You learned two very important things growing up with Sam and Dean Winchester.

One: if you didn’t move fast, you got left behind.

Two: if you did move fast, you could cause problems.

Today, you chose chaos.

The bunker was unusually calm—no alarms blaring, no salt lines being redrawn, no demon blood debates echoing through the halls. Sam was buried in a lore book at the war table, Dean was in the kitchen arguing with the coffee maker like it had personally wronged him, and Castiel stood nearby, staring at the microwave as if it were a hostile entity.

Which made it the perfect time.

You quietly lifted your phone.

Click.

Sam didn’t notice at first. He was hunched over, glasses slipping down his nose, hair doing that annoying floppy thing that made people trust him instantly. You leaned slightly to the side, framing the shot perfectly.

Click.

Sam finally looked up. “Are you taking pictures of me?”

You smiled sweetly. “No.”

Click.

“That was definitely a picture.”

Dean leaned around the corner, mug in hand. “What’s going on?”

You turned and snapped a photo mid-sip—his face twisted in betrayal as the coffee was clearly too hot.

“Son of a—” Dean hissed, lowering the mug. “Did you just—”

Click.

“Oh my god,” Sam groaned, realizing the danger far too late. “She’s doing that thing.”

Dean pointed at you. “No. No, absolutely not. Delete them.”

You backed away slowly, still snapping photos. “You can’t stop what’s already been immortalized.”

Castiel turned his head toward you. “What are you doing?”

You beamed. “Documenting.”

Click.

Cas blinked. The photo caught him mid-blink, mouth slightly open, trench coat somehow sitting wrong in a way that defied physics.

He frowned. “Why did you capture my image?”

Dean snorted. “Because she’s a menace.”

“It’s called a selfie culture,” you said, walking closer to Cas. “Here—stand still.”

“I am always standing still.”

Click.

Sam stood abruptly. “Okay, new rule. No pictures without consent.”

You immediately spun and took one of him standing, hands braced on the table, looking like a disappointed librarian.

“Wow,” Dean said. “That one’s going on your tombstone.”

Sam glared. “I hate all of you.”

Castiel stepped closer, studying your phone with intense focus. “These images are… unflattering.”

“That’s the point,” you said cheerfully.

Cas tilted his head. “Why would one intentionally preserve an unflattering representation of an ally?”

Dean shrugged. “Trust me, buddy. She’s been doing this since she was twelve.”

You grinned at Cas. “It’s love.”

Cas considered this. “So… this is a human bonding ritual?”

“Yes,” you and Dean said at the same time.

Sam sighed. “No.”

Cas nodded slowly, as if committing this to memory. “I see.”

You moved on, catching Dean slouched in his chair, Sam rubbing his temples, even a blurry shot of Jack peeking around a corner looking vaguely guilty.

Then, without warning—

Click.

You froze.

Castiel was holding his own phone.

“When did you get a phone?” Dean demanded.

“Yesterday,” Cas said calmly. “I did not understand its purpose until now.”

He held the phone up.

Click.

Dean’s mouth was open mid-complaint. Sam was half-blink, half-sigh. You were grinning like an idiot.

Cas looked at the screen, then at you. “Did I do it correctly?”

You burst out laughing. “Perfectly.”

Dean groaned. “Great. Now there’s two of you.”

Cas nodded, satisfied. “I will continue this custom. For bonding.”

He raised the phone again.

Click.

Sam dropped back into his chair. “We’re never surviving this.”

You slung an arm around Cas’s sleeve. “Welcome to the family.”

Cas looked down at the photo again—at the messy, unguarded moment frozen in time.

“I believe,” he said thoughtfully, “that I like this tradition.”

Dean squinted. “I don’t.”

Sam Winchester had learned a long time ago how to pack things away.

Hunting did that to you. It taught you how to compartmentalize—how to fold fear into neat corners, how to swallow grief until it stopped clawing at your throat and settled somewhere dull and manageable. It taught you how to smile when it was expected, how to stand still when everything in you wanted to move.

Today felt exactly like that.

The bunker was too bright that morning. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating dust motes drifting lazily through the air, like the place itself was holding its breath. Like it knew something important was about to happen.

Sam lingered near the edge of the hallway, hands shoved into his pockets, listening.

Your voice echoed faintly from one of the rooms—soft, nervous, threaded with excitement. Then came your laugh, and Sam’s chest tightened before he could stop it.

He didn’t need to see you to know that laugh. Over the years, he’d learned every version of it without ever meaning to. The quiet one you made when you were exhausted and leaning against the library table at two in the morning. The sharp one when Dean said something dumb just to get a rise out of you. The breathy one that slipped out when you thought no one was listening.

Today, it sounded different.

Lighter. Fuller.

Final.

Dean stood in front of the mirror, tugging at his tie like it had personally offended him. Sam stepped forward without saying anything and straightened it, fingers moving on instinct. He’d done this before—countless times, for interviews and funerals and the rare moment Dean tried to look respectable.

Dean caught his reflection in the glass and grinned. “Man. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Sam huffed softly. “You clean up okay.”

Dean’s grin softened, something earnest settling into his expression. “Couldn’t have done any of this without you, Sammy.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

That was all he trusted himself to say.

When Sam turned, he nearly collided with you in the doorway. You were holding the skirt of your dress carefully in your hands, like it was something fragile. Your hair was half done, a few loose strands framing your face. You looked… unreal.

You froze when you saw him, then smiled—small at first, then wider.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey,” Sam replied, his voice steady despite the way his heart stumbled.

For a moment, the world narrowed. Not dramatically—no swelling music or grand realisation. Just the quiet familiarity of someone who’d stood beside you through blood and fire and long nights that never seemed to end.

“You nervous?” he asked.

You laughed softly. “Terrified.”

He smiled at that. “That tracks.”

You hesitated, then stepped closer and hugged him. It was brief, careful, the kind of hug meant not to linger—but Sam felt it anyway. The warmth. The familiarity. The way it settled something and broke something all at once.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “For… everything.”

He swallowed. “Always.”

When the ceremony started, Sam stood off to the side and watched.

He watched Dean straighten when you appeared, like the sight of you rewired something inside him. He watched Dean’s bravado crack, just a little, as his voice faltered during the vows. He watched your hands tremble when you slipped the ring onto Dean’s finger—and how Dean steadied them without even thinking.

Sam felt it then. Not jealousy. Not anger.

Just loss, quiet and clean and sharp.

He clapped when everyone else did. He smiled when you turned and caught his eye, lifting your bouquet in a silent, excited gesture. He mouthed congratulations and meant it with his whole chest.

This was what love looked like, he told himself. Letting go without asking to be remembered.

The reception was loud in the way only hunters could manage—too much laughter, too many drinks, stories that should never be told sober. Sam stayed close enough to be present, far enough not to intrude.

You danced with Dean, your head tipped back as you laughed, completely unguarded. Happy. Sam watched from the edge of the room, nursing a beer he didn’t really want.

Dean caught his eye once, lifted his glass in a quiet acknowledgment. Sam returned it.

Later, you found him by the stairs.

“You disappearing already?” you asked, teasing.

“Just getting some air,” he said.

You nodded, then reached out and squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He met your eyes. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

You smiled at him then—the same familiar smile, unchanged—and for a moment, it felt like every other night in the bunker, like nothing had shifted at all.

Then Dean called your name, and you turned away.

That night, when the bunker finally settled into silence, Sam sat alone in the library with a book he wasn’t reading. The lamp cast a small circle of light, the rest of the room swallowed in shadow.

Some feelings didn’t need names.

They didn’t need to be spoken to be real.

Some things were meant to be carried quietly—folded away, handled with care, never set down where they could hurt the people you loved.

Sam closed the book, turned off the light, and let the darkness settle around him.

Tomorrow, he would keep going.

The motel smells like old carpet, disinfectant, and something fried that shouldn’t still exist at midnight.

Dean pauses in the doorway, duffel bag hanging off one shoulder, eyes flicking from the single bed to you and back again. The neon sign outside the window bleeds red light through the thin curtains, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he mutters.

You step in behind him, already exhausted enough that the disappointment barely registers. “Front desk said they’re booked solid. Festival in town. This is it.”

Dean exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. “I’ll take the floor.”

“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” you say immediately.

He gives you a look. “I’ve slept on worse.”

“Yeah, and your back’s been messed up since Nebraska. Sit down before you fall over.”

For a moment, you think he’ll argue. He always does. But tonight something in him is quieter, worn thin from the hunt that ran long and ugly and too close for comfort. He drops the bag and sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at his bandaged hands.

You don’t comment on the blood that soaked through earlier. You already cleaned him up as best you could in the gas station bathroom. Neither of you needed to talk about how close it was.

You lock the door. Check the windows. Habit.

By the time you turn back around, Dean’s already peeling off his jacket, movements stiff. He winces when he rolls his shoulders, and you catch it—because you always do.

“You’re hurt worse than you’re letting on,” you say.

“I’m fine,” he answers automatically.

You raise an eyebrow.

He sighs. “Okay. I’m alive. That’s my official statement.”

You grab the motel’s sad excuse for a first aid kit and sit beside him. The bed dips, your thigh brushing his. Neither of you moves away.

The silence between you isn’t awkward. It’s familiar. Heavy. Like there are things living in it you’ve both learned not to poke too hard.

You rewrap his knuckles carefully. He watches your hands like they’re something precious, not just another person patching him up.

“You didn’t have to jump in like that,” he says quietly.

You don’t look up. “Yeah. I did.”

Another silence. This one sharper.

When you finish, you lean back, finally feeling how exhausted you are. The adrenaline drains all at once, leaving your limbs heavy, your thoughts slow.

Dean clears his throat. “Uh. You want the bed?”

“We’re not doing that,” you say. “We’re adults. We can share a bed without the universe imploding.”

He snorts. “You clearly don’t know my luck.”

Still, he doesn’t argue.

You both change quickly, turning away out of habit more than modesty. When the lights go off, the room feels smaller. Closer. Every sound amplified—the hum of the AC, the buzz of the neon, the soft creak of the mattress as you both lie down.

There’s space between you. Not much, but enough to pretend this is normal.

It isn’t.

You stare at the ceiling, counting cracks. Your mind replays the hunt whether you want it to or not—the thing’s eyes, the way it laughed, the moment you thought Dean wasn’t going to get back up.

Your breathing goes shallow before you realize it.

“You okay?” Dean whispers.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t call you on the lie. He just shifts slightly closer, close enough that you can feel his warmth through the thin blanket.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. Sleep doesn’t come.

The nightmare hits you halfway under.

You don’t scream. You never do. But your body jerks, breath hitching, heart racing like you’re still running.

“Hey—hey,” Dean murmurs immediately, already awake. He turns toward you, voice low and grounding. “It’s okay. You’re here. You’re safe.”

You clutch the blanket like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” he says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His hand hesitates in the space between you. You can feel the question in it.

You answer by moving closer.

Dean’s arm comes around you slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. You press your forehead into his chest without thinking, breathing in oil and soap and something unmistakably Dean.

He stiffens for half a second.

Then he relaxes.

His hand settles at your back, warm and solid, thumb brushing small, unconscious circles like it’s muscle memory. You melt into it, tension bleeding out of you one breath at a time.

“Got you,” he whispers.

You don’t know how long you stay like that. Long enough for your heartbeat to slow. Long enough for the world to stop feeling like it’s about to end.

“You know,” Dean says eventually, voice rough, “you don’t always have to be the strong one.”

You laugh softly, the sound fragile. “Someone has to keep you alive.”

He huffs. “Yeah. Guess I lucked out.”

The words hang there. Loaded.

You tilt your head back just enough to look at him. In the dim light, his face is softer than you’ve ever seen it—no bravado, no walls. Just Dean. Tired. Honest.

“Why do you keep coming back?” you ask quietly. “To this life. To… all of it.”

He thinks for a moment. Then his gaze drops to you.

“Because of stuff like this,” he says. “Because when the world goes to hell—and it always does—I’ve got someone who makes it feel survivable.”

Your chest tightens.

“Dean…”

“I’m not good at this,” he adds quickly. “The talking part. The feeling things part. But if I don’t say it now, I never will.”

He takes a breath. “You matter to me. More than I should probably admit.”

You shift closer, your nose almost brushing his. “You matter to me too.”

That’s all it takes.

The kiss is slow. Careful. Like you’re both afraid of breaking something sacred. His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with reverence that makes your throat ache.

When you pull back, neither of you moves far.

“Guess sharing a bed didn’t end the world,” you murmur.

Dean smiles—a real one. Soft. “Give it time.”

You fall asleep wrapped around each other, the neon light finally fading with the dawn. For once, the road ahead doesn’t feel so lonely.

Dean didn’t go looking for anything.

Which is how he found it.

The bunker’s library desk drawer was supposed to hold pens. Maybe holy water. Once, he’d found three different weapons in there like the furniture itself had trust issues. So when it jammed halfway open and he yanked harder, he wasn’t expecting the drawer’s entire life’s worth of secrets to avalanche out.

What spilled onto the floor was… paper.

So much paper.

Thin slips. Crumpled slips. Neatly folded slips. A couple had coffee rings on them. One had what Dean hoped to God wasn’t blood.

Traffic citations.

He stared.

He crouched.

He picked one up.

> STATE HIGHWAY PATROL

Citation: SPEEDING – 94 MPH in a 55

Vehicle: 1978 Chevrolet Impala

Driver: Clarence Novak

Dean blinked.

“…Cas.”

He flipped to the next one.

> FAILURE TO YIELD TO PEDESTRIAN

Improper turn

Reckless driving

Parking in a fire lane

Parking in a handicapped spot (no placard)

Illegal U-turn

Improper use of horn (10 violations)

Dean’s mouth fell open slowly like a man watching a building collapse in real time.

“Cas,” he called.

No answer.

He picked up another.

> Date: 7 YEARS AGO

Speed: 112 MPH in a 70

Note: “Driver claimed he was ‘in pursuit of cosmic wrongness’”

Dean choked.

“What the hell?”

He kept digging.

There were dozens.

No. Hundreds.

Sorted, weirdly enough, by state. Rubber-banded stacks with handwritten labels:

OHIO

KANSAS

ARIZONA (circled aggressively like it held grudges)

Taped to the inside of the drawer was a sticky note, in familiar handwriting:

Deal with later.

Dean sat back on the floor, tickets fanned around him like confetti from the world’s most pathetic parade.

And then he heard footsteps.

Castiel stopped in the doorway.

He took in the scene in exactly one second: Dean on the floor. The drawer exploded. The tickets everywhere.

“…Ah,” Cas said.

Dean held up one like it was radioactive.

“You wanna explain why my car apparently has a criminal record longer than mine?”

Cas’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“I was going to address those.”

“You were going to address—” Dean gestured wildly at the pile. “Cas, this is a lifestyle.”

Cas stepped further in, carefully stepping over a citation for “driving on sidewalk.”

“They aren’t… all valid.”

Dean picked up another.

“‘Illegally operating a motor vehicle while standing through the sunroof screaming’?”

Cas winced. “That one was during the Leviathan incident.”

“You don’t even have a license!”

“I had a license,” Cas said, offended. “For a while.”

Dean leaned back against the desk.

“You’ve been shoving these into a drawer.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

Cas thought, eyes unfocusing slightly. “Approximately… nine years.”

Dean made a sound suspiciously like a broken laugh.

“There is an entire forest’s worth of unresolved crime in this room.”

Cas folded his hands. “I didn’t want to burden you.”

“…You didn’t want to burden me with the fact that the Impala could be legally classified as a fugitive?”

Cas tilted his head. “You seemed very attached to the vehicle. I was attempting to preserve your emotional equilibrium.”

Dean dragged a hand down his face.

“Cas.”

“Yes, Dean.”

“You have parking tickets from three different dimensions.”

Cas hesitated.

“…Those may not be payable with standard currency.”

Dean picked up a pink slip and stared at it.

“You parked in a cemetery.”

“I was resurrecting someone.”

“That’s still illegal.”

Silence stretched.

Then:

“How much?” Dean asked quietly.

Cas shifted. “If paid with late fees…”

He pulled a small folded sheet from his trench coat.

Dean braced himself.

Cas unfolded it.

Cleared his throat.

“And converted into modern currency…”

Dean waited.

“…Approximately forty-seven thousand dollars.”

Dean lay down flat on the floor.

Just tipped backwards and accepted the embrace of cold bunker tile.

“Bury me with the tickets,” he muffled.

Cas knelt beside him, worried. “Dean?”

“My credit score just died.”

Cas hesitated, then reached out and rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“I can… fix this.”

Dean turned his head slowly.

“…How?”

Cas’s eyes glinted.

“I could smite the bureaucracy.”

Dean thought about it.

Long. Hard.

He pictured a DMV building exploding in celestial light.

Slowly sat back up.

“…What would Sam say?”

Cas considered.

“Probably that it’s unethical.”

Dean nodded.

“Yeah.”

Beat.

“…Do it anyway.”

Cas’s lips twitched.

Dean gathered a pile of tickets into his arms and stood.

“Come on,” he said, heading toward the door. “We’re getting you a license.”

Cas frowned. “I don’t need a—”

“And after that,” Dean added, deadly serious, “I’m teaching you how to park.”

Cas followed him out, stepping over a final citation.

> UNLAWFUL USE OF HAZARD LIGHTS “TO COMMUNICATE WITH THE DIVINE”

He paused, glanced back at it, and softly muttered:

The first thing Dean noticed was the quiet.

Not the peaceful kind — the kind that felt heavy. Pressed down. You’d been curled up in the war room chair for nearly an hour, knees tucked to your chest, staring at nothing in particular. The laptop in front of you was open, forgotten. A cold mug of tea sat untouched by your side.

He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, just watching.

You’d mastered the art of looking okay. Smiling when asked. Nodding when spoken to. But Dean knew the difference between silence that rested and silence that hurt.

So he crossed the room quietly.

He didn’t speak at first. Didn’t try to fix it. He just reached over and slipped the mug away so it wouldn’t tip, then crouched in front of you, careful, slow. Like you might spook.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You blinked, like you’d just come back from somewhere far away.

“Hard today?”

Your shoulders lifted in the smallest shrug.

That was enough.

Dean stood, held out his hand—not urgent, not demanding. Just an offer.

“C’mon,” he murmured. “I’m stealing you.”

You let him.

He guided you down the hall and into his room, dim and warm and a little messy in that familiar way. He kicked the door shut behind you with his heel and wordlessly pulled you toward the bed.

Then he sat down and gently pulled you against his chest.

Not tight. Never too tight. Just solid. Real. Safe.

His arm wrapped around you, hand smoothing slow strokes up and down your back, warm through the fabric of your hoodie. Your face pressed into his shirt, and it smelled like him — leather, soap, and something warm and grounding that made your chest ache in a good way.

“You don’t gotta be strong in here,” he said quietly against your hair. “You can just… melt.”

You didn’t realize how much you were holding in until your breathing wobbled.

Dean shifted so you were laying with your head tucked just under his chin, your legs tangled with his. He pulled the blankets around both of you like he was building a barricade against the world.

His thumb brushed slow circles over your arm.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Steady as a heartbeat.

“You know what I do when it gets bad?” he murmured.

You shook your head.

“I stay close to the people who make it hurt less.” A pause. Softer now. “That’s you.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt without thinking.

He pressed a slow kiss to your temple.

Then your cheek.

Then your hair.

Each one like a promise he wasn’t taking back.

You shifted slightly, fitting yourself closer, and he adjusted instantly, making you comfortable without asking. His hand slid to your hair, fingers combing through it in slow, soothing strokes.

Minutes passed.

Maybe more.

You stopped shaking.

The weight in your chest dulled.

The world narrowed down to Dean’s steady breathing and the warmth of his hands and the fact that someone was holding you like you were something that deserved softness.

Just before you drifted into sleep, he whispered:

“Tomorrow can be hard. That’s fine. But right now? You’re safe. You’re warm. And I ain’t going anywhere.”

His hand stilled only when your breathing evened out.

The problem with sleeping with Dean Winchester wasn’t the sex

—though God, the memory of it still lived under your skin like fire.

No, the problem was the silence that followed.

The thick, suffocating silence that settled into the bunker like a ghost only the two of you could see.

Three days.

Three days of Dean avoiding you.

Three days of pretending nothing had happened.

Three days of pretending you weren’t coming apart every time you remembered the way he’d whispered your name.

Tonight was the breaking point.

Dean was in the garage, pretending to work on the Impala. Pretending not to hear your footsteps. Pretending not to tense the moment you stepped inside.

“Dean,” you said quietly.

His jaw tightened. He kept his eyes on the engine. “Hey.”

You hated how normal he sounded. Like he was forcing the word through a filter of casualness he didn’t feel.

“We need to talk,” you said.

“No, we don’t.” He shut the hood harder than necessary. “It was… a moment. We got caught up. It happens.”

You felt the sting like a slap.

He didn’t look at you when he said it.

“Is that really what you think?” your voice cracked slightly. “That it was just… heat of the moment?”

Dean grabbed a rag, wiped his hands, still refusing to face you. “That’s what it has to be.”

“Why?”

It came out harsher than you intended.

He finally turned.

And the look in his eyes—God, it was devastation wrapped in restraint. Want buried under guilt. Love hiding behind fear.

“Because you and me?” he said softly. “We don’t work like that. We can’t. I can’t. I’m not… I don’t get to have things.”

Your throat tightened. “So that night meant nothing?”

Dean flinched.

Actually flinched.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered. “Don’t make it sound like I didn’t—like I don’t—”

He cursed under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

“What, Dean?”

You stepped closer, pushing. Hurting. Hurting because he was hurting.

“What don’t you?”

He stepped back like your closeness burned him.

“You know what,” he said. “You know damn well I—”

“Say it.”

Your voice was shaking.

“Because I can’t pretend, Dean. I can’t go back to acting like nothing happened.”

Dean’s chest rose and fell too fast.

His hands curled into fists.

Finally—brokenly—he said it.

“I wanted you.”

A breath.

“And I still want you.”

Another breath.

“But wanting you screwed everything up. We were friends. Good friends. And I ruined it.”

Your own breath hitched painfully. “Dean, you didn’t ruin anything. You’re the one running.”

He laughed once—dark, self-hating. “Of course I’m running. That’s what I do.”

“It’s not what you did that night.”

That shut him up.

You stepped closer, slow, testing.

“You didn’t run from me then.”

Dean looked shattered—guilty, longing, terrified.

“That night was…” he whispered, “the closest I’ve ever come to being happy.”

The confession hung in the air like a dropped match.

“…Then why are you punishing us for it?” you asked, voice trembling.

Dean’s eyes were glassy now, like he was close to breaking too.

“Because I don’t know how to love someone without ruining them.”

You exhaled shakily.

“That’s not fair. You don’t get to decide what ruins me.”

He shook his head, turning away as if you were too much to look at. “We crossed a line. And I don’t know how to uncross it.”

“Dean…” you whispered.

He swallowed hard. “We can’t go back to friends.”

“No,” you agreed, voice cracking. “We can’t.”

He closed his eyes, visibly bracing for the blow.

“But you keep acting like the only other option is losing each other.”

Dean opened his eyes slowly, something raw and wounded flickering there.

“If we try this,” he said hoarsely, “and I screw it up—”

“You will.”

You managed a broken laugh.

“Dean, it’s you. You’re going to screw up. And so am I. But you’re not screwing it up alone.”

He stared at you like he wanted to believe you, like the idea hurt and healed him at the same time.

“But what if,” he whispered, voice barely holding, “what if losing you is the price?”

Your heart cracked wide open.

Because that was the truth beneath all of this:

Dean would rather break his own heart than risk breaking yours.

You stepped forward until your chest touched his, until his breath hit your lips.

“If you keep pushing me away,” you said softly, “you’re going to lose me anyway.”

Dean’s breath hitched.

His hand came up to cup your jaw—gentle, reverent, trembling.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he whispered, voice shattered:

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” you whispered back. “Not if you stop fighting this.”

Dean closed the last inch between you, foreheads touching, breaths mingling. His fingers trembled against your skin like he thought you might vanish.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice wrecked, “I don’t know how to be your friend anymore.”

You exhaled a soft, sad smile.

“Good.”

His eyes opened—soft, desperate, undone.

“Because I don’t want you to be.”

And Dean finally—finally—let himself pull you into his arms.

Not as a friend.

Not as a mistake.

But as something he wanted.

Something he chose.

~~~~

Dean Winchester could face down a wendigo without blinking, but the sound that woke him that morning almost made him reach for the Colt.

A boom, a sizzle, and someone yelling:

“IT WASN’T SUPPOSED TO CATCH FIRE!”

Dean scrambled out of bed, half-dressed, hair sticking up like he fought an octopus in his sleep. He grabbed his gun on instinct, then paused.

No monsters made that sound.

That was a “my sibling broke something again” sound.

He stormed into the kitchen and nearly tripped over Sam, who was standing frozen in the doorway like he had PTSD.

“Sam, what the hell is—” Dean started, then saw the smoke.

The kitchen looked like a low-budget apocalypse movie. Blackened walls. Smoke alarm screaming. A frying pan lying on the floor like it tried to run for its life. And in the middle of it all stood Y/N, armed with a spatula and shame.

“I,” she said, pointing at the pan, “was making pancakes.”

Dean blinked. “With what? Thermite?”

Sam coughed into his sleeve. “I told you to use low heat.

“I did use low heat! The stove betrayed me!”

Dean marched past them and slapped the smoke alarm until it shut up. “Okay. Ground rules. You are no longer allowed to cook anything that has a melting point.”

“That’s unfair,” Y/N protested. “I’m perfectly capable of making normal food!”

Dean pointed to the ceiling. “There is batter on the ceiling.”

She looked up. “...It’s modern art.”

“It's breakfast carnage!” Dean snapped, but he was trying not to laugh.

Sam piped up. “Okay, okay. Let’s all calm down. We can salvage this.”

As if summoned by the word “salvage,” something flopped off the counter and hit the floor with a wet splat.

Dean stared at it. “What was that?”

Y/N winced. “That was Pancake #1.”

“There was more than one?!” Dean said.

Sam gingerly poked the fallen “pancake” with a spatula. It made a sound that could only be described as squelch.

“…Okay,” Sam said, backing away. “We’re going to put that one in a containment circle.”

Dean ran a hand over his face. “Why do I feel like I need holy water for breakfast?”

Y/N threw her hands up. “Fine! You make breakfast then!”

“Oh, I will,” Dean said, rolling up his sleeves. “And you are going to sit there and learn.”

Sam snorted. “This is going to turn into a drill sergeant situation again, isn’t it?”

“Sit!” Dean barked.

Y/N flopped into a chair out of sheer instinct.

Dean dramatically whipped out his apron—black, with “KISS THE CHEF, HE’S ARMED” printed on it. He tied it on like he was gearing up for battle.

“Behold,” Dean declared, turning on the stove, “the ancient Winchester art of pancake making.”

Sam muttered, “Pretty sure Mom taught you two weeks ago.”

Dean shot him a look. “Sam. Let me have this.”

Ten minutes later, actual golden pancakes were stacked beautifully on a plate. Y/N’s eyes widened like she was witnessing sorcery.

“How—how do you do that?” she asked.

Dean shrugged. “Skill. Patience. And not turning the heat up to ‘lava.’”

“I thought it would cook faster!” she yelled.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not how physics works.”

They all sat at the table. Y/N took a bite and sighed. “Okay. These are stupidly good.”

Dean smirked. “That’s right. Respect the pancake master.”

Y/N pointed at him with her fork. “Tomorrow, I’m trying again.”

Sam choked. “No—”

Dean nearly fell out of his chair. “Absolutely not!”

Y/N grinned wickedly. “I’m gonna make waffles.”

Dean stared at her, horror dawning.

“Sam,” he whispered, “hide the waffle iron.”

“I already did,” Sam said.