one prom. Did anybody go to theirs? Or, alternatively, is anybody planning on going to theirs? I, personally, had a really fun time - I hung out with my friends for a lot of it and only ended up dancing to the last few songs, including the last slow dance with my then-boyfriend. That will always be one of my favorite memories, honestly, of us together- but ANYWAY.

I hope y'all enjoyed this equal parts making out/Deano being emotionally constipated. I feel ya, Dean, don't worry.

Thanks for reading!

~Cookie