bea reads

You hadn’t expected to run into Dean Winchester tonight of all nights. The last time you had crossed paths with him on a hunt, he’d been cocky, dismissive, and just plain insufferable. You’d sworn you’d never waste another breath on him if you could help it. But here he was, sliding onto the stool beside you at the dive bar. There were plenty of other seats across the bar, but he just had to sidle up next to you.

“This seat taken?” he asked even as he raised a hand for the bartender and ordered a glass of whiskey. You scowled at your drink in your hand.

“Wouldn’t matter if it was,” you muttered back. “Look, can you just leave me be? I’m not really in the mood to deal with your bullshit right now.” In your peripheral vision, Dean raised an eyebrow, studying your face as he took a sip of his whiskey.

“Damn, what crawled up your ass and died?” he asked, but his usual edge was missing. There was something almost… gentle in his question, hidden deep beneath the crude phrasing. You huffed out a single, humorless laugh and almost told him to mind his own damn business. But the liquor loosened your tongue, and you probably wouldn’t see him again after tonight. The words came out sharper than you had intended.

“Got dumped.” You sighed and took another long sip of your drink, feeling the burn slide down your throat. The alcohol hadn’t numbed you enough yet to deal with Dean Winchester’s particular brand of charm, and you expected a smirk or some smartass comment about how you fucked it up. Maybe even a crude joke at your expense. Instead, Dean was quiet for a moment, and when the usual quip didn’t come, you glanced over to find that his expression had softened in a way you hadn’t seen from him before.

“Shit, really? Yeah, I could see why that would put a damper on your day.” His tone was uncharacteristically gentle, and you looked at him suspiciously. Was he already drunk, and that’s why he was being nice? He drained his glass and tapped on the bar for a refill. “Hey, his loss, huh?” You blinked, studying his face for any sign of mockery, but you found none. Just those green eyes watching you with something that looked dangerously close to concern.

“Yeah, well,” you swirled the alcohol in your cup. “Doesn’t feel like that right now.” Dean nodded, his shoulder brushing against yours as he leaned against the bar.

“Same guy you were seeing when we crossed paths in Minnesota?” That caught you by surprise. He remembered? You nodded. Dean shrugged. “That guy was a sack of shit anyway.” The corner of your mouth quirked up in an amused half-smile.

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“Dunno what you’re talking about, sweetheart. I’m a delight,” he replied, and the smile he flashed at you was genuine, not the smug smirk you were used to seeing. You scoffed, shoving away the flutter in your stomach. The alcohol must’ve been hitting you.

“Yeah, sure,” you said, but the usual bite in your words was missing. “Maybe next time you can give me a heads up before I waste seven months of my life.” There was a momentary pause. Then,

“Hopefully you’ll get some of that fire back in your eyes now that he’s gone.” 

“Hm?” This was the first interaction with him you could think of that you might actually describe as pleasant, and you began to wonder if maybe Dean wasn’t as bad as you originally thought. Or maybe that was the alcohol speaking.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” he made a vague gesture with his hands. You cocked your head at him. “I mean, you’ve always been a bitch, but lately… I dunno. Just seems like you’ve been sort of out of it. Last time we were butting heads, it was like your heart wasn’t into it.” All thoughts of Dean being a decent guy came to an abrupt halt as reality crashed back down around you. Dean still pushed your buttons with his snark and sass. But for some reason, it felt different this time. Less like his usual ribbing and more…affectionate.

“Ass,” you grumbled, bringing your cup to your lips.

“It’s part of the charm, sweetheart.”

“Go choke on your own ego.” But even as the words left your mouth, you found that you were smiling despite yourself. There was no real heat in your voice, and Dean’s low chuckle told you he knew it too. The sound did something strange to your chest.

“There she is,” he murmured, and when you looked at him, his eyes were dancing with something that made your pulse quicken. “There’s that fire. It’s nice to see it again.”

You wanted to roll your eyes and throw back another cutting remark, but the way he was looking at you made the words die in your throat. When had Dean Winchester’s attention ever felt like this? Like he was really seeing you and not just another hunter who got in his way? You felt heat creep up your neck, and you blamed it entirely on the alcohol. This was Dean, you reminded yourself. The same man who had made your blood boil on more hunts than you wanted to admit. But sitting here now, with his genuine concern and that soft look in his eyes, you found yourself seeing him differently.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me. I might start mistaking it for you giving a damn.” You tapped on the bar, and the bartender came by to refill your glass. The silence stretched between you, but surprisingly, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“So… what happened?” Dean finally asked, his voice lower now, more intimate. “With the boyfriend, I mean. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but…” He shrugged, taking a sip from his glass.

“He said I was too reckless,” you heard yourself say, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Said I didn’t think before I acted. That he’d be better if he wasn’t around when I threw my life away.” Dean was quiet for a long moment, his fingers tracing the rim of his whiskey glass. You could feel his eyes on you, studying your profile in the dim bar light. He scoffed.

“Gotta say, sweetheart, I’ve never liked the way he talked to you.” You snorted and looked at him incredulously.

“You say worse shit to me all the time.”

“It’s different when I do it. I’m not your boyfriend.” He finished off his drink and set his glass back down onto the bar. “Besides, that’s kind of our thing. You throw it at me, and I throw it back.”

“Oh, so we’re going by playground rules and you calling me a bitch is affectionate?”

“Hell yeah it is. You try to act like you’re better than me, and I remind you that you’re not. That’s the dance you and I have.” His grin faded, turning more somber. More disapproving. “But the shit I heard him say to you in Minnesota? That wasn’t teasing. You don’t say that kind of crap to someone you’re supposed to care about.”

You tilted your head as you considered him, trying to remember exactly what had happened in Minnesota. The memories were hazy – the alcohol didn’t help – but you had been so focused on the hunt that Dean’s presence had been more of an annoyance than anything else. But even though the words might’ve been lost to time, you still remembered your ex pulling you aside, voice low and cutting as he lectured you about following his lead on a hunt.

“I didn’t think anyone else heard that…” Dean shifted on his stool, suddenly looking uncomfortable with his admission.

“Yeah, well, wasn’t trying to eavesdrop or anything. Just… didn’t want him to hit you,” his voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

You stared at him for a long while, really looking at Dean Winchester for maybe the first time. The strong line of his jaw. The way his hands wrapped around his glass. The surprising concern in his eyes that you hadn’t seen from him before. When had he started caring about what happened to you? You watched Dean swallow, watched the way his Adam’s apple bobbed with the movement. His jaw tightened, and he looked away, suddenly fascinated by the beer taps behind the bar. You sat in stunned silence.

“Not to mention he’s ugly as sin.” Dean’s tone shifted, casually sidestepping the weight of his previous words. A laugh bubbled up from your chest – something genuine this time. Not the bitter sound from earlier.

“Jesus, Dean,” you punched his shoulder playfully, and he laughed with you.

“He is! Inside and out! Why do pretty women always settle for the ugliest guys? You were way out of his league, sweetheart.” The compliment caught you off guard, and you felt your cheeks warm. That had come out of left field. You’d never considered that Dean might actually find you attractive.

“What?”

“You heard me. You’re gorgeous. And I like a girl with fire in her veins.” And just like that, there it was. The signature Dean Winchester charm. Your breath caught in your throat, and suddenly the air between you felt charged with something electric. He had said it so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and you searched his face for any hint that he was just messing with you. Waiting for you to take the bait so he could pull the rug out from beneath you.

“Dean…” you began, but he cut you off with a shake of his head.

“Look, I’m gonna ask you something, and you can tell me to go to hell if you want.” He turned to face you fully, his knee brushing against your thigh. “You planning on moping all evening, or are you gonna do something about it?” You blinked at him, dumbfounded.

“What do you mean?”

“Well you know, the best way to get over someone,” he paused, a slow smile spreading across his face, “is to get under someone else.” Your eyes widened at his suggestion, heat instantly flooding your cheeks. The bar seemed to fade away. The clinking glasses. The dull roar of conversation. The bad country music. All of it receded until there was only Dean and the heat of his knee against your thigh.

“Are you–” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “Are you actually hitting on me right now, Winchester?” His eyes met yours, steady and unapologetic.

“Depends. Is it working?”

The rational part of your brain screamed that this was a terrible idea. This was Dean fucking Winchester. The same man who had driven you crazy on every hunt you ever had the misfortune of working with him on. But the way he was looking at you now… like you were something precious and desirable… When had he started looking at you like that?

“I…” you started, then paused, studying him. His eyes weren’t mocking. They held something else entirely. Something hungry and earnest that sent butterflies into flight in your stomach. “This isn’t some kind of joke, is it?” Dean leaned closer, and his voice dropped to a low, gravelly register that sent shivers racing down your spine.

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

He didn’t. That was the problem. His proximity made your heart race, your body responding to him in ways you hadn’t anticipated. You’d spent so long convincing yourself you couldn’t stand him that you had never allowed yourself to notice how his lips curved when he smiled genuinely or how his eyes caught the dim bar lights or the way his voice turned rough when he dropped it low like this.

“Dean,” you whispered, but you weren’t even sure if it was a warning or an invitation. Your pulse hammered beneath your skin as he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The simple touch felt like pure electricity.

“Just say yes,” he murmured, his thumb tracing along your jawline. “Let me take care of you tonight. Let me show you how you should be treated.”

The motel room smelled faintly of pine and motel soap, and your back hit the door before you’d even registered crossing the threshold. Dean’s mouth was on yours, hot and hungry, his hands braced at your hips like he was trying to hold you together. You should’ve felt guilty. Should’ve thought about your ex or how reckless this was or how you were going to regret this. But all you could focus on was the way he kissed you – like he wanted to burn the hurt right out of your chest.

Clothes came off in uneven bursts. Your shirt tugged up. His jacket tossed aside. Jeans unbuttoned, kicked off, and discarded in a trail that led to the bed. His mouth never left yours for long, returning again and again like he was desperate for the taste of you. You scraped your nails down his chest, his body solid against yours.

“Gonna make you forget about him,” Dean rasped, voice shaking in a way that told you it wasn’t just a line.

“Dean–” you started, but his name broke on a gasp as his hand slid between your thighs, fingers teasing you over your panties until you were grinding into his touch.

“Say it again,” he commanded, voice rough with desire. “Say my name like that again.” You obliged, his name falling from your lips like a prayer as he unhooked your bra with practiced ease. He lowered you onto the mattress, his weight pressing you into the motel comforter. The bed creaked beneath you both, and somewhere in the back of your mind you vaguely registered how absurd this was. The man you had traded barbs with countless times was under your skin again but for an entirely different reason.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured against your collarbone, and the reverence in his voice made your chest tighten. This wasn’t the same cocky hunter you thought you knew. His mouth found your throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as his hands mapped every curve of your body like he was memorizing you. His touch was gentle, worshiping in nature. When was the last time someone had touched you like this? Like you were something precious instead of something to endure?

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he kissed his way down your body, taking his time with every inch of skin. He paused at your breasts, tongue circling one nipple while he rolled the other between his fingers. The sensation shot straight to your core, your back arching off the bed as a soft moan escaped your lips. Dean’s answering growl vibrated against your skin, and you could feel his smile pressed against you.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me hear you.” He moved down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your ribs, your stomach, and over the sensitive skin just above your hip bones. When he finally hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties, he paused, looking up at you. “You sure you’re okay with this?” he asked, his breath hot against your skin. You answered by lifting your hips to help him slide them down your legs. The cool air hit your heated skin, making you shiver slightly, but Dean’s hands were there, warm and sure, spreading your thighs apart. “Fuck,” he breathed, and you felt exposed under his hungry gaze. “You’re perfect.”

Your breath hitched as he settled between your thighs, his hands gripping your hips with a possessiveness that you didn’t expect. Then, he hooked your thighs over his shoulders like he was settling in for worship, not some casual rebound sex. The first swipe of his tongue against your center made you cry out, your hands fisting the cheap motel sheets. He worked you slowly at first, methodically, like he was learning exactly what made you gasp and writhe beneath him. Dean groaned against you, the vibration rumbling through you.

“God, you taste better than I imagined.” His tongue was relentless, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit that had you grabbing at his short hair and pulling. And when he slipped two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you thought you might come apart entirely in that moment.

“Fuck, I–” Your words dissolved into incoherent gasps as he found that perfect spot, fingers moving steadily against it as he sucked your clit between his lips. The first orgasm hit you like lightning, tearing through your body with an intensity that left you shaking. Your thighs clamped around Dean’s head as you rode out the waves, his name spilling from your lips in broken gasps and whimpers. But he didn’t stop. Even as you trembled beneath him, oversensitive and raw, he kept working you with his mouth, gentler now but no less determined. “Dean, I can’t–” you started to protest, but he looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes half-lidded and dark with desire.

“Yeah you can, sweetheart,” he said. “Give me another one. I know you’ve got it in you.” His fingers never stopped their steady rhythm inside you, and when he dropped back down to press his mouth to your clit, every sensation was almost too much to bear. And just when you managed to cobble together another objection, he silenced you with a particularly wicked flick of his tongue that had you crying out his name instead.

The second orgasm built slower but deeper, a steady climb that had your toes curling and heels digging into Dean’s back. And when it finally crashed over you, it was longer and more devastating than the first. You were only vaguely aware of the sounds escaping you. Desperate, needy whines that would’ve embarrassed you if you had any capacity for coherent thought. Dean worked you through every tremor, his tongue gentle until you pushed his head away, too sensitive to take any more.

His lips were swollen and glistening, and the satisfied smirk on his face was entirely different from his usual cocky grin. This one was earned. Intimate. Meant only for you. Your legs felt boneless, and you weren’t completely sure you could form words even if you tried. He kissed his way back up your body, and when he pressed his lips to yours, you could taste yourself on his tongue. The sheer intimacy of it sent a flutter through your chest.

“You okay?” he asked softly, thumb brushing against your cheek. The tenderness in his voice caught you off guard. This wasn’t the Dean Winchester you thought you knew. This one was attentive. Caring. Thorough. Someone who didn’t have the word ‘selfish’ in their vocabulary.

“Golden,” you managed, voice still shaky.

“You still wanna keep going?” His eyes met yours, and you knew that if you told him no, he’d stop without question. The thought made something warm bloom in your chest. You nodded, reaching up and tracing the line of his jaw with your fingers.

“Yeah,” you whispered. A pause. “I want this.”

Something shifted in his expression, relief mixed with hunger. He kissed you again, deeper this time, his body pressing against yours as his hands roamed your skin. You could feel the hard length of him pressed against your thigh, and when you reached down to palm him through his boxers, he groaned into your mouth.

Dean shifted above you as he reached for his discarded jeans. You watched as he retrieved a condom from his wallet and tore the package open with his teeth. There was something mesmerizing about the way his muscles moved beneath his skin, the light catching on old scars that told stories you were suddenly interested in learning.

“Let me,” you said, taking the condom from his fingers. Your hand drifted down his chest, tracing the defined muscles before slipping beneath his waistband. His breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him, hot and heavy in your palm. His hips bucked into your touch as you stroked his slowly and deliberately, watching the way his jaw clenched with restraint. You pushed his boxers down, freeing him completely and rolled the condom over him. His eyes fluttered shut at your touch, a low curse escaping his lips when you leaned back against the pillows.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he breathed, moving between your thighs again. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, and you both stilled for a moment, the weight of what was about to happen settling between you.

“Dean?”

“I’ve got you,” he assured you. And then he was pushing into you slowly, a delicious stretch with every inch. Every nerve was still alight and sensitive, and you gasped, digging your nails into his shoulders as he bottomed out, hips flush with yours. “Jesus,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel so fucking good.”

Your bodies fit together perfectly, like you’d been made for each other. He didn't move for a moment, giving you time to adjust as you both breathed in the shared space between you. But when he finally began to move, it was with slow, deliberate thrusts that had you arching beneath him, seeking more.

“Dean,” you moaned, wrapping your legs around his hips to pull him deeper and rolling your hips to meet his thrusts. “Please…”

Your bodies found a rhythm together as though you’d done this a hundred times before. Each thrust pushed you higher, building on the pleasure he’d already given you. Dean’s hands were everywhere – cupping your breasts, gripping your hips, sliding beneath you to angle your body just right so he hit that perfect spot inside you with each stroke. The rough drag of him against your walls sent sparks through your system, and each time he drove into you, the coil of pleasure wound tighter.

“Fuck, look at you,” Dean groaned, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. “Taking me so well. So goddamn beautiful for me.”

His words washed over you, stoking the fire building in your core. You’d never imagined Dean would be so vocal, so concerned about your pleasure. He watched your face with reverent attention, adjusting his angle when your breath hitched, slowing down when you tensed, and speeding up when you begged for more.

And, yes, you begged.

“Harder,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him down for a kiss. His mouth crashed against yours as his hips snapped forward with more force, driving deeper into you with each thrust. One hand slipped between your bodies to circle your clit.

“Come for me,” he commanded, his own control fraying at the edges. “Want to feel you come around my cock, sweetheart.”

The intensity of his words combined with the delicious pressure against your clit were your undoing. Your third orgasm crashed through you with devastating force, your walls clenching around him as pleasure radiated from your core to the tips of your fingers and back. You cried out his name, the sound raw and unrestrained as you arched beneath him.

His movements became erratic, hips stuttering against yours as he chased his own release. His breaths were warm and ragged, and when he finally came, it was with your name on his lips, body tensing above you as he buried himself deep inside you one last time.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Dean’s weight pressed you into the mattress, his breath hot against your neck as you both came down from your respective highs. The only sounds in the room were your mingled breathing and the distant hum of the motel air conditioner.

“Fuck,” he finally whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder before carefully pulling out. You winced at the loss of him, suddenly very aware of how thoroughly used your body felt. In the best way possible. Dean disposed of the condom in the bathroom and returned with a damp towel. He slid into the bed beside you, cleaning you gently. And as he tossed the towel aside and settled back beside you, you realized that this was the part where you should probably leave. A quick thank you, maybe throw in a joke about getting even, and then you’d gather your clothes and slip out the door. That was how a one night stand worked, right?

But his arm curled around your waist, pulling you against his chest before you could even think about leaving. His skin was warm against yours, and you could feel his heartbeat against your back as he spooned you, legs tangling with yours.

“Stay the night,” he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion and something else you couldn’t quite name. “No reason to pay for two rooms when we’re getting along.” He was so nonchalant about it, like none of the animosity between you had ever existed. And maybe you were reading too much into it, but he said it like you belonged here in his arms instead of sneaking out into the night like you originally planned. You felt the gentle press of his lips against the nape of your neck, a gesture so tender that it caught you completely off guard.

“Getting along?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling this?”

“Among other things.” You could hear the grin in his voice, and his thumb traced lazy circles across your stomach. “Come on, sweetheart. When’s the last time you got a full night’s sleep without worrying about the monsters under the bed?” A laugh bubbled up from your chest before you could stop it.

“Since I started sleeping with a .45 under my pillow.” He chuckled against your back, the sound rumbling through you.

“Then how about you let me keep the monsters away for a night?”

---

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You are special to him. Special enough that he would betray Heaven a thousand times over if it meant he got to be with you. He adores the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love, the way your fingers curl into the sleeve of his trenchcoat in busy areas. He loves being the one you go to for comfort on hard days, and the one you curl up next to when the bunker’s temperature is too cold. It makes him feel special when you ask him for things, because for once, he is useful in a way that isn’t a weapon.

It’s for these reasons that Cas finds it difficult to be alone in the bunker. He knows he has a multitude of ways to entertain himself while you’re gone, and he knows he’ll find joy in these little routines nonetheless, but he can’t help but wish you were there with him. He also knows you’re only gone on a hunt a few states over, and that you’ll come back. Perhaps some day he will have to take you through one of these days, so you can also share his routine, just as you’ve introduced him to yours.

Because Cas doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t know when his days technically start. Maybe they start when the clock hits midnight, or maybe they start when you wake up in his arms. But neither of these measurements seem right, and it seems useless to time his day on you when you’re not here.

On these days, Cas’s mornings start before the sunrise, when the soft shadow of night is slowly being overrun by the gentle light of morning. His internal clock seems tuned to the exact movements of the sun and stars, as though it understands that he, too, is celestial. This morning, he exits the bunker quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping building. Normally, he would leave with just a simple flap of his wings, but today, he walks. It feels right, to walk. You would walk, if you were in the bunker today.

So, walk he does. He leaves the bunker, walks along the rise of the hill that covers it, makes his way to the top. The grass is soft, the dewdrops resting on it wetting the leather of his shoes as he walks. His coat rustles in the faint breeze, furling out behind him not unlike his own wings. Tipping his face skyward, he closes his eyes and basks in the early morning light.

When Cas reaches the top of the ridge, he takes off his trenchcoat, spreading it on the ground with the same care one approaches a ritual. Because for him, it is. He sits cross-legged on one half of the coat, unconsciously leaving space for you to sit. You won’t, because you’re chasing down a ghost in Illinois, but he likes to imagine you’re sitting outside your motel room and watching the same sunrise.

He lets the light wash over him, admiring the way it reflects off the dew on the blades of grass. It’s like each one captures a tiny ray of sunlight, and he wonders if he were gentle enough, could he pick one up and keep it? He reaches a hand down, one finger extended, willing just a little bit of grace into the touch. The dewdrop stays intact, and he lifts it up with his finger, placing it in front of the sun as it slowly rises, light filtering through the trees.

Cas stays like that, with this dewdrop on his finger, for what might be an hour, or might be ten minutes. The passage of time isn’t something he concerns himself right now, because the world has been narrowed down to this little drop of water. It picks up the light, bending it and shooting it back out in every colour imaginable, and more than Cas knows humans cannot see. He wishes he had a way to show you those colours, because there’s a specific shade of golden-yellow in your eyes that entrances him every time he sees it. And you don’t know it’s there, because it’s not one you can see.

The little drop shimmers with a rush of blues and greens, bursts of yellows sneaking through. The trees reflect across the surface, their images distorted and washed out until they appear more as brown lumps rather than trees. But upside down, with the tops of them reaching toward Cas’s hand, he thinks that this must be what it’s like to be a bird.

When the sunlight warms his skin and he’s spent long enough in it that he swears he hears you fussing about sunburns, he stands and walks to the side of the bunker. His little garden lives here, full of plants that remind him of you. There’s a section cordoned off with some twine and mesh to keep the rabbits out, and that’s where he turns his attention to first. There are the sprouts of peas, tomatoes, and what he thinks is some peppers that migrated over last year.

Cas steps lightly along the outside of the garden, reaching in occasionally to examine the leaves and stalks of his plants. They look healthy enough, and the ones that are wilting get a slight flare of grace to satiate them. It’s not late enough in the year for them to start growing fruit yet, but he suspects they might start to within the next couple of weeks. He thinks about how he’d really like for you to be there when that happens, so he can show you the fruits of his labour.

The flowers are his next targets, and he observes them carefully, cataloguing their states in his mind so that he has something to compare future plants to. Cas has a list in a notebook of yours in your shared room that documents all the flowers he grows, and which ones get visited the most. He has a list for the bees, one for the butterflies, and one for the various other animals that frequent the garden. He makes notes of the most popular plants, and he takes advantage of when they give up their seeds, so that he can plant more the next spring.

When he’s done inspecting his garden, Cas thinks about you. He thinks about how you have a sketchbook somewhere that you hope to fill with sketches of all the flowers you can find. He really wants the ones he grows to be the first you draw, although he won’t be unhappy if they’re not. As long as you’re drawing something that makes you happy, he doesn’t really care what it is. He thinks about what you might be doing right now, and how you’re likely outpacing both Sam and Dean in research; he smiles gently at the look on Dean’s face when you find the clue faster than he does.

It's late in the morning when Cas decides he’s satisfied with the state of his garden. The sun has risen properly now, its light gracing the tops of the trees and dissipating the few clouds in the sky. He leans back against the bunker, feeling the cool walls through his shirt and coat when he hears it. The faint buzz that announces the arrival of the bees he so fiercely treasures.

“Hello,” he murmurs to the first one he sees.

It doesn’t reply, but Cas smiles anyways. It makes its way to the white flowers at the edge of the garden, settling down softly in the center of one. He watches it work, listening intently to the small noises it makes as it shifts; the delicate brush of wings on petals, the faint hum of the bee as it goes about its work. Small noises that are imperceptible to human ears, yet loud as anything in his angel ones.

“There is someone I would like to tell you about,” he continues.

The bee leaves the white flower, heading to a purple one instead.

“This person is…not here at the moment. This is why I cannot show you. But I would like to talk about them, if you would like to listen.”

The bee carries on, but Cas feels the slight shift in its attention away from the flower and to him, as though the bee is splitting its consciousness between its work and Cas’s words. He smiles lightly as he gathers what he wants to say.

“This person lives in this bunker. They’re a hunter, and I am very proud of that. Though I don’t suppose you would know what that means.”

Cas hums patiently as he listens to the bee, who has seemingly called over some friends. They make a chorus of music that Cas finds interesting to listen to, and he tracks the melody as it unfolds.

“Being a hunter is…difficult. There are many difficult chances to take, and I frequently worry for their safety while the three of them hunt. I trust that they are all capable enough to mitigate most of the damage, yet I still feel anxious. I suppose this is what happens when you love someone.”

The bee floats over light as a feather, coming to rest in the palm of Cas’s outstretched hand. He holds it up to his face, examining it carefully for any signs of damage. Finding none, he lowers his hand, content to let the critter rest in his palm after working so hard at the flowers.

“There is something I would like you to know about them too.”

He clears his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet afternoon.

“This person I love, whom I would like you to meet. There is something special about them. I have always found it strange that they should choose to love me. After all, what would a human want with an angel besides an answer to their prayers?”

The wind rustles the trees gently, as if the world is humming in understanding, indicating for Cas to continue telling it about you.

“And yet, they did. They chose me, over and over again. I find that admirable. How they can look at me and see something other than a weapon of Heaven.”

The other bees that have begun to cloud over the garden follow their brave friend, resting themselves on Cas’s arms, hands, even the top of his head. Their eyes are all on him, taking in his every word as if it’s gospel, as though his voice carries a weight heavier than anything they have ever encountered.

“I am forever grateful for that. That they can see me for me, and not merely an angel. This is why I want to introduce you, because I believe they will see you as more than just bees, too.”

Cas gives a small smile, feeling a faint pressure in his heart he has come to know as yearning. He knows he’s head over heels for you, and he knows that what he feels when you’re away will dissipate when you return. There’s something beautiful, Cas thinks, that he can love you strong enough to feel it even when you’re gone.

“That is all I wanted to say. You can carry on, now.”

The bee presses itself briefly into Cas’s palm, as though giving the angel a hug. It takes off, its friends following, heading north over the treeline and back to whichever hive they call home. Someday, he’ll follow them and see if they’ll be so considerate as to give him more of their honey. He won’t rush them, because he knows as well as anyone that all good things take time.

Satisfied with the bees, he enters the bunker. The door closes heavily behind him, and he feels a faint tinge of sadness at being trapped back underground. He takes this opportunity to sort through the shelves of books in the Men of Letters library; a task he’s been working at for a long while now. It feels as though every time he sorts a new shelf, another one becomes disorganized to replace it. There is a never-ending wealth of knowledge in this room, and some day, he might like to read it all.

Cas doesn’t know how much time he spends at this, but he stops with a jump when your voice cuts through the room. He says your name tentatively before realizing you’re not really here; you’re praying to him.

Hey, Cas. Dunno if you’re hearing this, but, uh. Just wanted to tell you we’re coming home tomorrow. We’re finishing up the hunt tonight, and – Dean, shut up – sorry, as I was saying. We’re finishing up tonight, so I’ll be back tomorrow morning, probably. Um…what else…oh, right. I saw this really cute bookstore today, seemed like something you might like. We should go sometime. Anyways, I’m gonna crash for a couple hours before we go burn these bones. I love you, Cas, I’ll see you tomorrow.

“I love you too,” he says to the empty room, knowing you can’t hear him.

The notion that you’re still safe warms his heart. You’re coming back tomorrow too, which makes him even happier. The fact you’d though to send him a prayer makes his heart flutter. Sure, you could’ve just called his phone and talked to him that way. But somehow, prayers seem even more personal, tailored specifically to what you want him to hear. Even if your thoughts wander to Dean being loud in the background, as he tends to be.

Cas leaves the library, walking into your bedroom when the moon starts to rise. He settles himself on the bed with a book and a cup of tea made the way you like, making himself comfortable in your absence. What he really wants is for your arms to be around him, your head on his lap as he reads aloud to you, the steady rhythm of his voice drifting you to sleep. And he’ll get to have that tomorrow, when you return. For now, he can simply sit in the fact that today was about as relaxing a day as one can get lately. He’d much rather share it with you, but he’ll settle for some much needed time with his bees and his garden, partaking in the simple joys of human life through the eyes of an angel.

this time was supposed to be the same. you needed it to be the same. you’re sitting at your usual seat, at your usual bar sipping on a strawberry margarita, your usual drink, taking in the music. you could describe it as peaceful. that was until he showed up. another guy thinking he has a chance with you. you don’t say anything. hell, you don’t even glance at him. he looks at you for a few seconds before you get irritated and look at him.

“can i help you?” you ask, clearly not having it.

“let me buy you a drink” he says with the most arrogant smirk ever. not another entitled man disturbing your date with that margarita and without saying hello! you sigh and look away, not entertaining him with an answer.

“so?” he asks again. oh my god! take the hint.

“not interested.” is the only thing you say.

“oh no it’s not from me. you see that giraffe sitting over there? it’s from him.” you look towards where he’s pointing. oh. he’s kinda cute- nope. no. forget it.

“well, if he is ‘interested’, shouldn’t he come over here himself?” you roll your eyes. why is it that only the weirdos find you? no matter how cute.

“he’s shy.” he smirks “i’m dean.” you tell him your name with hesitation. you still find this weird.

“listen, how ‘bout i buy you that drink, you think if you wanna have a chat with him or not. ‘cause i got my eyes on someone i’m dying to talk to so i can’t stay for long. ‘kay?” he gives you a smile. “a strawberry margarita,” is all you say which causes him to smile so wide you’d think the Cheshire Cat possessed him. he pays for your drink and starts walking towards another girl with a slight wave.

you start thinking it over. about the options. to go or not to go. what could you say to drive him away? you take a glance at him. he’s already looking at you. he gives a tight lipped smile and breaks eye contact. he really is cute. fuck it. you take your drink and walk towards him.

“hello stranger.” you look at him with a smirk.

“hey. it wasn’t weird to send my brother on my behalf was it? i’m not usually like this. i promise.” you chuckle “oh it was weird alright. but i tend to attract weird so i’m not really surprised.” that takes out a chuckle from him. you like that sound. what?! absolutely not. shut the fuck up.

“so…do you have a name?”

“o-oh, right. i'm sam.” you give your name in return. he starts the conversation and suddenly the world blurs around you. your attention on him.

surprisingly you’re not bored like you usually would be. strange. sam has this energy to him that acts like a magnet you can’t help but be drawn to. you’re laughing at his jokes. like, actually laughing. not a fake, please stop talking, type of laugh. a real one. one that you haven’t felt in a long time.

turns out you both have a lot in common. both big nerds for folklore and mythology. both law students who dropped out. you even have the fact that your mothers passed away in common. now, you don’t believe in soulmates or anything. god no. but it feels nice to meet someone who’s basically you in a different font.

that nice feeling doesn't get in the way of you trying to drive him away though. nothing could. you start small. apparently you collect animal teeth. his brows rise in surprise “no way. that’s kinda cool though. very niche. a good conversation starter.” he still treats you the same. hm what else could you say to scare him? maybe saying that ‘your uncle is obsessed with creating life so he tried to bring something to life once and it didn’t go as he expected’ —a solid frankenstein reference—could work. it doesn’t.

“haha, nice try. i've read Frankenstein. three times actually.” he replies smugly. that does it. “oh, c'mon! why does nothing work on you?! i’ve tried everything to scare you away and you’re still here. what is wrong with you!” okay maybe that was a weird, lowkey cringey reaction but you have had 2 margaritas working in your system. give yourself a break! his eyes soften. puppy eyes?! your one true weakness and he has them. and uses them. no shame whatsoever.

“whatever. well, sam, it was nice meeting you but i have to go home. bye,” this time you're running away, not the other way around. he stands with you "i can drop you home no worries!” he smiles. you agree. for some reason, you agree.

you’re not sure what has gotten into you. it's not safe to let him drop you home nor is it you. you don’t let anyone near your home. ever. maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s his stupidly gorgeous puppy eyes that bring you a sense of trust (?) safety (?) you’re not sure what it is exactly. you don’t even know the guy that much so why do you feel like he’s trustworthy enough to keep around? oh but of course you won’t date him or anything. of course not. you took an oath!

you wait outside while sam explains the situation to his brother. he comes out with a grin, offering his arm for you to take. you look at him amused, with your eyebrows raised but take it anyway.

he doesn’t seem to like talking about his job much. he says he does different jobs across different fields and to be fair you’re not sure you believe him. he's probably unemployed or keeps getting fired and is scared to admit it. Who cares though. you think.

soon enough you’re standing in front of your apartment, finishing up your conversation. just as you take your key out of your purse and open the door you hear your name.

“hey, uhm, could i maybe have your number?” he stares so deep into your eyes you feel naked. you know what fuck it. he’ll get tired and leave anyway. you think to yourself. taking out a pen out of your purse, you take his hand in yours and start writing your number down on his palm. ignoring his burning stare and how beautiful his hands look. “don’t spam call me. i won’t hesitate to block you.” he laughs, telling you not to worry. why do you like that sound so much?

that was probably it. he most likely went back to that bar and took another girl home, losing your number in the process. right?

haha wrong. he calls the next day. and the day after that. you meet up with him a couple times. still not giving up on scaring him away. nothing works. you’re not too flirty with him. you don’t initiate any contact. nothing. anyone would be bored by now. he tried kissing you once (all he did was take a step closer to you. he didn’t even purse his lips. however to you it looked like he was going to.) and you slapped him and stormed off. he still texted you the next day. you didn’t slap him because you don’t want him to be close to you. but because you’re scared. like borderline terrified. because sam is a good guy. he’s respectful, responsible. basically everything you’d want in a partner. but what if it’s all an act? again. what if you let yourself fold and get hurt? again.

weeks go by and you’re starting to like sam more than you’d want. More than you’d admit. but you’re literally so hard to please —or you pretend like you’re hard to please— sam has spent so long trying to make you happy or get a reaction aside from fury but nothing gets out of you. you storm off over the slightest things. you get mad at him when he’s just trying to compliment you.

you’re completely aware of how you’re treating the poor guy. what you don’t understand is why he’s still here. despite everything, he’s still here. you just hope he never questions you about your behavior.

woops. he does ask. and he’s not letting it go.

“i told you, i won’t talk about it again only if you tell me what’s wrong with you. why won’t you let me in? is it a me problem? what is going on with you?!” his voice breaking. he’s standing in front of you, hands on your shoulders, practically begging you to open up. you sigh, heart shattering at the sight. you really couldn’t make it harder to love you. could you?

“no, sam…of course you're not the issue. i just…i just have been mistreated way too many times. i don't want that happening again. you’re a great man, sam. you really are and i really wish you met the old me,” you let out a hollow chuckle, looking away. you can’t look him in the eyes right now—you might break down if you see the sadness in his eyes. “the glass-half-full, the easier version of me. i was so much better. i know i make it hard but i can’t help it. you have to understand.” you keep saying things that aren’t like your usual self when you’re with him.

you try to keep your distance, your vulnerability, your pride but with him it doesn't work. usually you wouldn’t waste your breath explaining your behavior. you’d just tell them to leave if they have any issues. they do. he doesn’t. all he does is pull you in a hug and hold you tightly so you have no escape room.

“i like you just the way you are, baby. i don’t want easy, i want you . you don’t have to worry about me hurting you. i’d do a billion things before i do that. you just need to trust me.” sam kissed your hair. you melt. for the first time in a long time, you believe the word coming out of a man's mouth. you sigh out of relief and wrap your arms around him.

you’re sure that one day, eventually he will get tired of your difficulties and want someone easier. but for now he just has to put up with your bullshit.

𑁤 director's notes: hey uhm thisisshittyloveyoubye.

#felt cute might delete later

"happy?" he asked, as if challenging you. "ecstatic." you replied with a smirk, sitting cross legged on the bed. "now we wait."

he sat back on the bed, arms folding across his chest like he was physically holding himself together, jaw set in that stubborn line you knew too well. "i'm not gonna—" he started, but you cut him off with a grin. "not gonna what? squirm? get all red and fidgety? climb over here and prove me right?"

sam scoffed, looking away, but the tips of his ears betrayed him— already pink. you leaned in, voice dropping low, playful. "sure, sammy. we'll see."

sam had his shotgun broken down on the little table beside the bed, a little ritual he always fell into after a hunt. cleaning rag in one hand, oil bottle in the other, he looked every bit the calm, disciplined hunter. except his grip was a little too tight. you watched from the bed, chin propped on your palm, as he methodically slid the cloth along the barrel. his shoulders shifted, tense under his flannel shirt, and he cleared his throat like he was trying to shake something off.

"something wrong, sammy?" you asked, syrupy sweet. "no," he said quickly, almost too quickly. he set the rag down, picking up the cleaning rod. "just gunpowder residue. takes a while to get it out."

but you saw it— the way his jaw clenched, the subtle shift in his thighs as he adjusted in the chair. His cheeks were flushed, just faintly, and the tips of his ears had gone pink. "uh-huh." you let the amusement drip from your tone. "so it's not working, then?"

he shot you a look, one of annoyance and stubbornness. "nope."

"could've fooled me." you stretched, arching your back a little as you sprawled across the mattress. his eyes flicked to you, just for a second, then back to the shotgun like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. "I'm fine." he muttered, voice tight, knuckles white on the cleaning rod. but when the next wave of warmth rolled through him, his breath hitched— and you caught it.

sam kept at it, stubborn as ever. wiping, reassembling, checking the chamber, all with rigid precision. but every so often, his hand would falter— just slightly, like his fingers weren't cooperating the way he wanted. two minutes passed. then three.

by the fourth, the rag slipped from his grip. he cursed under his breath, bending to grab it, but when he straightened again, his face was flushed, his chest rising and falling quicker than before. you bit your lip to hide your grin. "doing okay over there?"

his eyes flicked up, wide and dark, before narrowing again in denial. "i told you— i'm fine." but then he set the shotgun down with a little too much force, running a shaky hand over his face. He lingered there, fingertips pressing into his brow, like he could will the warmth away.

you tilted your head, teasing. "you could always come sit over here, you know. might make you feel better."

that broke him. his hands framed your face as his mouth crashed onto yours— messy, desperate, like he'd been starving for it (he probably was, but his pride wouldn't let him admit it) the weight of him pushed you back into the mattress, his breath hot, his body already trembling with need. he kissed you like a man undone, every bit of denial burned away by the honey's fire.

his lips slammed into yours again, teeth grazing, tongue desperate, and his hands fisted in your hair like he couldn't get enough. "sammy.." you moaned against his mouth, and he whined, a low, guttural sound that made your insides clench.

he pressed his hips into your thigh, rocking almost desperately, grinding against you in a way that was painfully deliberate. his hands roamed everywhere they could reach, one curled around your waist, the other tugging at the hem of your shirt, half-dragging you closer.

you smirked against his mouth, teasing him, letting your fingers graze the waistband of his jeans. sam groaned, clutching your hips, and in one swift motion, he shoved both your jeans and his down far enough to free your underwear.

he pushed against you, humping with a strength that made your head spin, still whining and biting at your lips as if he could make up for the minutes he'd tried to resist. you tugged his shirt up just enough to feel the heat radiating from him, the desperation rolling off him in waves. every press, every thrust of his hips was a mixture of need and stubbornness, of a boy who was strong but completely undone by the tiniest spark of temptation.

sam moaned in the neediest sound you've ever heard leave him mouth as he shoved himself inside your pussy, whining at the warmth that enveloped him. his hips were frantic, almost shaking against yours. the honey had him burning from the inside, and no matter how much he tried to slow himself, he couldn't hold back. with a sharp groan, he pulled out, pressing himself against your stomach as he came, hot and slick. hiss hands gripped your hips, leaving little red marks, and his breath came in ragged pants.

you shivered beneath him, fingers tangled in his hair, lips brushing his jaw. "that.. that was fast," you teased, voice low and shaky.

"i.. i cant help it," he whispered, lowering his head to your chest, hair damp against your collarbone. "feels.. too good.."

but even as he shivered from the aftershocks, he dove right back in, hips pressing against yours, lips crashing onto yours in a frantic, desperate kiss. his tongue tangled with yours, and he groaned your name like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

he moved against you again, slower this time, more deliberate— still needy, still whining, but savoring it, worshiping the heat and slickness between you. every press, every bite of your lips, every shiver of his thighs against yours made it impossible to pretend he wasn't undone.

⸝⸝ TAGS : @alasdecas, @halsteadwichester, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @deanspocket, @pieandflannel , @itfeltlikeak1ss

dean clocks it before you even reach the motel.

“couples,” he says, leaning over the hood of the impala while the mechanic pokes around under it with the world’s fakest concerned face. “all the missing people were couples. newlyweds, honeymooners, road-trippers. car trouble. small-town hospitality. then poof.”

you glance toward the garage office, where the mechanic’s wife is watching you through the blinds with a coffee mug held near her mouth and not a single sip taken. “so they’re sabotaging cars.”

“yep.”

“and feeding people to whatever’s in the orchard.”

“probably.”

“great. very rural.”

dean’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay sharp. “which means we need bait.”

you already know what he’s going to say before he says it. worse, he knows that you know. the grin spreads slow and smug across his face, all dangerous charm and bad ideas, and you hate that your stomach reacts before your brain can file a complaint.

“no,” you say.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“your face did.”

“my face is handsome and innocent.”

“your face is about to suggest we pretend to be a couple.”

he points at you, delighted. “see? this is why we work.”

you stare at him.

he leans closer, lowering his voice just enough that the mechanic can still see the shape of intimacy without hearing the words. “come on. little hand-holding, little sweet-talking, maybe you call me honey if the mood strikes—”

“i’m not calling you honey.”

“baby?”

“absolutely not.”

“snookums?”

you almost smile. “i will leave you here to get sacrificed.”

“hot. committed to the role already.”

the mechanic comes back wiping his hands on a rag that looks cleaner than any rag should coming from a garage. “looks like you folks might be stuck here overnight.”

dean’s expression changes instantly. warmer. easier. he slides an arm around your shoulders, as if the weight of him tucked close to your side is something your body has always known how to make room for.

“that so?” he asks, disappointed in a way that is almost convincing. “well, damn. guess that ruins the anniversary plans.”

you blink. anniversary.

right. you turn into him because if he wants a show, you can give him one. your hand lands on his chest, fingers spreading over the worn softness of his shirt, and you feel him inhale under your palm. almost nothing. but there.

“it’s okay,” you say, looking up at him with your sweetest, deadliest smile. “we’ll make our own fun.”

dean’s eyes flick down to yours.

the mechanic clears his throat.

you win.

by sundown, the entire town thinks you and dean are married, or engaged, or disgustingly in love depending on who you ask—because dean keeps changing the story just to annoy you. at the diner, he tells the waitress you met during a bar fight. at the motel, he says you proposed after saving him from drugs, which earns him a kick under the check-in counter hard enough to make his smile twitch. later, walking down the quiet road toward the orchard, he holds your hand because people are still watching from their porches, and you tell yourself that is all it is.

his palm is warm and rough against yours, fingers lacing too easily. every few steps, his thumb brushes over your knuckle, casual in a way that makes you want to accuse him of doing it on purpose. the worst part is he isn’t even talking that much now. the case has settled over him, sharpening the edges of his attention, but the fake closeness stays. shoulder bumping yours. hand firm around yours. his body angling slightly ahead when the road darkens.

“you’re quiet,” you comment.

he hums, “thinking.”

“dangerous.”

“about us.”

your heart trips.

then he adds, “our fake marriage. i think we need a dog.”

you exhale through your nose, trying not to laugh. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet, you married me.”

“fake married.”

“vows are vows.”

the orchard rises ahead, black against the fading sky, rows of trees scratching at the air. the sweetness of rotting apples thickens with every step, and beneath it there’s something older—wet earth and old blood. your grip tightens around dean’s before you can stop it.

his teasing drops immediately. “hey,” he murmurs. “you good?”

he says it softly, and that’s a problem, because there’s no audience, no performance… just dean, close enough that his breath warms your temple, looking at you like your answer matters more than the thing waiting between the trees.

“yeah,” you say. “i’m good.”

he nods once, but he doesn’t let go.

the town makes its move near the scarecrow post, of course. three men come out with shotguns, the mechanic among them, all apologetic smiles and dead eyes, saying things about tradition and harvest and how you seem like such a nice couple.

dean keeps himself between you and the guns, mouth running because fear and fury both turn into sarcasm on his tongue.

“hate to break it to you,” he says, backing up with you toward the field, “but our relationship is actually in a really fragile place right now. sacrificing us would be super insensitive.”

you elbow him. “dean.”

“what? communication is important.”

then the scarecrow moves. not creaks. not falls. it moves—wooden limbs snapping loose, burlap head twisting toward you, black pits where eyes should be. the townies scatter fast, cowards underneath all that civic pride, and dean shoves you behind him for half a second before you shove back because you are not decorative bait, thank you very much.

“dude,” dean blurts, staring up at the thing as it lurches out of the dirt, “you’re fugly”.

“focus,” you snap, grabbing the kerosene from his bag.

“i am focused. on how ugly he is.”

the fight is messy and fast. you duck under a swinging arm that smashes into an apple tree hard enough to split bark. dean fires salt rounds that barely slow it down, and somewhere between the shouting and the panic, he grabs your wrist and yanks you out of reach with such hard, automatic terror that it punches through all the fake feelings.

you burn the scarecrow together.

flame catches straw, then burlap, then whatever old evil is stitched into the thing. it screams in a voice made of dry leaves and bone, collapsing into the dirt while the orchard glows orange around you. dean stands beside you, breathing hard, soot on his cheek, hand still wrapped around yours.

the town is quiet now.

you look down at your joined hands. so does he.

“guess we can get a divorce now,” you say, because if you don’t make a joke, you might say something honest and ruin both your lives.

dean’s smile comes slow, but it doesn’t reach all the way. “nah,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “we survived a sacrifice. pretty sure that’s legally binding.”

you laugh, soft and breathless, and the sound shakes more than you want it to. his thumb brushes your knuckle again, not for the town, not for the case, not for anyone hiding behind curtains.

you should pull away. you don’t. and when you finally walk back toward the impala, your hand still in his, the pretend part feels a little too far behind you to reach.

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you refuse to leave because “the job isn’t done” ๋࣭ ⭑ dean is trying to drag you out of a house that is actively collapsing, and you’re standing there stubborn as hell because the ghost’s bones are still in the basement. he’s yelling, you’re yelling, the ceiling is falling in, and somehow you’re right. annoying. heroic. terrible for his blood pressure. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you touch the cursed object because it “felt important” ๋࣭ ⭑ you know better. sam knows you know better. and yet there you are, holding the antique locket with both hands because your instincts told you it mattered. yes, it wakes the spirit. yes, sam looks betrayed. but also yes, it gives him the missing piece of the case, so now he has to be mad and grateful. tragic for him.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you start talking to the monster ๋࣭ ⭑ dean tells you to stay quiet, and you immediately begin psychological warfare with whatever is crawling out of the dark. somehow, you insult it, distract it, confuse it, and make dean miss his shot because he’s too busy staring at you like, “are you flirting with it?” maybe. a little. but it works. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you improvise a fake identity no one asked for ๋࣭ ⭑ sam has a clean cover story. you ruin it with one sentence. now you’re apparently newlyweds, cult survivors, and part-time antique appraisers, depending on who asks. it nearly blows the case wide open, but your chaotic lying gets the witness to overshare everything. sam hates that it worked. hates it deeply.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you go back for the victim ๋࣭ ⭑ dean tells you the building isn’t safe, and you look at him with those soft, devastating eyes before running back inside anyway because someone is still crying for help. he’s furious in that very specific way that means terrified. you almost get trapped, but you save the kid, and dean can’t even yell properly afterward because his hands are shaking. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you trust your gut over the lore ๋࣭ ⭑ the books say one thing, your heart says another, and sam is visibly suffering because he wants evidence, not vibes. unfortunately, your vibes are correct. you follow the emotional pattern of the haunting before the facts catch up, and it almost gets messy, but you find the truth first. sam apologizes.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make yourself the distraction ๋࣭ ⭑ you step into the middle of the room and basically dare the monster to look at anyone else. dean is horrified and turned on, which is a deeply inconvenient combination in a life-or-death situation. you almost get thrown through a wall, but you keep every eye on you long enough for him to finish the job. afterward, he calls you insane. lovingly. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you perform under pressure a little too well ๋࣭ ⭑ sam needs a distraction, and you give him a whole dramatic production. loud voice, confident smile, full commitment. it’s effective, yes, but also wildly risky because now the entire room is watching you, including the thing with teeth. sam saves you at the last second and then gives you the most exhausted, fond look in human history.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you notice the clue and immediately follow it alone ๋࣭ ⭑ dean turns around for three seconds and you’re gone because you found dust patterns, weird symbols, or a suspicious draft no one else clocked. he is pissed. deeply. but then your “little theory” turns out to be the entire case, and now he has to admit you’re brilliant while still yelling about you wandering off. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you correct the ritual mid-crisis ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is chanting, everything is shaking, dean is yelling somewhere, and you have the audacity to go, “wrong pronunciation”. he looks at you like this is the worst possible time for notes, but you’re right. obviously. you nearly get both of you thrown across the room, but the corrected ritual works, and sam is never emotionally recovering from your competence.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you charm the wrong person beautifully ๋࣭ ⭑ dean says, “don’t flirt with the suspect,” and you hear, “be unforgettable.” now the vampire is smiling at you, dean is clenching his jaw, and the situation is spiraling in a very pretty direction. you almost become dinner, but you get the confession, the address, and dean acting jealous while claiming he is “just focused on the case”... sure. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you try to negotiate with something evil ๋࣭ ⭑ sam says it won’t listen. you say everyone listens if you say the right thing. horrible logic. weirdly effective. you talk long enough to delay the attack, but also long enough for the demon to get interested in you personally, which is less ideal. sam pulls you out of it, furious and impressed in equal measure.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you follow the danger because you know it’s hiding something ๋࣭ ⭑ dean tells you not to go down the hallway, and you give him that look that says you already know the hallway is important. he hates that look. you almost get ambushed because you absolutely walked into a trap on purpose, but you also expose the real threat before it can reach him. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you let the monster think it has you ๋࣭ ⭑ sam hates your plans because they always involve getting too close to the edge and smiling while you do it. you let the thing corner you, let it talk, let it reveal too much. it works, but sam looks ten years older by the time he gets you out. he doesn’t yell. worse. he goes quiet. devastating.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you press the cursed button ๋࣭ ⭑ there is always a button. a lever. a door. a weird little box with ominous carvings. dean says, “don’t touch that,” and baby, your hand is already moving. does it unleash something horrible? yes. does it also reveal the hidden chamber with the bones? also yes. dean is so mad he could kiss you or throw you in the trunk. undecided. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you take the “shortcut” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam has a map. you have confidence. this is where the problem begins. your shortcut leads straight into danger, but it also gets you to the victim before the monster can finish the job. sam is panting, glaring, and muttering your name like a prayer and a complaint.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make the hard call before he can ๋࣭ ⭑ dean wants to protect everyone, including you, including people who don’t deserve it, including himself least of all. you see the ugly choice first and take it. it nearly gets you killed because you don’t ask permission, but it saves the hunt from going worse. dean hates how cold it looked. hates more that he understands. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you ignore the emotional risk and go tactical ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is still weighing the moral consequences, and you’re already moving because the window is closing. you almost get hurt making the efficient choice, but you stop the monster before it reaches anyone else. sam argues with you afterward because he has feelings about methods. you argue back because you have results. delicious tension.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ your plan makes no sense until it saves everyone ๋࣭ ⭑ dean asks what you’re doing, and you say, “trust me,” which is his least favorite sentence in any language. your plan is weird, risky, and not explained until after the explosion. yes, he almost dies of stress. yes, it works perfectly. he spends the ride home calling you a menace while absolutely respecting the hell out of you. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you solve it sideways ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is looking at the lore. you’re looking at the pattern no one else noticed. then you do something wildly unconventional and nearly get dragged into another dimension, casually, because apparently that’s how your brain works. sam is horrified. fascinated. furious that he didn’t think of it first.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you follow the crying ghost ๋࣭ ⭑ dean says it’s bait. you say it sounds sad. he stares at you like you are the reason hunters should have insurance. you follow it anyway, and yes, it almost gets ugly, but your softness leads you to the truth of the haunting faster than violence would have. dean still yells. gently, though. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you try to save what might not be saveable ๋࣭ ⭑ sam knows that look on your face. the one that says you’re about to choose compassion over safety. he tries to stop you, but you’re already reaching for the lost soul, the cursed kid, the monster that used to be human. it nearly destroys you. but sometimes, somehow, you’re right to try. and sam remembers why he loves that about you.