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It started in a drafty, yellow-walled motel room outside of Topeka, two mornings after a messy spirit purge in an abandoned grain silo. The room smelled like stale iron, sulfur, and the chemical tang of cheap pine cleaner.

You were standing in front of the tiny, steam-fogged bathroom mirror, struggling into your clothes after a long shower that had done absolute zero to relieve the deep, bone-heavy ache humming in your limbs. You reached back to pull the thick elastic band of your sports bra into place, but the second the fabric pressed against your skin, a sharp, white-hot sting shot across your chest.

"...Ow. Son of a..."

Dean didn't even look up from the foot of the sagging mattress, where he had a disassembled Colt scattered over a faded chenille bedspread. His calloused fingers were moving with rhythmic, practiced ease, rubbing a oil-soaked rag down the steel barrel.

"What's breaking?" he muttered around the unlit matchstick hanging out of the corner of his mouth. "Door's already squeaking."

You frowned, gingerly tugging the strap over your shoulder, wincing at the sheer, hypersensitive friction of the seam. "My bra is trying to murder me."

Dean snorted, a low, gravelly rumble in his chest. "I don't think that's how apparel works, sweetheart. Pretty sure they're non-violent."

"I'm serious, Dean. It hurts."

"What, did you buy the wrong size?"

"I've worn this exact one for six months," you grumbled, turning slightly to adjust the back clasp, only for another throb of tender pressure to make you hiss through your teeth. "It feels like I've been kicked by a mule."

"Huh."

Dean set the barrel down on his lap and finally looked over.

His sharp green eyes locked onto you—first out of pure hunter habit, checking for visible bruises, hidden hex marks, or phantom cuts. But as his gaze lingered, the analytical edge in his eyes completely dissolved.

His focus dropped.

Drifted back up to your face.

Then dropped right back down, lingering with zero subtle grace whatsoever.

A slow, thoroughly unrepentant grin spread across his face, lifting the corner of his mouth into that infuriating, cocky smirk.

"...Well."

You blinked, leaning against the doorframe. "...What?"

"I mean..." He rubbed the back of his neck with oil-stained fingers, his eyes dancing with wicked amusement. "...Far be it from me to complain about structural improvements."

You stared at him, your brows pulling down into a sharp crease. "...Dean."

"What?" he asked, throwing his hands up in mock innocence, though the grin only widened. "I'm just making an objective tactical observation."

"You are staring like a damn pervert."

"I am appreciating fine craftsmanship," he corrected smoothly, leaning back on his elbows against the footboard. "There's a vast difference."

You snatched a damp hand towel off the rack beside the sink and balled it up, hurling it straight at his face.

Dean caught it out of the air without even breaking a sweat, tossing it casually onto the nightstand. "Hey! Watch the firearms."

"You're disgusting."

"I'm a man of culture," he shot back, his eyes flashing with that familiar, warm heat as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "I'm just saying... you've got a little... y'know..." He gestured vaguely toward your chest with both hands, making a wide, curved shape in the air. "...More."

You stared down at yourself, your arms folding defensively across your middle—which only pressed against the tenderness and made you wince all over again. "...More?"

He nodded once, definitive and entirely unbothered. "...Definitely more. A little bit extra. A bonus."

"They're swollen, you absolute idiot."

Dean shrugged, his broad shoulders rising under his grey t-shirt in a posture of total, unbothered satisfaction. "Didn't hear me complaining. If sore muscles mean extra real estate, I say we hunt in silos more often."

You rolled your eyes so hard it practically hurt behind your temples. "You're unbelievable."

"I've been called worse by better-looking ghosts."

You muttered a string of colourful curses under your breath, turning back toward the fogged-up mirror to comb through your wet hair. The plastic teeth of the comb snagged on a knot, and a sudden, bizarre rush of heavy, overwhelming fatigue slammed into your chest out of nowhere, making your eyes sting with a fleeting, absurd urge to cry.

You swallowed it down furiously, pressing the heels of your palms against the cold porcelain sink.

Behind you, the soft clink of brass against steel resumed as Dean went right back to reassembling the cylinder of the revolver, completely oblivious to the micro-quake happening three feet away from him.

"Seriously, though," his rough voice drifted across the small room, softer this time, stripped of the cocky edge.

You paused, staring at your own pale reflection. "What?"

"You sure you're okay? You've been complaining a lot lately. Slept ten hours yesterday and you still look like you got run over by a tractor."

Your breath hitched for a fraction of a second. You thought of the lingering nausea that had hit you in the diner two towns back—the greasy smell of sausage that had made your stomach violently flip—and the way your heavy combat boots suddenly felt like they were made of lead.

"...Yeah," you murmured softly, smoothing a hand over your damp hair. "Just tired. Tough hunt."

"Yeah," Dean agreed easily, sliding the cylinder back into place with a solid, metallic click. "Tell me about it. Salting bones takes it out of you."

He accepted the answer without a single shadow of doubt.

The second clue arrived in the form of a woman neither of you believed.

It wasn't even a real case. At least, that's what Dean insisted while chewing violently on a stick of fried dough.

"You dragged me to a carnival," he grumbled, his voice low enough to avoid drawing eyes as the three of you navigated the crowded, sawdust-covered walkways beneath strings of humming, incandescent lights. "You know how many monsters hide at carnivals? It’s practically a union requirement for shapeshifters and rogue hex-weavers."

Sam didn't even look up from the dog-eared local newspaper clipping tucked into his hand. "None. Which is exactly why we're here. The salt-and-burn in Columbus took three days, the Impala needs an oil change, and we have zero active leads."

Dean scowled, wiping a smudge of powdered sugar off his thumb onto his jeans. "...I hate when you're right."

The hunt had wrapped up yesterday afternoon. No vengeful spirits, no wandering ghouls, no bloodthirsty creatures waiting in the dark—just a false alarm from an overworked county sheriff who’d mistaken a black bear attack for a local urban legend. For the first time in three straight months, the Winchesters had nowhere to be until Sunday morning.

So when the annual county fair lit up the field across the highway from your neon-buzzing motel...

You’d managed to talk them into going.

Dean had aggressively insisted he was only attending for the heart-clogging food options. Yet, twenty minutes after passing through the turnstiles, he’d already blown twenty dollars trying—and spectacularly failing—to win you an oversized, gaudy blue stuffed bear at the shooting gallery.

"The barrel on that air rifle is bent," he muttered, glaring at the teenager running the booth as if the kid were a demon in disguise. "It’s off by at least two degrees to the left. It's regulation sabotage."

"It is not," you replied, leaning back against the wooden rail.

"It’s a rigged carny racket!"

"You just have terrible aim with low-caliber air pellets, Dean."

"I shoot moving targets for a living," he countered, spinning around to narrow his eyes at you.

"Which makes your inability to hit a stationary tin duck even funnier."

He pointed a calloused, grease-stained forefinger directly between your eyes. "I don't appreciate your tone. Or your attitude."

You just laughed, casually reaching over to snatch two salted fries straight out of his paper basket. He made a weak, half-hearted swipe at your hand, missing entirely, though the familiar, quiet warmth in his green eyes gave away just how much he was actually enjoying himself.

The three of you were halfway across the noisy fairgrounds—past the screaming riders on the Tilt-A-Whirl and the heavy smell of fried butter—when you noticed the faded, ruby-red velvet tent tucked into the shadow between the creaking Ferris wheel and the ring toss.

A crooked wooden sign swayed overhead in the humid night breeze:

MADAME ZORA Palm Readings • Tarot • Futures Revealed

"Oh, absolutely not," Dean barked the literal microsecond he caught where your eyes had landed.

"You haven't even heard my pitch yet," you said, snagging the sleeve of his flannel to slow his pace.

"I don't need to. I know that face. That’s your 'I’m about to waste time and money' face."

"It's five bucks, Dean."

"It's a neon-lit tourist trap run by a lady who probably smells like stale patchouli and store-bought incense."

"It'll be funny."

"It's still five dollars that could buy a draft beer."

You stopped in the middle of the walkway, looking up at him through your eyelashes, letting a sweet, deliberately innocent smile curve your lips. "Please? Just five minutes."

Dean stared at you, his jaw working as he tried—and failed—to maintain his stern, uncompromising hunter scowl. He let out a dramatic, chest-heaving sigh that earned a bewildered glance from two passing high schoolers.

"I've fought actual demons with less persistence than you," he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Is that a yes?"

"...It’s a deeply reluctant, highly annoyed yes," he muttered, though he didn't pull his arm away from your hand as you tugged him toward the heavy velvet curtain. "If she pulls out a crystal ball, I’m leaving."

Madame Zora didn't ask for your hand.

She asked for Dean's.

Dean stared at the silver-ringed hand outstretched across the table for a full five seconds, his jaw set, his green eyes flicking from her heavy eyeliner to the glowing amber lamp sitting between them.

"...Seriously?" he muttered.

Madame Zora simply waited, her dark eyes unblinking, totally unbothered by his signature intimidating glare.

With an exaggerated, theatrical sigh, Dean dropped heavily into the tiny wooden chair opposite her, the frame groaning under his weight. He slapped his calloused palm onto the faded velvet table runner with an unceremonious thud.

"There," he grumbled, leaning back and resting his elbow on the table. "If you're about to tell me I'm gonna die young, get in line. I've got a whole list."

The old woman's lips twitched into a faint, mysterious smile. "I don't tell people when they'll die."

"Good."

"I tell them how they're living."

Dean snorted, glancing over his shoulder toward you with a quick, disbelieving smirk. "Lady, if this is the part where you tell me I have unresolved childhood trauma and emotional issues—"

Her dry, warm fingers brushed lightly across the thick, hardened lines of his palm.

Dean fell dead silent.

Not because some mystical charge shot through the air. Not because the candles flickered or a cold draft swept through the heavy velvet drapery.

Simply because... she'd stopped smiling.

Her eyes lifted slowly from the lines carved into his hand, moving up the leather of his jacket, settling on his face.

Then... past him.

Her gaze drifted right to where you stood, a few feet away, leaning casually against the tent's main wooden support pole near the entrance flap.

Her expression shifted. It wasn't excitement or theatrical carnival flair. It was recognition. The quiet, heavy look of someone suddenly realizing they were looking at two halves of the same picture.

"Hm," she breathed.

Dean’s left eyebrow shot up, his body instinctively tensing. "What?"

Madame Zora ignored his question entirely. Instead, her eyes dropped back down to the broad expanse of his palm, her thumb tracing a faint, curved line near his wrist.

"...You have a child," she said softly, her voice barely carrying over the distant, muffled music of the carousel outside.

Silence stretched across the small tent.

Dean barked out a short, harsh laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, no. No, I don't."

She didn't laugh with him. "You do."

"No," he repeated, his tone shifting into something a little more amused, a little more dismissive as he tried to pull his hand back. She didn't let go. "Pretty sure I'd remember something like that, lady."

"You aren't raising one," she continued calmly, as if reading the text off a page. "You haven't held them. But you have one."

Dean leaned back, a cocky, sharp grin fixing on his face as he leaned into his usual bulletproof defense mechanism. "Okay... now I know you're just throwing darts in the dark. Standard psychic stuff."

"I don't throw darts."

"You definitely got the wrong Winchester. Try the tall guy wandering around the funnel cake stand."

"I rarely miss," she replied quietly.

Dean looked back toward you, rolling his eyes as if inviting you to share in the sheer absurdity of it all. "You hearin' this?"

You crossed your arms, letting a slow, amused smile spread across your face. "I mean... it'd explain your sleep schedule. And your taste in food."

Dean pointed a stern, calloused finger directly at you. "Do not encourage the carnival lady."

Madame Zora never took her eyes off him. "Sometimes," she said softly, her voice carrying a strange, weightless authority, "life arrives before we have the eyes to recognize it."

Dean scoffed, his patience officially running dry. "Or..."

He pulled his hand firmly from her grip and stood up, his large frame instantly shrinking the tiny space of the tent.

"...sometimes carnival psychics make stuff up to justify five bucks." He reached into his leather jacket, pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill, and tossed it onto the faded velvet table. He gave you a quick nod toward the curtain flap. "C'mon. We're done here."

The cool, damp Midwest night air hit your face the moment you pushed past the thick curtain and stepped back into the glowing, noisy fairgrounds.

Dean immediately let out a loud snort, shaking his head as he adjusted his jacket. "Unbelievable. I can't believe I paid actual, legal tender for that garbage."

"You paid because you're secretly a charitable man at heart," you teased, stepping into stride beside him as the smell of roasted peanuts and exhaust fumes replaced the thick incense.

"I paid because you gave me those stupid puppy-dog eyes."

"Hey, they work."

"They're a hazard to my bank account is what they are."

You smiled, sliding your hand naturally into his. His fingers instinctively closed around yours, his calloused palm warm against the chill of the evening as the neon reflections of the Ferris wheel danced off the polished chrome of the Impala parked near the exit gates.

He squeezed your hand absentmindedly, sweeping his eyes over the passing crowds out of sheer, unerasable habit.

You walked in silence for a few yards before tilting your head to look sideways at him. "...So."

Dean let out a long, suffering groan. "Oh, here we go."

You fought the grin tugging at your lips. "So..."

"You are absolutely not gonna let this go, are you?"

"I just think it's funny."

"It wasn't funny. It was highway robbery."

"It was a little funny."

Dean reached up with his free hand and rubbed it roughly over his face. "She literally made up a kid! Out of thin air!"

You stopped walking, turning your body toward him and looking up at him with exaggerated, dramatic suspicion. "...You got any secret offspring running around Kansas I should know about, Dean?"

He stopped in his tracks, turning to face you. He gave you the single most offended, deeply scandalized look you had ever seen on his face.

"What?!"

"I'm just asking!"

"I'm twenty-seven!" he protested loudly, earning a quick glance from a mother pushing a stroller past you.

"So?"

"When exactly was I supposed to have this mystery child?!" he argued, throwing his free hand up in the air. "Between getting thrown through windows by ghosts and driving across forty-eight states?!"

"I don't know," you said, tapping your chin thoughtfully. "Pretty sure you had a reputation as a bit of a womanizer before we met."

Dean stared at you, his jaw dropping for a second before he burst into a loud, disbelieving laugh. "Oh, that is dirty. That is below the belt."

"So that's a definitive no?"

He stepped closer, wrapping his arm heavily around your shoulders and pulling you tight against his side as the two of you started walking again toward the exit lights.

"If I had a kid," he said, his tone softening just a fraction beneath the bravado, "I'd know about it. I wouldn't leave a kid out there."

"You sure?"

"I'm positive."

"You didn't sound very convincing just now."

"I am one hundred percent, rock-solid certain that I have never accidentally become somebody's father," he declared, bumping his shoulder against yours with a grin. "Nice try, though."

You laughed, leaning your head against his arm for a brief second as the chatter of the carnival faded into the quiet hum of the night. You let the conversation float away into the dark, lost among the flashing lights and the distant roar of the highway.

Neither of you noticed Madame Zora standing just inside the dark slit of her red tent curtains, watching the two of you walk away toward the dark silhouette of the Chevrolet Impala.

She didn't look surprised by his denial. Only thoughtful.

Very quietly, to the quiet wind rustling the canvas overhead, she murmured,

"...Not father."

A faint, knowing smile touched her weathered lips.

"...Not yet."

Then she pulled her hand back, and let the heavy red velvet drop shut.

The third clue arrived on a hot Sunday afternoon at Bobby Singer’s salvage yard.

It wasn't a hunt. There were no hex bags in the floorboards, no sulfur in the wind, and no blood on the upholstery.

It was one of those rare, almost suspiciously peaceful afternoons where Bobby had declared the three of you were staying put because, in his exact words, "The world's still gonna try to end on Monday. Today, we're eatin' ribs."

The backyard smelled of white-hot charcoal, sweet hickory smoke, and whatever secret, vinegar-heavy rub Bobby swore under penalty of death came from a family recipe, even though Sam had once spotted three empty grocery store shaker bottles in the trash.

Dean had, naturally, appointed himself assistant grill master—a title that mostly consisted of him hovering over the grates with a pair of metal tongs, aggressively offering unprompted advice while Bobby loudly insisted he was "just in the damn way."

"You flipped 'em too early," Bobby grumbled, swatting at Dean’s hand with a wooden spoon.

"They’re fine," Dean countered, adjusting his leather cap. "Look at that sear."

"That ain't a sear, idjit, that's charcoal."

"It's flavor."

"It's a fire hazard."

Sam sat at the weathered, sun-bleached picnic table beneath the shade of the back porch overhang. He had a sweating bottle of beer in one hand and a battered, leather-bound folklore book open beside his plate, pretending to cross-reference creature lore while quietly enjoying the bickering.

You wandered out through the squeaking screen door carrying a heavy glass bowl of potato salad.

Dean’s head turned instantly, his green eyes lighting up the moment he saw you. "There she is."

You smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Bobby threatened to banish me from his kitchen if I didn't get out."

"He threaten you with the 12-gauge or just the spatula?" Dean asked with a smirk.

"Spatula. Though he brandished a rolling pin at one point."

"He likes you," Dean declared, casually taking the bowl from your hands and setting it on the table. "He only uses cookware on people he respects."

"Good to know."

You stayed by the table for maybe three minutes—long enough to laugh at one of Sam's dry remarks about Dean's grilling technique—and then quietly slipped back inside the house.

Nobody thought much of it.

At first.

Five minutes later, you came back out carrying a fresh stack of paper plates and napkins. You set them down, reached over, and casually stole a pickle straight off Dean's prep tray.

He let out a dramatically offended, scandalized gasp, pointing a grease-stained thumb at you as you retreated. "Hey! That's a structural pickle!"

You just grinned over your shoulder, popped it into your mouth, and disappeared through the screen door once again.

Dean frowned, leaning on the grill scraper as his eyes lingered on the dark mesh of the door.

"...Where's she keep goin'?"

Bobby didn't even look up as he basted a rack of ribs. "House."

"Yeah, I know where, but what's she doing in there? We brought everything out."

"Maybe she's getting away from your breathing."

"Hilarious."

Ten minutes after that, you returned with a bottle of yellow mustard and a jar of jalapeños. You paused to listen as Sam read a ridiculous excerpt from the county paper, laughed, and then, before anyone could ask you to sit down, turned right around and walked back toward the kitchen.

The screen door slapped shut behind you.

Dean stared at the door, his brows pulling into that sharp, familiar crease. "...Again?"

Sam finally looked up from his lore book, tapping his pencil against the wood. "She's been going back and forth a lot today."

Dean scratched absentmindedly at the back of his neck, his eyes still fixed on the house. "...Yeah." A long beat passed. He looked sideways at Bobby. "...Maybe she's avoiding you."

"I can hear you, idjit," Bobby snapped without pausing his basting.

Dean gave a quick, satisfied grin. "Worth a shot."

Another ten minutes passed.

The burgers were resting under a sheet of foil. The ribs were sputtering over the last of the embers. You still hadn't come back out.

Dean finally tossed his tongs onto the side tray and ambled toward the back porch, his boots heavy on the wooden steps. Just as his calloused hand reached out for the screen door handle—

It swung open.

You bumped right into his chest, stepping back with a tiny, sharp intake of breath.

"There you are," he said, taking a quick step back to give you room, his hands rising instinctively to steady you by your hips. His eyes scanned your face. "You okay?"

You smiled a little too quickly. "Fine. Miss me already?"

"You've disappeared like... six times in forty-five minutes."

"I have not."

"Five," Sam called out helpfully from the picnic table.

"Four," you corrected, shooting Sam a look.

Dean pointed a finger toward the dark hallway behind you. "You've been roaming around Bobby's kitchen like a restless spirit. What's going on in there?"

"I've just been... getting stuff. Helping out."

"Bobby would've yelled at the top of his lungs if he needed help."

"Are you saying I'm unwanted?"

"I'm saying you're acting suspicious," Dean murmured, leaning down slightly, a playful, searching grin curving his lips. "You got a secret stash of pie in there you're not sharing?"

You laughed, a soft, nervous sound, and lightly pushed his chest. "I'm getting a bell."

"For you?"

"For you. So you stop tracking my every footstep."

You bumped his shoulder as you stepped past him onto the porch.

"You'd get tired of hearing it ring," he called after you, turning to follow you back down the steps.

"Nah," you said softly, looking back over your shoulder. "I don't think I would."

Dinner finally settled onto the old wooden picnic table in a messy, glorious spread.

Paper plates piled high with smoky ribs, grilled corn, baked beans, and potato salad. Enough food to feed an army, or three very hungry hunters.

Dean dropped into the wooden bench right beside you with a deep, satisfied groan, stretching his long legs out under the table. He reached automatically into the red plastic cooler sitting on the grass, pulling out a dripping six-pack of cold beer.

He popped a bottle for himself, then pulled out a second one. Without even looking at you, driven purely by month upon month of shared muscle memory and unspoken instinct, he held the sweating glass bottle out toward your hand.

"Here."

It was a small gesture. Casual. Second nature.

You looked down at the dark glass bottle, your hand hovering over it for a fraction of a second... and then you pulled back.

"...Actually."

Dean turned his head, his brow furrowing as he held the bottle in mid-air. "What?"

"I think I'll just have some water."

He blinked, staring at you as if you'd just spoken fluent ancient Sumerian. "...Water?"

"Yeah."

"You hate water."

"I do not hate water. It's hydration."

"You literally called it 'tap-flavored boredom' three days ago in Nebraska."

"I have never said that phrase in my life."

Dean let out a short, bark of a laugh, looking toward the end of the table. "Sammy, back me up. She hates water."

Sam looked up from slathering butter on a cob of corn. "She's right, Dean. You said it, not her. But she did say water was 'for washing the Impala.'"

"See?!" Dean pointed at Sam. "Thank you!"

Bobby snorted into his napkin. "Kid, I've seen you drink stale coffee out of a pot that hadn't been washed since the Reagan administration. Don't go judging people's liquid choices."

Dean ignored both of them, his green eyes settling back on you, searching your face with a mix of genuine amusement and mild confusion. "You always steal my beer. You take three sips and then leave the bottle for me."

"I'm just... not really in the mood for a beer today," you said, keeping your voice light, though your fingers tightened slightly in your lap.

"...Huh."

Without another thought—without a single drop of suspicion, without connecting a single dot, without even registering the strange, quiet tension sitting in your shoulders—he simply shrugged.

"More for me."

He twisted the cap off the bottle with the hem of his shirt, handed it across the table to Sam instead, and then reached straight over you. He grabbed the heavy plastic pitcher of ice water sitting near the salad, poured a generous glass, and set it down right in front of you.

"There you go. Fresh from the Singer well."

"Thanks," you murmured.

Dean smiled, a warm, completely unguarded expression that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and bumped his shoulder heavily against yours. "Try to stay in one place for ten minutes, alright? You're making me tired just watching you."

You stared down at the clear glass of water, watching the condensation bead along the plastic rim. A strange, heavy little knot of warmth—mixed with a sudden, suffocating wave of quiet panic—settled right in the center of your chest.

You looked at the way his broad shoulder rested against yours, comfortable and solid. You looked at the carefree way he reached for a rib, completely oblivious to the massive, terrifying shift currently happening in his universe.

You took a slow, deep breath.

"..Dean."

"..Hmm?" he hummed around a bite, taking a long, lazy pull from his beer bottle.

"..I'm pregnant."

PFFFFFT.

A violent, chaotic geyser of amber foam and beer erupted from Dean’s mouth, spraying straight across the picnic table in a glorious, misting fountain.

Sam ducked sideways with lightning-fast hunter reflexes, his plate barely escaping the blast zone, while Bobby simply froze mid-chew, his fork hovering an inch from his mouth.

Dean hacked, coughing violently, his eyes watering as he slammed the beer bottle onto the wood so hard the glass rattled. He wiped his mouth frantically with the back of his hand, gasping for air, his face turning an alarming shade of red as he stared at you in absolute, wide-eyed, horror-stricken shock.

Not in the common lounge where people ran Mario Kart tournaments at two in the morning. Not on the sunny patch of grass in the quad. Not even in the tiny communal kitchen where everyone else came to burn toast and avoid their responsibilities.

Every time you stepped into the third-floor hallway of North Hall, there he was.

A stack of impossibly thick Political Science textbooks tucked under one arm alongside a massive LSAT prep guide. A faded green canvas backpack slung over a shoulder that barely fit through standard doorway frames. Coffee—black, massive, and smelling like battery acid—in one hand. Head down. Shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes, looking for all the world like the entire university campus existed solely to interrupt whatever chapter of Constitutional Ethics he was trying to finish.

You didn't even know his name at first.

Only that he was six-foot-four of pure, anxious posture, looking like he’d genuinely apologize to a hallway pillar if he accidentally brushed shoulders with it.

"You've seen Hallway Guy?" your roommate, Chloe, asked one afternoon as the two of you hauled overfilled laundry baskets down the stairwell.

"The giant?"

"The ridiculously serious one."

"Oh." You hitched the basket onto your hip and shrugged. "Yeah. Pretty hard to miss. He looks like he’s preparing for the Bar exam and the apocalypse at the same time."

"Does he smile?"

"I've literally never seen it."

"You should try to make him."

"Why?"

"I don't know," she grinned over her shoulder. "Scientific curiosity. Or basic human charity. Take your pick."

You laughed, the sound echoing in the concrete stairwell. "Maybe he forgot how. Pretty sure his jaw is permanently set to 'brooding'."

His name, you learned two weeks later, was Sam Winchester.

You learned it because your resident advisor, a harried senior named Mike, knocked on your door at eight-thirty on a cold Thursday morning.

You cracked the door open three inches, one eye open, wearing a t-shirt three sizes too big and holding a mug like a weapon.

"Morning," Mike said, looking deeply like he wished he were anywhere else on Earth.

"It... isn't, actually. The sun is barely awake."

Mike shifted awkwardly, clutching a small blue clipboard. "We got a noise complaint."

You blinked once. Twice. "A what?"

"There have been repeated disturbances reported after quiet hours. Heavy bass, slamming doors, loud voices."

"...From me?"

"Apartment 214."

You backed up two inches to read the metallic numbers screwed into your own door. 214.

"Mike, you're kidding."

"Look, I just have to hand over the official written warning."

You stared at him, the fog of sleep rapidly burning away into sheer, unadulterated irritation. "I wasn't even in the building Tuesday night. I was at my campus job until midnight and then slept at Sarah's."

"I know."

"Wednesday I was at the library until one in the morning, listening to rain sounds on noise-canceling headphones!"

"I know."

"So why am I holding a piece of paper that says I'm a public nuisance?"

Mike sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "The complaint specifically identified 214. I don't write 'em, I just deliver 'em."

You snatched the yellow carbon-copy paper, more bewildered than furious—though the furious part was catching up fast. "Who complained?"

"Policy says I can't name names."

Five minutes later... you found out anyway.

Across the hall. Apartment 215.

The impossibly tall, endlessly serious student had just stepped into the corridor, a massive duffel slung over one shoulder and a stack of color-coded index cards in his hand.

Perfect.

You crossed the hardwood hallway before your brain’s self-preservation instinct could intervene.

"Hey."

He stopped mid-stride, blinking down at you from his towering height. Up close, up against the morning light, he looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, broad shoulders slightly hunched. "Oh. Hi."

"Did you report me?"

His eyebrows pulled together, a tiny fold appearing between them. "...Excuse me?"

"The noise complaint," you said, holding up the bright yellow slip of paper like an indictment. "Did you write it?"

"What noise complaint?"

"The one currently ruining my Thursday morning."

His expression shifted in real time. It wasn't guilt. It was a swift, crushing wave of realization.

"Oh."

"Oh?" you repeated, tilting your head.

"I... I filed a report with the RA last night."

You folded your arms over your chest. "So it was you."

"I reported the apartment making noise around two in the morning," he said defensively, his voice dropping an octave into a low, resonant baritone. "Someone was playing music with a heavy bass line right against my shared wall."

"My wall."

"I thought it was yours, yes."

"It wasn't."

His entire posture sagged. The towering student suddenly looked like a kid who had accidentally broken a window with a baseball. "I..."

"You what?"

"The walls in this building are ridiculously thin. I assumed... the sound was coming from directly across."

"You assumed."

"I must have gotten the room number wrong. 216 is right next door to you, their speakers might be angled—"

"You didn't think to knock first?"

"It was two in the morning!" he protested gently, throwing a hand out. "I didn't want to start a confrontation!"

"So instead of knocking like a normal human being, you launched a formal administrative strike against my clean residence record?"

"I... I honestly believed it was your apartment."

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Good to know."

He opened his mouth, genuinely distressed now. "Look, I really am sorry. I'll go talk to Mike right now. I'll tell him it was a clerical error on my part. I'll get it taken off your file."

"Sure." You took two deliberate steps backward toward your door. "You do that."

"I will. Really."

"Have a great day..." Your eyes flicked down to the heavy leather binder clutched against his chest, where a neatly printed label read PROPERTY OF: SAM WINCHESTER - POLITICAL SCIENCE / PRE-LAW.

"...Officer Winchester."

The satisfaction lasted exactly three days.

Not because you'd completely forgiven him. Absolutely not. A false charge on housing records was a serious matter, after all.

It was mostly because every single time you crossed paths in the hallway afterward, Sam looked like he was carrying around the soul-crushing weight of a major moral failing. He had the distinct, haunted posture of a guy who felt like he’d personally violated the Geneva Conventions over a misdirected dorm report.

The first evening after the initial incident, he had stopped outside your door.

Knocked once—a firm, heavy knuckle against wood.

You had opened it just enough to reveal a sliver of your face, finding him standing there in a wrinkled heather-gray hoodie, both hands shoved awkwardly deep into his jacket pockets.

"I talked to Mike," he said, his eyes dead serious.

"...Congratulations?"

"He removed the warning. Completely. Expunged it from the dorm records."

"Good."

"I also apologized to him for wasting administrative resources."

"You did."

"I just wanted to make sure you knew. That it was handled."

"I know."

A long, excruciatingly formal pause hung in the quiet hallway.

"...I'm really, truly sorry," Sam added, shifting his broad shoulders. "It was... uncalled for."

You stared at him for another silent second, watching the absolute sincerity radiating off him, before answering in a flat tone: "I accepted your apology, Winchester."

His shoulders visibly relaxed, a small breath escaping his chest. "...Really?"

"No."

The door clicked shut cleanly in his face.

Three days later...

Around eleven-fifteen at night, you were trudging back upstairs after a soul-crushing six-hour marathon study session in the basement of Green Library. Your backpack felt like it was packed with solid lead ingots, and your brain was entirely fried.

The third-floor hallway of North Hall was usually dead silent by this hour on a Sunday.

Until—

THUMP.

A thick, distorted bass line rattled through the thin drywall.

Then another.

Music. Loud, terrible, booming mid-2000s party rap.

You stopped in your tracks, frowning. It wasn't coming from your room. And it definitely wasn't coming from Sam’s monastic, book-filled fortress across the hall.

You paused directly in front of Apartment 216.

The cheap wooden door frame was practically vibrating with the beat. Someone inside whooped loudly, followed by a sudden chorus of slurred, obnoxious laughter. A glass bottle shattered against floor tiles, followed by a voice bellowing, "Turn it up, bro!"

You stood there in the dimly lit hallway for a long moment.

Then...

Very, very slowly...

A wicked, brilliant grin spread across your face.

"...Oh, boy."

Your eyes drifted slowly to the door directly across from yours.

Apartment 215.

Poor, unsuspecting Officer Winchester.

The next morning, you were halfway through buttering a piece of slightly singed toast in the narrow communal kitchen when Mike walked past the doorway, holding his familiar blue plastic clipboard like a weapon of mass bureaucracy.

He was heading straight toward Apartment 215.

You immediately abandoned your toast. Purely out of academic curiosity, of course.

You leaned casually against the doorframe of the kitchen, taking a sip from your mug just as Mike raised a hand and knocked.

Three short, miserable knocks.

Sam answered almost immediately. He was already fully dressed for his 9:00 AM Philosophy lecture—crisp flannel shirt, canvas backpack already slung over one shoulder, looking infuriatingly awake.

"Morning, Mike," Sam said smoothly, taking a sip from a travel mug that smelled strongly of dark roast.

"Morning, Sam..." Mike looked profoundly uncomfortable. Again. "We... uh. We got a noise complaint."

Sam blinked, his brow furrowing in immediate, genuine confusion. "...I'm sorry?"

"There were repeated disturbances reported after quiet hours last night. Heavy bass, shouting, breaking glass."

"I..." Sam blinked again, processing the words. "Mike, I was reading case studies until ten-thirty and then I went straight to sleep."

"You'll need to sign the confirmation slip here."

Sam actually let out a short, bewildered laugh, leaning back against his doorframe. "I think you've got the wrong room, Mike. Seriously. I don't even own a speaker system."

"The complaint specifically lists Apartment 215."

"It... can't."

Mike handed him the dreaded bright-yellow carbon-copy slip anyway, looking as though he wished the linoleum floor would open up and swallow him whole. "I'm just following proper administrative protocol, Sam. I have to deliver the citations as filed."

Across the hallway, you pressed your lips together so hard it genuinely hurt.

Don't laugh. Whatever you do, do NOT laugh.

Sam looked down at the yellow paper, staring at the sloppy handwriting, then looked back up at the RA. "Mike. I was literally dead to the world before eleven. I have an exam today."

"I believe you," Mike said softly, already backing away toward the stairwell. "I really do."

"Then why am I holding a formal noise citation?"

"The official report identified your apartment." Mike gave him a helpless, deeply apologetic smile before turning on his heel. "You can file an appeal with the housing board on Wednesday."

"..."

"..."

"...Right," Sam muttered to the empty air.

The hallway fell dead silent.

Sam stood alone outside 215, staring down at the yellow citation slip in his hands. Then he let out a slow, quiet exhale—a weary breath pulling from the bottom of his chest, the weight of a student quietly questioning every single life decision that had brought him to Stanford.

You chose that exact, perfect moment to casually step out of the communal kitchen, mug in hand.

"Oh?" you murmured, tilting your head.

Sam’s head snapped up.

You offered him your absolute sweetest, most innocent smile. "Noise complaint, Officer? In this fine establishment?"

His expression tightened, a dangerous little spark flickering in his eyes. "...You knew."

"Knew what?"

"The noise last night," he said, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you, holding the yellow paper like a piece of damning evidence. "It was 216. The guys next door were throwing a party."

"Weren't you the one who said assumptions get innocent people into administrative trouble?" you asked lightly, taking a deliberate sip of your coffee. "Sound travels in mysterious ways in North Hall, Winchester. Thin walls. Angles. Spatial confusion."

His mouth opened. Closed. A dark flush of color dusted his cheekbones as he realized he was being handed his exact words from three days ago on a silver platter.

You clasped your hands neatly behind your back. "You know... maybe the walls are just really, really thin across the board."

Recognition—and the sudden realization that he had been utterly played—flashed brilliantly across his face.

"...You filed it," he whispered, his baritone dropping an octave. "You walked down to the front desk at midnight and turned me in."

You gasped dramatically, bringing a hand to your chest in mock offense.

"Officer Winchester! Are you accusing a law-abiding tenant of filing a false report? Without hard evidence? I thought you believed in due process!"

Sam stared at you.

Really stared.

Like if he looked hard enough, using whatever hyper-analytical focus he brought to his double-major courseload, he'd somehow find a written confession inked across your face.

"...You did this," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register that made him sound far older than nineteen.

You casually lifted your mug for another slow, deliberate sip. "Did what?"

"You filed the complaint."

"I walked to the kitchen to toast some bread and make coffee."

"You know that's not what I mean."

"Hm."

His jaw flexed, a small muscle twitching along his sharp cheekbone. "You've been waiting three days."

"Oh?"

"To get even."

You blinked innocently, setting your mug down on the windowsill and leaning back against the wall with your arms crossed. "Sam."

He frowned, his thick eyebrows knitting together in that classic Winchester furrow. "...What?"

"You should really be careful."

"Careful?"

"You're making a very serious administrative accusation against a neighbor. Defamation, almost. I thought you were aiming for law school."

"I know you did it."

"Knowing and proving are two very different things, legal counsel," you countered smoothly.

Silence stretched through the third-floor corridor. Outside, the morning rain tapped against the glass, matching the hum of the old fluorescent lights overhead.

Sam shifted his weight, his tall frame blocking half the hall, his eyes searching your expression for a slip-up. "You don't have any proof."

"I—"

"You filed a report against me because you thought the music was coming from my room," Sam said, holding up the yellow slip like a key exhibit in court.

You smiled, letting the sheer satisfaction show in the corners of your eyes. "I filed a report because I genuinely, truly believed the music was coming from yours."

His hazel eyes narrowed. "You copied my exact defense."

"I learned from the best. Practical application of precedent."

"You are impossible," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion.

"I've been called worse. By higher authority figures than an RA, too."

He let out another soft, resigned huff—the kind of quiet surrender that pulled from his broad shoulders. "You realize filing false complaints is a direct violation of university housing policy."

"So is filing baseless accusations against innocent roommates."

"...Mine wasn't baseless," he protested, throwing a hand up in a quick, emphatic gesture. "I made an honest mistake based on spatial acoustics."

"And I made an honest mistake based on spatial acoustics."

"You did it on purpose."

You tilted your head, resting your chin against your hand. "Can you prove that in front of the housing board?"

Another silence fell between you. Longer this time. Heavy with the weight of a guy who had spent his entire life learning how to win arguments, suddenly realizing he’d been boxed cleanly into a corner by his own logic.

His broad shoulders rose with a slow, deep inhale.

Then fell.

"...No," he admitted, the word dragged out of him against his entire moral code.

"That's what I thought."

You grabbed your mug off the sill, giving him a polite, razor-sharp nod as you took a step toward your door.

"Have a wonderful day at lecture, Officer Winchester. Do try to keep the noise down—some of us are sensitive sleepers."

Behind you, standing in the middle of the hallway holding a yellow noise citation in his giant hand, Sam Winchester let out a sound that was half-groan, half-disbelieving laugh.

"I'm appealing this," he called after you.

"I'll see you in court!" you shouted back, slipping into your room and shutting the door with a perfectly satisfied click.

The yellow-slip standoff had opened the floodgates. What started as a single misplaced noise complaint devolved into a silent, meticulously calculated Cold War across the third floor of North Hall.

There were no shouting matches—Sam was far too polite and aggressively rule-abiding for that. Instead, the retaliation took the form of weaponized inconvenience.

It began on a Tuesday. You adjusted your phone alarm to 6:00 AM, intending to hit the gym, only to discover that the thin, uninsulated drywall of Apartment 215 was effectively a megaphone. At 6:01 AM, three sharp knocks rattled your doorframe.

You opened it to find Sam, fully dressed in a crisp flannel, holding a timer. "Per dorm guidelines, section 12, repeated audio triggers before 7:00 AM qualify as a waking disturbance," he said with terrifying calm, handing you a sticky note containing the exact dictionary definition of 'audio disturbance.'

Two days later, you exacted your toll. Knowing Sam ran his laundry on a strict 45-minute cycle every Thursday evening, you timed your own three loads to fill every single communal washer in the basement at 6:59 PM. When he walked down the concrete stairs carrying a plastic hamper the size of a bathtub, you were casually sitting on a folding table, flipping through a magazine.

He stopped on the bottom step, looking at the glowing red timers on all four machines, then slowly shifted his eyes to you.

"Staggered loads?" he asked, his voice deadpan.

"Spatial efficiency, Officer," you replied sweetly. "Housing guidelines encourage full capacity."

He didn't scream. He just let out that signature, quiet huff of air, turned on his heel, and carried forty pounds of dirty laundry back up three flights.

Then came the hallway thermostat. An ancient, erratic plastic box mounted directly between 214 and 215. Sam preferred the floor at a crisp, library-grade 18°C for maximum study focus. You preferred not freezing to death in your own living room.

For forty-eight hours, the dial became a battlefield. Every time he nudged it down, you slipped into the hall five minutes later and cranked it up. By Friday afternoon, the third floor felt like a humid tropical rainforest. You passed each other in the corridor—him sweating through a grey t-shirt while holding a stack of books, you wearing a tank top—neither of you acknowledging the 28°C heat index inside the building.

It was a stalemate of pure, unyielding stubbornness.

Then came Thursday afternoon.

Thursday afternoons at Stanford were absolute, unmitigated chaos.

Students poured out of lecture halls in massive waves, skateboards rattled loudly across the brick paths, and the line at the campus coffee shop curled halfway out the front glass doors. You had exactly twenty-three minutes before your next discussion section.

Which was why the universe chose that precise moment to betray you.

The main canvas strap of your overstuffed backpack snapped with a loud, violence-inducing CRACK.

Without warning.

One second it was resting comfortably on your shoulder. The next—

"Seriously?!"

Books exploded across the brick sidewalk like a shrapnel tear. Heavy binder pages fluttered into the wind. A notebook skidded straight through a muddy rain puddle. Three highlighters rolled in completely different directions toward the grass. Someone nearly stepped on your laptop case before muttering a breathless apology and hurrying off toward the quad.

"Fantastic," you muttered, dropping to your knees to desperately collect the disaster. "Love this for me. Excellent timing."

A pair of worn, scuffed brown leather work boots stopped directly beside your dripping textbook.

You froze. Looked up.

Up.

Up.

"...No."

Sam Winchester. Of course.

He stood above you, towering against the gray sky, wearing his standard army-green jacket over a hoodie, a heavy messenger bag slung across his chest. He didn't mock you. He just bent down, his long frame folding with surprising efficiency, and scooped up your Criminal Psychology textbook right before a passing cyclist could run over the spine.

"I've got it," he said softly, his baritone cutting through the campus noise.

"I can see that."

He dusted the dirt off the cover with a broad palm, checking the binding with a quick, methodical eye before handing it back to you.

"So... this is your latest revenge?" he asked, a faint crease forming between his brows.

"My backpack breaking?"

"It seemed like something you'd arrange just to block the walkway."

You snorted, grabbing a handful of loose pens from the dirt. "I wish I had that kind of dark, terrifying influence over basic gravity."

For the first time since you’d met him—past the noise complaints, the sticky notes, the laundry blockades, and the legal threats—his jaw relaxed.

His mouth twitched. Barely a millimeter at the corner, but unmistakably a smile attempting to break through his serious face.

"You'd abuse it," he noted.

"I absolutely would. I'd make your prep books float away."

He reached out, his long arm snaking under a nearby bench to grab a runaway spiral notebook before it slid farther down the muddy slope. "You missed one."

"I know."

"And your red pen."

"I know."

"And..." He leaned down again, his broad shoulders blocking the wind, reaching into the damp grass. "...Whatever this thing is."

He stood back up, holding a tiny, ridiculous yellow rubber duck keychain that had apparently detached from your bag's main zipper during the impact.

You stared at his giant hand. The tiny duck looked entirely surreal resting against his scarred, callus-rough palm—a hand built for heavy lifting, held out like he was processing a piece of high-level evidence.

"...Give him back."

Sam raised an eyebrow, looking down at the plastic toy. "Him?"

"His name is Gerald."

Sam looked from the tiny duck... to you... then back down to the duck. The subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth flared into a genuine, dimpled smirk—the kind of sudden, warm expression that completely transformed his dark, brooding face.

"You named your keychain."

"Don't judge Gerald. He's been through a traumatic structural failure."

"I'm not sure this duck meets structural standards," Sam said, his voice dropping into a low, amused rumble. "I don't think he's OSHA compliant."

"He has personality, Winchester. Something you might recognize if you took a break from ethics seminars."

Sam shook his head, a soft, genuine laugh finally escaping his chest—a sound so unexpected and light that it seemed to surprise even him. He carefully looped Gerald’s small metal ring around his pinky finger and held out his hand to help pull you up from the damp pavement.

Sam stood tall on the damp brick path, dangling Gerald by his tiny metal ring just out of reach. He held the duck at eye level—his eye level, which meant it was currently hovering somewhere near six feet above the ground.

"Hand him over, Sam," you said, stepping forward with an outstretched palm. "He's had a rough afternoon."

"I'm just assessing the evidence," Sam replied smoothly, a faint spark of mischief dancing in his eyes. He tilted his head, watching you strain upward. "He's missing a wing, you know. That's a severe hazard."

"He came built like that! Give him back!"

You made a sudden, decisive grab for the keychain.

Sam didn't even flinch. He just took a single, fluid step back, shifting his weight effortlessly. But as you overextended, slipping slightly on the slick, rain-dampened brick, your foot skidded.

With a low, instinctive grunt, Sam’s free hand shot out.

His broad, calloused palm caught you firmly by the forearm, steadying you before you could lose your footing entirely. For a sudden, suspended second, the frantic noise of the Stanford campus—the rattling skateboards, the chatter of students, the distant hum of traffic—seemed to drop away entirely.

He was remarkably solid. Up close, wrapped in his heavy army-green jacket, he smelled faintly of rain, dark roast coffee, and clean cedar. You were standing flush against his chest, forced to look straight up past his broad collarbone to catch his eye. The faint, warm dimple on his cheek was still visible, his shaggy brown hair falling forward into his eyes as he looked down at you, his grip secure and completely grounded.

His hazel eyes flicked down to your face, realizing just how close you were.

The playful smirk softened into something quieter. His chest rose with a slow inhale, his fingers lingering on your arm for a beat longer than strictly necessary.

"...You okay?" his baritone dropped, low and genuine, stripped of all the lawyerly banter.

"I..." You cleared your throat, suddenly acutely aware of the warmth radiating through his jacket. "Yeah. Gerald was trying to assassinate me."

A soft, breathy huff of laughter escaped Sam's nose. The spell broke. He gently let go of your arm and pressed the tiny rubber duck into your open palm, his thumb brushing briefly against your knuckles.

"Here," he said softly. "Keep a tighter grip on him next time."

Before you could construct a witty comeback, Sam hoisted your heavy, waterlogged stack of textbooks cleanly under his arm alongside his own massive binder. He gave you a quick, polite nod—the picture of a chivalrous student—and turned to lead the way down the path toward the bookstore repair desk.

You stood on the brick path for a second, staring at his broad back as he forged through the crowd of students like a ship cutting through water. The warmth where his hand had caught your arm was still lingering.

You looked down at Gerald resting in your palm, then glared at Sam’s retreating shoulders.

"Asshole," you muttered under your breath, a sharp, reluctant smile tugging at your lips as you jogged a few steps to catch up with his long stride. "Absolute overachieving asshole."

Sam didn't turn around, but as you fell into step beside him, you could swear his shoulders hitched with another quiet, hidden laugh.

The fluorescent lights of the third-floor hallway hummed like a hive of sleep-deprived bees as you stood frozen in front of the full-length mirror tacked to the back of your dorm door.

One hand was still hovering in mid-air, finger-combing a stubborn flyaway back into place.

From across the hall: Click.

The heavy, metallic thunk of Apartment 215’s deadbolt retracting. Then came the distinct, heavy thrum of boots against linoleum. Measured. Unhurried.

Sam.

You stared at your own reflection in sheer, unadulterated horror.

"...No," you whispered to the glass.

Your reflection stared back, looking guilty as charged.

"No." You pointed a stern, accusing finger at your own nose. "We are not doing this. We are not becoming the girl who fixes her hair because six-foot-four of pure, anxious pre-law energy is walking past the door."

You waited. You counted to five in your head. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

You grabbed your empty travel mug, threw the door open, and muttered to the empty air, "...I'm getting coffee."

The hallway was completely empty.

You blinked at the linoleum. "...Seriously? How does someone that large move that fast?"

You scurried toward the concrete stairwell, catching a brief, infuriating glimpse of an absurdly broad pair of shoulders disappearing around the second-floor landing.

His stupid, long, tree-trunk legs. He walked like he was perpetually late to argue a case in front of the Supreme Court. Which, to be fair... he probably was.

You let out a dramatic, soul-weary sigh, adjusted your grip on your mug, and jogged down the stairs after him.

The line at CoHo was twenty people deep. Naturally.

It was a sea of oversized Stanford hoodies, clattering espresso wands, and the low, collective drone of stressed undergraduates. You spotted Sam immediately. He stood near the pickup counter like a lighthouse in a storm, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his worn jeans, the other balancing three impossibly thick textbooks against his hip. His canvas backpack looked heavy enough to hold actual cinder blocks.

He hadn't noticed you. Good.

You slid smoothly into line four people behind him. Pure coincidence. Obviously.

A girl standing near the napkin dispenser turned around. She was gorgeous—effortlessly bright, sporting long dark hair and a navy Stanford Volleyball hoodie. She caught Sam’s eye and gave him a brilliant, deliberate smile.

"You're Sam, right? From Intro to Political Theory?"

Sam paused, shifting his massive binder under his arm, looking up with that polite, perpetually slightly startled expression. "Oh. Yeah. Hi."

"I was wondering if maybe you wanted to study together sometime? Grab a table at Green?"

You frowned into the back of a stranger's head. For absolutely no reason whatsoever. Your jaw clenched so hard your teeth clicked.

Sam shifted awkwardly on his feet, his broad shoulders hunching just a fraction—the universal body language of Sam Winchester being wildly uncomfortable.

"...I actually usually study alone," he said. His baritone was low, gentle, but entirely firm. "I get... pretty distracted."

"Oh." The girl's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "No worries!"

"Thanks, though," Sam added, offering her a quick, apologetic nod. Not rude. Not dismissive. Just... terribly polite.

She smiled, turned, and walked out toward the quad.

You looked straight down at your sneakers. Why... why on earth did a sudden, traitorous wave of relief just wash over your entire nervous system?

"...Oh, no."

"What do you mean, 'oh no'?"

Chloe looked up from her organic chemistry flashcards. You were currently lying face-down across your twin XL mattress, a pillow pulled firmly over the back of your head.

"I think I'm becoming an idiot," your muffled voice came from beneath the bedding.

"You'll have to be way more specific. You live in a dorm full of nineteen-year-olds."

"I was... happy."

"When?"

"When a ridiculously pretty girl asked Sam Winchester out at CoHo."

Chloe paused, a marker hovering over her index card. "...And?"

"And he shot her down."

"And...?"

"And I celebrated." You pulled the pillow away just enough to expose one deeply stressed eye. "In my heart. I threw a little party."

Chloe stared at you. The silence stretched across the tiny room.

"...Oh," Chloe said softly.

"No! Do not 'oh' me! Do not make that face!"

"I think I'm going to 'oh' you exactly as much as this catastrophe deserves," Chloe grinned, leaning back in her desk chair.

"I don't have a crush on Officer Winchester!"

"You literally just admitted you experienced genuine joy over another human being's romantic rejection."

"I didn't enjoy it, I just..." You sat up abruptly, running both hands over your face. "...Okay, that sounds terrible out loud."

"It sounds downright villainous," Chloe agreed happily. "Accept the truth, my friend. The giant pre-law student has breached your defenses."

After that... you started noticing impossible things.

Not impossible because they were hidden. Impossible because you had somehow been too blind to notice them before.

Sam always held the heavy glass doors at the library. Always. Even when he was clearly running late, his long stride would hitch, and he’d catch the frame, waiting patiently for three exhausted freshmen to pass before stepping inside.

He always carried extra blue-ink pens in his canvas bag. When a girl in his lecture accidentally stepped on her own pen and snapped it, Sam didn't even pause—he just reached into his pocket and slid a spare across the wooden desk without looking up from his notes. He never asked for them back.

He knew the name of the elderly woman who cleaned the third-floor bathrooms.

"Morning, Mrs. Alvarez," he’d say every single morning at 7:30 AM, his voice dropping into that quiet, respectful rumble.

One rainy Tuesday afternoon, you watched him through the window of the dining hall. A freshman had dropped her laptop on the wet brick path of White Plaza, the screen shattered, papers flying into the mud. She was standing there, crying quietly in the drizzle.

Sam was visibly late for a discussion section—he had his heavy binder clutched to his chest and was practically power-walking. But he stopped. He turned around, knelt in the wet dirt, and spent ten minutes helping her pick up every single scattered page, shielding the damp electronics with his own green jacket.

He didn't make a big deal out of it. He didn't tell anyone. He just handed her the stack, patted her shoulder, and walked off into the rain, completely soaked.

You hated it.

You hated it because it made him impossible to dislike. And making him impossible to dislike made your stupid, traitorous feelings impossible to ignore.

A week later, you found yourself in the basement stacks of Green Library.

It was 11:45 PM. The air smelled of old paper, ozone, and impending academic doom. You rubbed your burning eyes, trying to make sense of a paragraph you had read four times already, and casually glanced down the narrow, metal-lined aisle.

There he was.

He wasn't sitting at one of the sturdy wooden desks like a normal person. Sam Winchester was sitting cross-legged directly on the thin carpet between the high-density shelving units, his long legs folded awkwardly, surrounded by towering stacks of philosophy books.

His reading glasses—thin, dark-framed things you hadn't realized he wore—rested low on the bridge of his nose. His lips moved silently as he scanned a line of fine print, a pencil tucked behind his ear, his thick brow furrowed in intense concentration.

You watched him. Just for a second.

Then another.

Then—without lifting his head from the text—his baritone cracked through the quiet space.

"...You're staring."

You flinched, nearly knocking your highlighter off the table. "I was not!"

"You've been looking over here for..." He pulled back the cuff of his gray hoodie, checking his scuffed watch. "...about forty-five seconds."

"You counted?!"

"I noticed." He finally looked up, resting his forearms over his knees. Up close, behind those glasses, his hazel eyes looked dark, clever, and entirely too observant.

Heat rushed up your neck, flooding your cheeks. "I wasn't staring. I was..."

"You were what?"

"...Observing."

"Hm."

"For scientific purposes."

A tiny twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth. One eyebrow lifted over the frame of his glasses. "Should I be worried?"

"Extremely," you muttered, pulling your textbook closer. "You're a public nuisance, Winchester."

"I've been told," he noted quietly.

The dimpled smirk broke through his serious face—warm, sudden, and completely devastating. He reached up, pushed his glasses higher on his nose with one long finger, and went back to his reading.

Just like that. As if your ridiculous exchange had been the most natural thing in the world.

You looked down at your notes. You read the exact same sentence six times. You didn't absorb a single word.

Later that night, you were brushing your teeth in the communal bathroom when Chloe leaned against the adjacent sink, watching you in the mirror.

"You know," she said casually, tapping her knuckles against the porcelain.

"Mmh?" you mumbled around your toothbrush.

"I think he actually likes talking to you."

You froze, spit into the sink, and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. "What? Who?"

"Sam."

"He talks to everyone, Chloe. He’s aggressively polite."

"No," Chloe said, shaking her head. "He answers people. He responds to questions. That's not the same thing as talking."

You frowned at her reflection. "There's a difference?"

"A massive one. I've lived across from that guy for two months. I've heard him speak to the RA, I've heard him answer professors, I've seen girls try to flirt with him. He gives them two-word sentences and excuses himself."

You stood still, the damp hand towel clutched in your fingers.

"He doesn't joke with anyone," Chloe continued, leaning in closer. "I have literally never heard him crack a joke in this building. Except with you."

"That's just because we have a tactical war going on over noise complaints—"

"He smiles," she cut in softly. "With you."

"Chloe—"

"He carried your books on Tuesday. And last Thursday. And..." She crossed her arms, smirking. "That's four times now."

You blinked. "...You're keeping a tally?"

"I keep tallies on important domestic developments," she noted proudly. "And every single time he sees you coming down the hall, he stops looking at his legal pads. He actually puts his work down."

Your stomach performed a slow, sickening, wonderful little flip.

"...He does?"

"He absolutely does. The man looks like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders 24/7, but the second you start picking a fight with him about the thermostat, his shoulders visibly drop."

You stared at yourself in the mirror. You took a long, deep breath, resting your palms against the cold enamel of the sink, and let out a miserable, helpless groan.

"Oh... this is getting ridiculously inconvenient."

Chloe burst out laughing, clapping you on the shoulder as she turned toward the door. "I told you weeks ago to make Hallway Guy smile."

"...Yeah," you whispered, a reluctant, helpless smile tugging at your own lips as you looked at your reflection. "Turns out that was the easy part."

The hard part...

The hard part was realizing that you were no longer stepping into the third-floor corridor by accident.

The hard part was realizing that every time you heard a heavy deadbolt click across the hall, your heart did a stupid, frantic little dance.

Chloe dropped onto your twin XL bed dramatically, stealing a handful of your pretzel sticks without an ounce of remorse.

"You've reached the staring phase."

"I don't stare."

"You absolutely stare."

"I observe."

"You observe with heart eyes."

You grabbed a throw pillow and hurled it at her head. She caught it cleanly with one hand, tossing it back onto the mattress.

"For someone studying psychology," Chloe noted, crunching on a pretzel, "your emotional self-awareness is downright atrocious."

"I don't have a crush on Officer Winchester."

"You've been repeating that like a mantra for three weeks."

"Because I don't!"

"You know his coffee order."

"..."

"You know his exact class schedule."

"..."

"You know he sits in the basement stacks of Green Library every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday until almost midnight."

"I happen to also study in the library," you protested, sitting up straight.

"You switched libraries. You used to go to Meyer."

"...Coincidence."

"You hate coincidences."

You let out a long, miserable groan, burying your face directly into the bedsheets. "Oh, my God."

"I'm serious," Chloe said, her playful tone softening into genuine encouragement. "Either ask him to grab a coffee, or stop looking at him like a Victorian widow watching her husband sail off to war every morning."

"I am not looking at him like that."

"You watched him tie his shoe in the courtyard yesterday."

"I..."

"You literally stopped mid-sentence and stood there."

"I was thinking."

"You were staring at a six-foot-four man double-knotting a brown leather boot."

"It was... a very involved knot."

Chloe barked out a laugh, shaking her head. "You are hopeless."

"I am not hopeless."

"You are one awkward conversation away from writing 'Mrs. Winchester' in the margin of your notebook."

You threw the second pillow.

A few days later... the opportunity finally arrived.

Almost suspiciously perfectly.

The sun had just dipped below the horizon, painting the sky over Stanford Quad in bruised shades of lavender and orange. The air had a sharp, cool bite to it.

You found Sam alone outside Green Library.

He was sitting on one of the wide stone benches beneath a magnolia tree. His massive textbooks were piled beside him, but for once, they were closed. He was just sitting there, long legs stretched out, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his army-green jacket, watching the remaining students cross the plaza.

You slowed your pace.

Your heart immediately dropped into your stomach, hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs.

There he is.

Chloe’s voice echoed in your mind with relentless clarity: Just ask him to get coffee. He’s not scary. He’s literally the gentlest guy on campus. The worst he can say is no.

You took a slow, deliberate breath. Exhaled.

Started walking toward the bench.

One step.

Two.

Three.

Sam’s head turned at the sound of scuffing sneakers on damp brick. The second his eyes landed on you, his broad, tired shoulders visibly dropped. His face brightened into that familiar, quiet smile he’d somehow started reserving just for you.

"Hey."

"...Hey, Officer," you said, stopping a couple of feet away.

"You done with class?"

"Yeah. Just finished my lab."

"You look tired."

"I feel like my brain was put through a paper shredder."

A low, warm chuckle escaped his chest. "I know that feeling."

A beat of silence stretched between you. Not the awkward, high-tension silence from weeks ago when you were trading noise complaints, but something soft. Quiet. Comfortable.

This is it.

Say it now. Just ask.

"Sam!"

A girl's voice—bright, warm, and entirely effortless—cut through the cool evening air.

Both of you turned.

She was jogging across the brick path toward the bench, holding two steam-venting paper coffee cups from a local shop downtown. Her dark auburn hair bounced against the shoulders of a cream-colored knit sweater, her smile blooming the moment she locked eyes on him.

Sam stood up immediately.

"There she is," he said softly.

And the smile he gave her...

You had never seen anything like it.

It wasn't the amused, razor-sharp smirk he wore when you argued over the hallway thermostat. It wasn't the reluctant, dimpled grin Gerald the duck had earned. It wasn't even the breathless laugh from the library.

It was effortless. Unreserved. Wholehearted.

It was the look of a man who had suddenly found solid ground in the middle of a storm. The permanent, anxious tension that usually sat heavy between his shoulders simply vanished.

"You found the place?" he asked as she reached the bench.

"Barely," she laughed, catching her breath. "Your directions were terrible."

"My directions were accurate."

"They were lawyer directions, Sam. 'Head north-northwest past the brick facade' is not a normal way to tell someone where a bakery is."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Sam murmured, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

She rolled her eyes with deep, practiced affection before holding out one of the paper cups. "I got your usual. Black, ridiculously large, and hot enough to melt plastic."

He accepted it, his broad hand brushing hers, an absent, automatic little rumble escaping him: "Thanks, Jess."

Jess.

The name landed like a lead weight in the pit of your stomach.

She noticed you then, her bright eyes shifting away from Sam. She didn't look at you with suspicion or coldness; her expression was completely kind, open, and warm.

"Oh," she said softly, offering a genuine smile. "Hi!"

Before you could construct a coherent sentence, Sam took a half-step back, gesturing between the two of you.

"This is the counsel," Sam said softly, his voice full of casual, unprompted familiarity. "She's my neighbor from across the hall."

Not just a generic boundary line. He knew your name instantly, used it without thinking, but in the exact same breath, defined the border. Neighbor.

"And this is Jessica, my girlfriend," Sam added.

Jess’s smile widened, and she stepped forward, extending a warm hand. "It's so nice to finally meet the infamous counsel!"

You blinked, numbly extending your hand to take hers. "...Infamous?"

Jess laughed, a sound as clear as a bell. "He talks about your thermostat war constantly. And the noise citation."

Your eyes flicked to Sam.

He was rubbing the back of his neck, a faint, dark flush creeping up his throat into his cheeks, looking suddenly, wildly embarrassed. "It... comes up in conversation."

"Apparently," Jess teased, reaching out to give his forearm an affectionate little nudge, "you're responsible for eighty percent of his daily sighing."

"I'd argue she's responsible for at least ninety," Sam muttered into his coffee cup, though there was no heat in it.

The silence pressed down on your chest. You forced your lips to curve upward, executing a flawless, practiced mask of polite detachment.

"I'm honored," you said smoothly.

Jess smiled back, completely oblivious to the sudden, sharp ache tearing through your ribs. "It was really great meeting you."

"You too." You gave a short, polite nod, pulling your eyes away from them. "I should... head back. Have a good evening, Officer.—You too, Jess."

You turned and began walking.

You didn't run. You didn't hurry. You just kept one foot moving in front of the other down the brick walkway toward North Hall.

You didn't look back. You couldn't.

Because if you had... you would have seen Sam falling into step beside Jess, his long stride naturally slowing to match hers, his head tilting down as she talked—moving together with the effortless, ancient rhythm of two people who had belonged to each other long before North Hall ever existed.

Maybe she had always been the whole picture.

When you opened the door, Dean was leaning against the jamb, leather jacket worn at the shoulders, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked tired in that specific, bone-deep way he always did back then—the kind of exhaustion that didn't come from lack of sleep, but from carrying the weight of the world and pretending it was light as a feather.

"Hey," he said. No sorry, no long time no see. Just that easy, crooked smirk like he’d left yesterday to go get gas and just got caught in traffic.

"Two months, Dean," you said, holding the edge of the door, not moving back an inch to let him in.

He tilted his head, his jaw ticking slightly. "Yeah, well. Route 66 was a bitch." He took a beat, his green eyes scanning your face, looking for the anger he knew was coming. "You gonna let me in, or are we giving the neighbors a show? Because I brought pie. Okay, no, I didn't bring pie. I brought a six-pack of crappy beer and my winning personality."

"Your personality lost its charm sixty days ago."

"Ouch," Dean muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Look, I was in the neighborhood. Hunt took longer than expected. Wendigo in Minnesota, turned into a nest of ghoul-vamps in Illinois... you know how it goes."

"I do know how it goes," you said quietly. "That’s why we stopped doing this."

The banter faltered, just for a fraction of a second. Dean dropped his gaze to the porch light, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek—a classic Dean Winchester dodge when things got too real.

Because the break-up hadn't been a clean, healthy parting. It had been messy. It had been Dean losing his mind every time a normal guy so much as looked at you, terrified that bringing you into his world would get you killed, but completely unable to handle the idea of you moving on with someone who could actually give you a normal life. It was the toxic, classic Winchester loop: I can't let you get close because you'll die, but I can't stand seeing you with anyone else because you're mine.

He’d accused you of looking for an exit strategy with a guy from the local diner; you’d called him out on his hypocritical, self-destructive bullshit and his refusal to let anyone actually *know* him. Then he’d packed his duffel, gotten into the Impala, and torn down the highway without looking back.

Until tonight.

"Can I just... get five minutes?" Dean asked, his voice dropping the playful edge, settling into that rough, honest rasp he only used when he was out of excuses. "Just five minutes. Then if you tell me to hit the road, I'll go. I swear."

You looked at him—at the faint shadow under his eyes, the subtle smell of whiskey and gunpowder clinging to his jacket, and the way he was trying so hard to act like he didn't care whether you said yes or no.

You stepped back from the doorway.

Dean exhaled slowly, stepping inside. He didn't touch you as he walked past, but the heat off him was familiar enough to make your chest ache.

"Place looks nice," he said, setting the six-pack on your small kitchen table. "No salt lines on the windows, though. Slipping."

"I don't live in a salt ring anymore, Dean. I tried that. It came with too much baggage."

Dean turned around, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "Right. The 'normal' life." The word came out laced with that familiar, bitter edge he always had for anything outside the hunter lifestyle—part disdain, part pure, unreachable envy. "So. How's that working out for you?"

"It was working out pretty well," you said, folding your arms to match his. "Until five minutes ago."

Dean let out a short huff through his nose, almost a laugh.

"There she is."

You frowned, leaning back against the doorframe. "Who?"

"The girl who used to roast me before breakfast." He reached into the six-pack, pulled out a bottle, and popped the cap against the edge of the counter with a quick, practiced flick of his wrist. He tossed the cap into the sink without looking, then turned back to you with a slight slant to his mouth. "Still terrifying."

"I’ve had to keep my skills sharp," you said, keeping your voice flat. "It’s a tough market out here."

"Clearly." He took a long sip, eyes tracking you over the mouth of the bottle, never quite letting you out of his sight. He gestured toward the counter with the neck of the beer. "You want one?"

"I don't think alcohol is going to improve this conversation, Dean."

Dean shrugged, a slow, filthy grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he took a step forward. "I don't know... usually when you and I drink late at night, things end up improving drastically. Course, usually we're wearing a lot less clothes by now."

"We're not doing that," you snapped, though the heat in your face betrayed you. "And you don't get to flirt your way out of this."

"Worth a shot," he muttered, the grin fading into something a little more grounded, a little more worn around the edges. He set the beer down with a quiet clink. "Look, I know I’m the last guy on Earth you wanted to see tonight. Hell, I almost turned the Impala around three times on Interstate 80."

"Why didn't you?"

Dean’s jaw worked. He looked away, his eyes scanning your small kitchen—the normal mugs, the normal dish towels, the total lack of iron crowbars by the door—before settling back on you.

"Because I was in the neighborhood," he lied smoothly. "And I wanted to make sure you hadn't bought into any more 'picket fence' bullshit with some guy who wears sweater vests."

"He was an accountant, Dean. And he didn't check my backseat for sulfur every time we went out to dinner."

"Yeah, well," Dean rasped, his voice dropping into that dark, possessive register he only got when he was cornered by his own jealousy. "He also didn't know what to do when things go bump in the night. You're welcome, by the way."

You let out a humorless laugh.

​"Oh, we're doing this again?"

​"I'm just saying."

​"No." You shook your head, leaning back against the edge of the kitchen counter. "You're doing that thing."

​"What thing?" Dean asked, taking another slow draw from his beer, playing it off like he had no idea where this was going.

​"The thing where you decide every guy who so much as breathes in my direction is a complete idiot."

​Dean spread his hands innocently, bottle held loosely in one hand. "Hey, if the shoe fits."

​"You never even met him, Dean."

​"Didn't need to."

​"You knew one thing about him!"

​"He was an accountant," Dean said, as if that single word explained the entire fabric of the universe.

​"And somehow that was enough for you to decide he wasn't good enough?"

​Dean snorted, tossing his head back slightly. "C'mon. An accountant? What was he gonna do if a ghoul showed up, write it a stern tax deduction?"

​"Seriously?" You stared at him, incredulous. "You spent years flirting with every waitress from Nebraska to New York."

​Dean opened his mouth, pointing a finger.

​"You hit on bartenders, nurses, cashiers—hell, you flirted with the woman at the DMV!"

​"She started it."

​"She asked if you wanted your driver's license renewed."

​"There was chemistry," Dean insisted, eyes widening in full defense mode. "You weren't there. The vibe was palpable."

​"There was paperwork!"

​Dean rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, looking genuinely offended. "Hey. I've got charm. It’s a curse, really."

​"You've got a problem."

​He ignored that completely, leaning his hip against the counter. "Look, most of those girls knew what it was. It wasn't serious. Standard road rules."

​"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

​"It means—"

​"It means you got to do whatever you wanted," your voice sharpened, cutting right through his easy, deflection-heavy rhythm. "Meanwhile, one normal guy asks me if I want to grab a cup of coffee after work, and suddenly you're ready to treat him like he's on the FBI's Most Wanted list."

​Dean’s jaw tightened. The playful, cocky smirk vanished, replaced instantly by that dark, immovable Winchester stubbornness.

​"That's different."

​"How?"

​"It just is."

​"No." You took a step closer, folding your arms tight over your chest. "Explain it to me, Dean. Break it down for me."

​"I don't have to explain—"

​"Yes, you do."

​Dean looked away, his jaw ticking hard as he chewed the inside of his cheek—that classic move when he was backed into a corner and hated every second of it.

​"You flirted with anything that had a pulse," you reminded him softly.

​"I did not."

​You just raised an eyebrow, staring him down.

​"...Okay," he amended under his breath, taking another swig of beer to buy time. "Most things that had a pulse."

​"And I was supposed to just smile, take it, and live with it."

​"Because you knew it didn't mean anything!" Dean snapped, his voice rough. "It was just noise, alright? Just... passing the time."

​"But me having dinner with a guy did?"

​Dean didn't answer. The quiet in the room stretched thin, heavy with the weight of everything that had pulled the two of you apart months ago.

​You waited. "So?"

​His shoulders shifted with visible frustration, his fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle.

​"Because..." he started, then stopped, letting out a harsh exhale through his nose.

​"Because what, Dean?"

​His green eyes snapped back to yours, raw and dangerously intense.

​"Because I know how guys think."

​You blinked, staring at him. "You know how guys think."

​"Yeah."

​"And that's your explanation?"

​"They're thinking one thing," Dean said, leaning forward slightly, his possessive streak flaring up despite himself. "They look at you, and they're thinking about how to get you into bed."

​"And what exactly were you thinking every time you winked at a waitress?"

​Dean opened his mouth to shoot off a quick, smart-ass response.

​He closed it.

​You watched the realization hit him square in the chest a split second before the sheer embarrassment washed over his face. He blinked, looking down at his beer like it had suddenly betrayed him.

​The silence that followed was surprisingly lighter than it had any right to be. Dean stood there, mouth slightly open, holding a half-empty beer like an exhibit in a courtroom trial he’d just completely lost.

"Yeah," he muttered finally, glaring at the bottle. "That’s... that’s fair."

He didn't leave that night. Five minutes turned into an hour spent sitting on the floor of your living room, back pressed against your couch, talking about nothing and everything. It wasn't a grand, movie-style reconciliation—the Winchesters didn't do those. It was slow, frustrating, and full of the usual stubborn back-and-forth.

Over the next few months, he kept showing up. Always unannounced, always with that low rumble of the Impala purring down your street past midnight. First it was once every three weeks, then every ten days. He’d leave a spare cassette tape on your counter, or a copy of your apartment key that he’d secretly duplicated "just in case."

It took three months of quiet middle-of-the-night conversations for the walls to actually crumble. But this time, you weren't going back to the way things were—co-dependent, secretive, and riding shotgun on a one-way trip to mutual destruction.

If Dean Winchester was going to be in your life, he was doing it on actual terms.

It was a rainy Tuesday night in November when you finally laid it out.

Dean was stretched out on your sofa, his boots kicked off, half-watching a black-and-white movie on TV while cleaning a silver blade. You walked over, took the oil cloth right out of his hand, and sat down on the coffee table directly in front of him.

"Alright, Winchester. Time out."

Dean blinked, leaning back into the cushions. "What'd I do? I put the toilet seat down."

"We need to talk about the rules."

"Rules?" Dean grunted, his brow furrowing as he tried to retrieve his cloth. "I don't do rules. You know that. I'm a lone wolf. A renegade."

"You're a man who eats pie in my bed and leaves grease stains on my pillowcases," you corrected, slapping his hand away gently. "Listen to me. If we're doing this again—if this is happening—we're not repeating the last two years."

Dean’s posture shifted. The playful deflection receded, leaving behind that serious, intent gaze he only gave things he cared about protecting. "I'm listening."

"Rule number one: No more ghosting," you said, holding up a finger. "You don't vanish for two months without a word because a hunt got rough or you felt guilty about bringing danger to my doorstep. A text. A call from a payphone. Two words: I'm alive. That's it."

Dean's jaw worked, but he nodded slowly. "Fair enough."

"Rule number two," you held up a second finger, leaning in closer. "The caveman jealousy stays in the Impala. If a guy at the grocery store breathes near me, you don't glare at him like he's a Shapeshifter preparing to strike. I chose you, Dean. Even when you're a pain in the ass. You have to trust that."

A faint, self-deprecating smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "He was holding your apples, babe. It was suspicious."

"He was a clerk bagg—" You caught yourself, shaking your head. "No. Rule two. Deal?"

Dean let out a long breath, resting his forearms on his knees, bringing his face inches from yours. The amber glow of the TV caught the green in his eyes. "Deal. What else?"

"Rule number three," you murmured, your hand reaching out to catch his jaw, feeling the slight scruff under your fingers. "You talk to me. When the world is falling apart, when Sam is driving you crazy, when you feel like the ceiling is caving in... you don't bottle it up until you snap and drive off to Illinois. You tell me."

Dean went quiet. That was always the hardest part for him—the instinct to carry every cross alone was practically encoded in his DNA. For a second, you thought he might push back, toss off a joke to break the tension.

Instead, Dean leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. His breath was warm against your lips, smelling faintly of coffee and rain.

"That's a tall order, you know," he rasped softly. "I'm not great at the... feelings talk."

"I know," you whispered. "You suck at it. But you're gonna practice."

Dean let out a low, genuine laugh that echoed against your neck as his hands came up to rest on your waist, pulling you off the table and into his lap. The leather of his vest was cool, but his arms around you were solid and warm.

"Fine," he grumbled into your shoulder, his grip tightening just a fraction, possessive as ever—but softer this time. "No ghosting. Less glaring at accountants. More talking." He paused, pulling back just enough to look at you with that familiar, crooked grin. "Can we add a rule for you?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Depends. What is it?"

"Rule four," Dean murmured, his voice dropping into that dark, heavy tone as his eyes flicked down to your lips. "You stop giving me that look when I'm trying to be serious."

"What look?"

"That 'I know you're soft under all that flannel' look," he said, and before you could laugh, his mouth was on yours—warm, deep, and completely breathless, sealing the deal without another word.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. His forehead rested against yours, his breath still heavy, his thumb casually tracing small circles against your hip through your shirt.

"So," Dean murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Did I pass the interview, or do I need to re-submit my resume?"

"You're on probation," you said, though your hands were still buried in the short hair at the back of his neck. "One strike and I’m hiring an accountant to do my taxes and take me out to dinner."

Dean groaned, rolling his eyes as he leaned back into the sofa cushions, dragging you with him so you were resting comfortably against his chest. "You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

"Never."

"Fantastic," he grumbled, though his arm tightened around you, anchoring you in place.

The rain continued to beat against the glass outside, a steady, soothing rhythm that usually meant a lonely night in a dark apartment. But inside, the apartment was warm. The faint smell of Dean’s leather jacket, cheap beer, and gun oil filled the room, but for the first time in months, it didn't feel like a threat or a ticking clock.

On the TV screen, the black-and-white movie played on mute. On the coffee table lay his silver blade, half-polished and forgotten.

"Sam's gonna give me so much crap when he finds out," Dean admitted out of nowhere, staring up at the ceiling.

You raised your head off his chest, looking at him. "Finds out about what?"

"About the rules," he said, flicking his green eyes down to meet yours, a self-deprecating smirk touching his lips. "'*Dean, did you sign a pre-nup for your feelings?*' 'Dean, did she put you in timeout?' He’s gonna have a field day."

"Sammy is the one who told me two years ago that you needed a leash," you reminded him with a dry smile. "He’ll probably write me a thank-you note."

Dean huffed out a quiet laugh, his chin dropping back down onto the top of your head. "Traitor."

For a long time, neither of you said anything. It was the kind of quiet that used to make Dean restless—the stillness that usually made him want to grab his keys and drive until the noise in his head stopped. But tonight, his shoulders remained loose. His heart beat strong and steady against your cheek.

"Hey," he whispered softly into the dark room.

"Yeah?"

His hand slid up from your waist, his broad palm resting flat between your shoulder blades.

"Thanks for letting me in."

You closed your eyes, wrapping your arm around his waist, feeling the warmth of him completely surrounding you.

"Don't make me regret it, Dean."

"Not a chance," he rasped. And for once in his life, you actually believed he meant it.

​When Dean was on the road, the rules held up, even if it drove him crazy.

​Your phone would vibrate at 2:15 AM—always from a static-heavy payphone off some desolate stretch of highway.

​"It's me," his voice would rumble, rough from coffee and bad cigarettes. "Just... checking in. Two words: I'm alive. Sam says hi, or whatever. We’re in Ohio. Don't ask."

​"Are you eating real food?"

​"I had a salad," he’d lie blatantly. "It had bacon and extra cheese, but there was lettuce under there somewhere. Anyway... I miss you. Don't go getting any accountants."

​And when he couldn't call, there were the small, quiet signs he’d left behind. A worn-out flannel shirt stuffed into the bottom of your laundry basket that still smelled like him. A fresh box of shotgun shells tucked discreetly under your nightstand. A cassette tape of Led Zeppelin II sitting on your dashboard with a sticky note in his terrible handwriting: PLAY IT LOUD.

​​When he came back, he hit your apartment like a hurricane.

​Sometimes he’d burst through the door wired from adrenaline, the high of a finished hunt still humming in his veins. Those were the nights where patience didn't exist.

​He’d press you back against the bedroom wall before the front door even clicked shut, his hands heavy and possessive, slipping under your shirt with an urgency that left you breathless. One Friday midnight, things got so frantic—tangled in sheets, hands searching, Dean completely unraveled and breathless against your neck—that a sudden, desperate shift sent both of you tumbling off the edge of the mattress.

​You landed hard on the hardwood floor in a tangled heap of limbs, blankets, and quiet, breathless swearing.

​Dean lay flat on his back, a blanket half-draped over his chest, staring up at the ceiling with his hair a complete mess. He took a long, heavy breath, then slowly turned his head to look at you, a slow, filthy, totally satisfied grin breaking across his face.

​"Well," he rasped, his voice shot, reaching out to drag you back on top of his chest. "The floor builds character. Come here."

Things had been quiet for almost a month.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that made Dean restless—the kind where he’d spend hours sitting on the porch tearing the red labels off beer bottles just to keep his hands moving.

Then came the hunt in eastern Kansas.

Nothing spectacular on paper. A routine salt-and-burn. Sam had called halfway through dinner, laying out a string of mysterious deaths near an abandoned railyard. Dean kissed your forehead, grabbed his duffel, and promised he'd be back in two days flat.

He came back in four.

The second the front door clicked open, you knew something was dead wrong.

His knuckles were split and raw. There was dark, stiffened blood on the sleeve of his flannel that definitely wasn't his, and his eyes had that flat, distant stare they only got when a hunt went south and somebody didn't make it home.

"You okay?" you asked softly, closing the door behind him.

"I'm fine," Dean rasped, setting his heavy duffel down with a thud.

"Dean."

"I said I'm fine."

You let it go. For exactly five minutes.

The dinner you’d warmed up sat entirely untouched between the two of you at the small kitchen table. Dean just stared at his plate, dragging a fork through his food without taking a single bite.

"You were supposed to call," you said, keeping your voice low.

"I got busy."

"You vanished for forty-eight hours after the burn was supposed to be done."

"I came back, didn't I?"

"That's not the point, Dean."

Dean stabbed at a roasted potato with way more force than necessary, the ceramic plate screeching under the metal tines. "I said I got busy."

"And I'm saying you broke the first rule we made."

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking hard under his scruff. "It wasn't exactly top priority while Sam and I were digging out of a collapsed storm cellar with two busted ribs."

"No?" you replied, keeping your posture steady, though your heart was pounding. "Thirty seconds at a pay phone was too much to ask? A five-word text?"

"You think I was sightseeing?" he snapped, his green eyes flashing with that sudden, defensive venom. "You think I was having a damn picnic out there?"

"I think you promised me you wouldn't drop off the grid."

Dean pushed his chair back hard enough to send the legs scraping violently across the linoleum. "You know what? Forget it."

"No. Don't walk away."

"I'm not doing this right now," he grumbled, turning his back to grab his jacket off the chair.

"You don't get to shut down every single time you feel cornered, Dean!"

His shoulders went dead rigid. He stopped, his back still turned, fists clenching at his sides.

"I said," he warned, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly register, "I'm not doing this."

"And I said we're talking."

Dean spun around, his face flushed, towering over the table.

"For once in your life," he bellowed, "could you stop acting like every damn minor misstep is a relationship seminar?!"

The words hit the air like a physical slap.

Silence descended on the kitchen, heavy and suffocating.

The anger drained out of Dean’s face in a split second as he watched your posture shift. You didn't yell back. You didn't slam a cup down. You just looked at him—eyes wide, quiet, and completely bruised by the bite in his voice.

"You know what?" you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I think we're done talking."

The apartment became instantly, unnaturally divided.

Not physically—there were only so many square feet to share—but emotionally.

The next morning, you slipped out for work before his alarm even went off. When you came home, Dean was out in the driveway under the hood of the Impala, aggressively turning a wrench on a carburetor that you knew for a fact he’d overhauled three weeks ago. He didn't look up when the screen door slammed.

That night, you ate a bowl of cereal in your bedroom with the door shut.

Dean ate leftover cold takeout at the kitchen counter. The TV stayed dark and silent. The apartment had never felt so small, or so terrifyingly quiet.

Day two was worse.

Dean found himself hovering outside your bedroom door twice before noon.

The first time, he lifted a heavy hand, his knuckles inches from the wood, before curling them into a fist and dropping his arm. The second time, he stood there for a full minute, listening to the faint sound of you folding laundry inside, before pacing back toward the living room with a frustrated growl.

Inside, you weren't hiding. You were reading, turning pages slowly. Listening to music through your headphones. Keeping busy.

Anything except opening that door and giving him a free pass.

That deafening silence bothered Dean far more than yelling ever could. Dean was used to yelling. Yelling was easy; yelling meant people were still fighting for position.

This silence felt like slipping away.

He missed the sharp, sarcastic comments from the stove. He missed you stealing half his fries before he could even sit down. He even missed you yelling at him for tracking graveyard mud across the clean rug.

Around 8:00 PM, Sam called. Dean answered on the cramped little fire escape outside the living room window, pulling cold air deep into his lungs.

"How's she doing?" Sam asked, skipping the pleasantries after about thirty seconds of Dean’s monosyllabic answers.

Dean frowned, leaning his elbows on the cold iron railing. "...How the hell do you know we fought?"

"'Cause you sound like somebody shot your dog, Dean," Sam said plainly over the static. "What happened?"

Dean leaned his head back against the brick wall, staring up at the cloudy night sky. "She won't talk to me."

"What'd you say?"

Dean hesitated, his tongue pressing hard against the inside of his cheek. "...Something stupid."

A long, heavy sigh came through the speaker. "Dean."

"I know."

"No, man, I really don't think you do," Sam countered, his tone laced with that tired brotherly honesty. "You remember what she actually asked for when you guys decided to try this again?"

Dean closed his eyes. The memory of you standing in the kitchen months ago flashed instantly behind his eyelids.

'Don't shut me out.'

"Yeah," Dean rasped, his throat tight.

"And that's exactly what you did the second things got rough," Sam said softly. "Fix it, Dean. Before she realizes it's easier without you around."

The line went dead.

Dean lowered the phone, looking through the glass of the apartment window. Your bedroom door was still firmly closed, a thin line of warm yellow light showing beneath the frame.

He rubbed a heavy, calloused hand over his face, feeling the sheer bone-weariness settle into his ribs.

For the first time in his entire life, backing down and apologizing didn't feel like losing a fight.

It felt like the only way to keep a promise.

Dean slid the window up, stepped back into the quiet apartment, and pushed his hands deep into his front pockets. He stood in the middle of the living room for a second, his boots heavy on the floorboards, looking at that thin line of yellow light beneath your door.

He swallowed, cleared his throat, and walked over.

Two raps. Gentle this time. Not his usual impatient, heavy-handed knock.

"Hey," he called out through the wood, his voice thick and raspy. "You decent?"

Silence. Then, the faint sound of you shifting on the bed.

"I'm wearing clothes, Dean," you said through the door, your voice flat. "If that's what you mean."

Dean let out a small, half-hearted huff through his nose, leaning his forehead against the doorframe. "Right. Good to know." He paused, his fingers tugging at the seam of his jeans. "Look, uh... I brought an olive branch. Well, not an olive branch. Olives are disgusting. I brought a lukewarm soda and a severely wounded ego."

You didn't answer right away. Inside, you set your book down on the nightstand, staring at the brass door handle.

"Is the ego going to yell at me about relationship seminars again?" you asked softly.

Dean closed his eyes, his shoulders dropping two inches. "No. The ego knows it acted like a total jackass."

A beat passed. Then came the slow, distinct click of the lock turning.

The door opened a few inches. You stood in the doorway, arms folded tight across your chest, looking up at him. Your eyes were tired, but there was no rage left—just that quiet, watchful waiting that always made Dean feel six inches tall.

Dean didn't try to push the door wider. He stayed on his side of the threshold, rubbing the back of his neck, his green eyes darting to your face, then down to his boots, then back up.

"Sam called," he offered lamely.

"I know. I heard you talking on the fire escape."

"Right," Dean muttered, a faint, self-deprecating smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Of course you did. Walls are like paper." He shifted his weight, clearing his throat again. "He... uh... he reminded me of something."

"Did he remind you how to use a phone?"

"Hey," Dean pointed a finger at you, trying for that classic, cocky grin, though it lacked its usual bite. "Low blow. I'm a man of action, not a telemarketer."

"You're a man who owes me an apology."

"I am," he agreed instantly, the playful smirk softening into something surprisingly quiet, almost humble. He stepped half an inch closer, his shoulder resting against the doorframe. "I really am. I was... the hunt was bad. It was a mess, Sam got hurt, I got pissed off, and instead of just saying that, I took it out on the easiest target."

"I shouldn't be the easiest target, Dean."

"I know," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, raw and honest. "You're not. You're the... you're the only thing that isn't a mess right now. And when I feel like I'm sinking, my instinct is to grab a shovel and dig a deeper hole. You know that."

You looked at him—at the split skin on his knuckles, the genuine regret pooling in his eyes, and the way he was holding his breath, terrified you were going to tell him to go sleep in the Impala.

"You're an idiot," you said quietly.

"Total idiot," Dean agreed without a second's hesitation. "Certified. Ask Sam, he's got a diploma."

A tiny, reluctant breath of a laugh escaped your nose, and Dean’s whole frame visibly relaxed at the sound.

"Are you gonna let me in?" he asked softly, gesturing toward the room with a slight nod of his head. "Or do I gotta stand out here in the hallway like a punished golden retriever?"

"Golden retrievers are cute," you said, stepping back to swing the door open. "You're more like a stray mutt that bites."

"Yeah, well," Dean murmured, stepping into the room and immediately reaching out to loop his arms loosely around your waist, pulling you against his chest before you could walk away. "This mutt comes with a lifetime warranty..I'll keep trying."

His breath was warm against the top of your head as he buried his face in your hair, letting out a long, heavy exhale that felt like weeks of built-up tension finally leaving his body.

He didn't pull back right away. Instead, he just stood there in the quiet of the bedroom, holding you against him like an anchor in a storm. The familiar heat of him, mixed with the faint, metallic scent of gun oil and cold air, settled over the room like a spell.

​When Dean finally raised his head, his hands didn't leave your waist. His thumb hooked into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging you just half an inch closer as he looked down at you. The dark, defensive armor from the last two days was completely gone, replaced by that heavy, hooded intensity he only ever reserve for you.

​"So," he murmured, his voice a low, rough vibration that sent a spark straight down your spine. " Probation officer... am I still in trouble, or are we moving on to the good behavior phase?"

​You raised an eyebrow, laying your hands flat against his chest, feeling the solid, steady thud of his heart. "Depends. What's the good behavior phase look like?"

​A slow, crooked smirk spread across Dean’s face—the kind that meant trouble, the kind that meant he knew he’d been forgiven even before you said the words out loud.

​"Well," he rasped, leaning down so his lips were brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and sending a sudden shiver through you. "I figure I owe you for two days of being a giant pain in the ass. And you know I like to pay my debts."

​Before you could fire back a witty response, Dean’s hand slid up to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair as he pulled your mouth to his.

​It wasn't a soft, cautious apology kiss. It was deep, desperate, and possessive—the kind of kiss born from forty-eight hours of suffocating silence and mutual misery. Dean kissed you like a man who’d been starving, his mouth sliding over yours with a fierce, heavy hunger that immediately swept away the last lingering remnants of the argument.

​You let out a soft breath against his lips, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck, pulling him down to your level. Dean groaned into the kiss, a sound low and vibration-rich, his hands dropping down to catch you under the thighs as he lifted you off your feet in one smooth, effortless motion.

​You backed into the edge of the mattress, bringing him down with you.

​"Dean," you gasped when he finally broke the kiss to drag his mouth down your jawline to the sensitive spot right beneath your ear, his hands already tearing at the hem of your shirt. "The door's still open."

​"Sam's three states away," Dean growled against your throat, his teeth grazing your skin just hard enough to make your breath hitch. "And if the neighbors hear anything... well, I told 'em I was a lover, not a fighter."

​"You're an idiot," you laughed, the sound getting cut off into a sharp gasp as his hands slid under your shirt, his cold fingers tracing the warm curve of your ribs with a possessive, bruised urgency.

​"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, his green eyes locking onto yours, dark and completely unblinking in the faint amber light of the room. "Tell me again later."

​What followed was the fast, clumsy, beautiful chaos that had always been the best part of the two of you—the loud, raw, unfiltered way you both reconnected when words weren't enough. There was no finesse, no polite hesitation. Just sheets getting dragged onto the floor, desperate hands, tangled limbs, and Dean entirely unraveled against you, whispering low, filthy, breathy promises into the crook of your neck until neither of you had a voice left to fight with.

​Hours later, the bedroom was dead quiet again.

The transition from the warmth of the room to the cold stillness of the early morning happened without a sound.

Dean didn't wake you. He never did when he was leaving like this.

He sat on the edge of the mattress for a long moment in the pitch-black room, his back to you, pulling on his boots and tying the laces with practiced, silent efficiency. The sheets rustled softly as he stood, his leather jacket heavy across his shoulders. He reached down, his calloused thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead—a gesture so light, so cautious, it barely registered in your sleep.

He picked up his silver blade, slid it into its sheath, and grabbed his duffel by the door. He didn't look back as the bedroom door clicked shut behind him.

Outside, the air was crisp, hovering right on the edge of dawn. The sky was a pale, bruised purple. Dean walked down the small flight of wooden porch steps, his boots crunching quietly against the gravel path. He threw his duffel onto the back bench seat of the Impala, the metal door closing with that heavy, unmistakable thud.

Inside, the sudden, low rumble of the V8 engine firing to life cut straight through the quiet of the apartment.

Your eyes snapped open.

The space beside you was cold. The dent in the pillow was still there, smelling faintly of gunpowder and cheap soap, but Dean was gone.

The deep, throat-clearing purr of Baby's engine echoed through the floorboards.

Panic hit you all at once—not anger, just a sudden, cold wave of realization. You threw off the covers, your bare feet hitting the hardwood floor as you stumbled out of the bedroom. You didn't grab a robe, didn't stop for shoes. You rushed down the hallway, unlatching the deadbolt with frantic, shaking fingers, and threw the front door wide open.

The cool morning air hit your skin like a shock.

Dean was already in the driver's seat, his hands resting on the chrome wheel. Through the windshield, in the faint dashboard light, his profile looked sharp, exhausted, and completely locked into hunter mode. He didn't look up at the apartment window. He couldn't. Looking back was the one thing that made stepping on the gas impossible.

"Dean!" you called out, the word catching in your throat, lost in the roar of the engine.

You took three steps onto the porch just as he shifted into gear. The Impala rolled smoothly away from the curb, its dual tailpipes breathing twin plumes of white exhaust into the chilly morning air. The red taillights flared as he hit the corner of the street, casting a long, crimson glare across the wet asphalt.

You stood on the edge of the porch, holding the doorframe, watching the dark silhouette of the car shrink down the empty road.

The classic rumble of the engine slowly faded into the distance, leaving behind only the quiet rustle of autumn leaves on the pavement and the cold, empty silence of the morning.

A year later,

the mornings were quiet.

There was no sound of a heavy duffel being tossed onto the table, no lingering smell of gunpowder in the hallway, and no low rumble of a V8 engine cutting through the dawn. Just the steady, rhythmic ticking of the wall clock in the kitchen and the smell of fresh coffee brewing.

"I left my briefcase on the counter again, didn't I?"

You turned around with a soft smile, picking up the brown leather case from the chair and handing it to him. Mark looked back at you, adjusting his tie—a neat, charcoal gray vest over a crisp white shirt. He wasn't loud. He didn't make jokes about monster hunts or pie, and he certainly didn't check the backseat for sulfur.

He was safe. He was normal.

"Thanks," Mark said, leaning down to give you a quick, gentle kiss on the cheek. "I should be back around six. We still on for dinner?"

"Yeah," you said softly, leaning against the open front door. "Six is good."

"Great. Have a good day at work." He smiled, stepping down the porch stairs and pulling his car keys out of his pocket as he walked down the driveway toward his silver sedan.

You stayed in the doorway, folding your arms against the cool morning breeze.

Then, your eyes drifted past Mark's car, landing on the far corner of the street under the shade of an old oak tree.

Parked quietly by the curb sat a sleek, black 1967 Chevrolet Impala.

Your heart did a familiar, involuntary leap before settling into a dull, heavy ache.

Through the tinted glass, you couldn't see his face clearly, but you knew he was there. You knew the way his hands rested on the top of the steering wheel. You knew the green eyes watching through the windshield, tracking Mark as he got into his car, then shifting slowly over to you standing on the porch.

He didn't get out. He didn't rap three sharp times on the wood. He didn't step up to your door with a six-pack of crappy beer and a smirk to ask for five minutes.

Because some promises, once broken too many times, couldn't be fixed with late-night apologies or fast, frantic reunions. The last time he’d driven off into the dawn, something had settled in the quiet of the apartment—a realization that living on the edge of someone else’s storm wasn't living at all.

You looked straight down the street, your eyes locking onto the dark silhouette behind the wheel.

You didn't run down the steps. You didn't wave. You just gave a single, small, quiet nod—a final acknowledgment of everything you had been, and everything you could never be again.

Inside the Impala, a hand shifted onto the gearstick.

The heavy engine purred to life, a low rumble echoing through the quiet suburb. The car rolled slowly away from the curb, turning the corner and disappearing down the main road without looking back.

Under the stream of lukewarm water, you leaned against the slick tile, letting the grime and iron-scented blood wash off your skin. Every muscle in your back burned, locked tight from the fight.

In the main room, Sam was already in full post-hunt lockjaw. The steady, rhythmic clink of gun parts hitting the formica table meant he was stripping down his Glock, hyper-focused, oblivious.

Then came the soft, familiar click of the bathroom latch sliding open.

You didn’t jump. You just closed your eyes, letting a slow, quiet smile pull at your lips.

Dean didn't announce himself. He never did. But his presence filled the cramped room instantly—heavy, warm, smelling of stale Impala leather, gun oil, and rain. The thud of his heavy work boots hitting the linoleum was followed by the soft rustle of denim and flannel dropping into a heap on the floor.

You opened your eyes as a shadow blocked the dim light through the semi-translucent curtain. Broad shoulders, the familiar jagged line of a scar running down his ribs, and those unmistakable green eyes locking onto yours through the haze.

He tugged the curtain back. Steam rushed out to meet him as he stepped into the stall, his weight making the porcelain tub creak beneath his feet.

"You're taking all the hot water," Dean grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rasp straight off a twelve-hour drive.

"I was here first," you murmured, spinning around to face him. "And you're supposed to be watching the door, Winchester. Sam's ten feet away."

"Sam's got his headphones in, drowning in research," Dean said, the corner of his mouth curving into that cocky, familiar smirk. "He won't hear a damn thing unless you start screaming."

Before you could reply, his hands—rough, calloused, and slippery with water—cuffed the back of your waist, yanking you flush against his chest. The shock of his warm, bare skin against yours pulled a sharp breath from your lungs, but Dean caught it, smothering your reaction with a mouth that was hot, demanding, and utterly relentless.

It wasn't gentle. It never really was with Dean—it was pure, unfiltered adrenaline and survival instinct disguised as a distraction. He kissed you with a bruised desperation, his tongue sliding past your lips, claiming your mouth like he was trying to burn off the lingering stench of the grave they'd just closed.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his wet hair, pulling him deeper into it. The heat between you turned the cool shower water hot where your bodies pressed together.

Dean groaned into your throat, his grip tightening on your hips until his knuckles dug into your skin. He pushed you back until your spine hit the wet tile, his thigh sliding firmly between yours. Every point of contact was searing—his chest heavy against your breasts, his mouth trailing down the line of your jaw to bite gently at the sensitive pulse point under your ear.

"Dean..." you gasped, a hand going to his shoulder, half to push him away, half to hold him closer. "Keep it down. If Sam walks in—"

"He isn't walking in," Dean growled against your skin, his hands tracing down your spine, pulling your lower body tight against his. His breath was ragged, hitching in his chest. "Let him worry about the lore. Right now, shut up and let me handle this."

His lips found yours again, harder this time, a fierce, wet bruise of a kiss that stole whatever protest you had left. His hands were everywhere—slick, heavy, and possessing—leaving red marks on your skin that you both knew you'd have to cover up with high collars before sunrise.

The sudden, heavy double-knock on the bathroom door cracked through the steamy haze like a gunshot.

"Hey," Sam’s muffled voice called out from the main room, punctuated by the metallic thunk of him setting a gun part down on the formica table. "You almost done in there? I can't find Dean. Thought he was out checking the Impala, but his keys are on the nightstand."

You froze, your eyes going wide, a sharp breath catching in your throat.

Dean, on the other hand, didn't even flinch. If anything, the sound of his brother’s voice three feet away only lit a fuse behind his eyes. A dark, wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at you, those green eyes gleaming through the dripping wet bangs plastered to his forehead.

"Yeah!" you called out, your voice tight, trying desperately to sound normal over the steady drum of the shower head. "Just—just wrapping up!"

"Alright, well, tell Dean when he gets back that the revenant lore didn't account for—"

Sam’s words were completely cut off in your head because Dean’s hands slid down to the swell of your thighs. Before you could even register the movement, he hoisted you straight up off your feet. You gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist to keep from slipping on the wet tile.

Dean’s back flexed, his calloused hands anchoring you firmly against his hips, pinning you to the shower wall.

"Dean, stop," you whispered, the words barely a breath, your hands frantically gripping his slick shoulders.

He didn't stop. He leaned in close, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, his ragged, hot breath giving you total chills. "Make me," he growled under his breath, voice barely an inch above a whisper, laced with pure, filthy challenge.

"Did you say something?" Sam asked from the other side of the door, his footsteps pausing right outside the frame.

"No!" you squeezed out, burying your face into the crook of Dean’s neck to muffle a noise as his lips dragged down the sensitive skin of your throat, biting down just hard enough to make your chest heave. You bit your lower lip until you tasted copper, hands knotting in his wet hair, half trying to push him off, half pulling him impossibly closer.

Dean was relentless. Holding your entire weight with effortless, stubborn muscle, he rocked his hips forward, a low, vibration of a groan buzzing in his chest against yours. His mouth found yours again—harder, hotter, suffocating any chance of a slip-up. It was a filthy, dangerous game, and Dean was loving every second of it.

"Okay..." Sam’s voice sounded confused through the wood, lingering for a excruciating beat. "Well... ask him if he wants food when he gets in. I'm hitting the diner across the street."

You broke the kiss just enough to catch a desperate lungful of steam, your knuckles white where you clung to Dean’s shoulders. "Sure! Yeah, I'll... I'll tell him!"

The sound of the heavy motel door opening and clicking shut echoes from the bedroom, followed by silence.

The second the main room was empty, Dean let out a rough, dark laugh against your mouth, his grip tightening on your hips as he pushed you deeper into the wall, completely taking over.

"Now," he murmured, his eyes burning into yours as he tilted your head back, "where were we?"

The neon sign of the roadside diner buzzed like a trapped hornet, bleeding harsh pink light over the cracked vinyl booth. For three days, Dean had been running his usual play—flirting with every waitress from Toledo to the Kansas state line, throwing out flash-of-the-grin charm for extra pie, free coffee refills, or just because he could.

So when the burly, tattooed bartender at the dive across the street leaned over the laminate counter, you didn't pull away. You leaned in. You smiled, lingered on the conversation a second too long, laughed at a mediocre joke, and let your fingers brush his forearm when you picked up your drink.

Dean didn't make a scene. He didn't drop his glass, and he didn't pick a fight.

He just stopped.

The charm evaporated instantly. The quick-witted banter died in his throat. He set his beer down with a deliberate, heavy clack, his jaw clenched so hard the muscle pulsed under his skin. He didn't look at the bartender, and he didn't look at you. He just stared straight ahead into the dark glass of the bar mirror, his eyes pitch-black and unreadable.

That sudden, suffocating silence was ten times worse than a shout.

The ride back on Route 50 was agonizing.

Up front, the tension inside the Impala was thick enough to choke on. The engine roared, the tires hummed against the asphalt, but Dean hadn't turned on the radio. No cassette tape, no Led Zeppelin, no engine-revving bravado. Just two hands locked on the steering wheel at ten-and-two, knuckles white, eyes fixed rigidly on the dark highway ahead.

You leaned your head against the passenger door, watching the streetlights flicker across his rigid profile.

"You done?" Dean's voice cut through the dark—low, dangerous, and scraped raw.

"Done with what?" you asked, keeping your tone flat, refusing to give him the upper hand.

"Making your damn point."

"What point, Dean?" You shifted in your seat, turning to face him, matching his stubbornness beat for beat. "I was ordering a drink."

"Right. And I suppose touching his arm was just part of the ordering process?" He didn't turn his head, but his grip tightened on the leather wheel until the material squeaked. "You were laying it on thick."

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped you. "Laying it on thick? Are you serious right now? Dean, you’ve been batting your eyelashes at every girl with an apron across three state lines! I sit there and swallow it every single night while you play the charming hunter, but God forbid I smile at a guy handing me a whiskey?"

"That’s different, and you know it!" he snapped, his voice dropping into a harsh, fierce whisper.

"How is it different?" you challenged, leaning closer, your chest heaving with built-up irritation. "Tell me, Dean. Explain the math to me. Because as far as I recall, we don't have rules. We're just two people sharing a bad bed in a trashy motel when we're bored, right? Isn't that what this is?"

Dean’s jaw worked furiously. For a fraction of a second, his green eyes darted to yours—flashing with something raw, vulnerable, and furious—before the shutter slammed down completely. The truth was sitting right on the tip of his tongue.

But he was a Winchester. He was built out of armor, stubborn pride, and deep-seated fear.

Instead of saying it, he swallowed the confession whole, shoving it down into the dark place where he kept everything that terrified him.

"You know what?" Dean growled, his gaze snapping back to the empty road ahead, his features hardening into stone. "Forget it."

"No, don't 'forget it,'" you pushed, refusing to let him retreat behind his walls. "Say what you actually want to say for once in your life."

"I said forget it," he snapped coldly, reaching out and brutally slamming the cassette deck shut, shoving a tape in just to drown out the rest of the conversation.

The heavy, distorted opening riff of "Bad Company" blasted through the speakers, shutting down the air between you. He kept his eyes glued to the black pavement, jaw set, leaving the unspoken words hanging heavy in the dark, suffocating space of the car.

The tape rattled the rusted speakers of the Impala, filling the cabin with heavy, distorted riffs, but it did nothing to cut the static between the two of you.

​You sat frozen in the passenger seat, staring at Dean's profile. The dashboard lights threw sharp, sickly green shadows across his face. His knuckles were bone-white against the leather steering wheel, his jaw clenched so hard you could hear his teeth grinding over the bassline.

​He thought music was a shield. He thought if he turned up the volume, the conversation was officially over.

​Reaching over, you hit the eject button.

​The music died instantly. The sudden silence in the car hit like a drop in cabin pressure.

​Dean didn't jump, but the muscle in his jaw twitched violently. He didn't turn his head. "Put it back," he rasped, his voice smooth as broken glass.

​"No," you said, your voice dead even. "You don't get to pull the broody martyr card every time things get real, Dean. You don't get to act like I smashed your heart on the floor when you won't even admit you have one."

​"I told you to let it go," he growled, his eyes fixed on the long line of dark asphalt stretching into the Kansas night.

​"I know what you said. But I'm sick of playing this game where you get to mark your territory in dark bathrooms and act like a stranger the second we step into the daylight." You leaned toward him, lowering your voice. "If I'm just a warm body, act like it. Stop looking at me like I owe you something."

​That hit home.

​Dean’s hands tightened on the wheel until the leather groaned. For three long seconds, the speed needle flicked up—eighty, eighty-five—before he caught himself and slammed his foot back onto the brake, pulling the Impala hard onto the gravel shoulder of the highway.

​The tires crunched to a stop in the pitch-black void between streetlights.

​He cut the engine. The sudden silence was deafening, save for the ticking of the cooling metal beneath the hood.

​Dean turned his body toward you, dark and looming in the narrow space of the front seat. The cool act was completely gone, replaced by a raw, furious heat that made the hair on your arms stand up.

"You know what?" Dean spat, his voice dropping into that dark, jagged register he used right before a fight broke out. He leaned over the center console, invading your space, his green eyes burning with a mean, defensive edge. "You knew what this was when it started. Nobody forced you into my bed. Nobody forced you into this car."

"Oh, don't spin this on me, Dean!" you snarled back, the anger boiling over, hot and thick behind your ribs. "You dragged me into this half-assed, secret little arrangement because you were too much of a coward to admit you actually give a damn!"

"A coward?" A harsh, ugly laugh barked out of his throat. "That's rich coming from you. You want a label? You want me to play boyfriend while we're dodging wendigos and digging up fresh graves? Look around, sweetheart. People like us don't get happy endings. Everyone who gets close to me ends up six feet under or torn to shreds. So yeah, I keep my distance. I keep it simple."

"Simple?" You shook your head, a bitter smile breaking across your face. "There is nothing simple about the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. There's nothing simple about how you nearly lost your mind back at the bar!"

"I don't give a damn about the bartender!" Dean yelled, his temper snapping like a dry twig. "I care that you're pulling this drama bullshit! You want to know why I flirt with waitresses? Because it's easy! Because they don't mean a damn thing to me, and neither does this!"

He gestured violently between the two of you, his jaw set in stone, firing off the absolute sharpest, meanest defense mechanism he had left in his arsenal.

"You're just convenient," he rasped, every word dripping with cold venom, designed specifically to draw blood and make you back down. "You were there, you were willing, and I needed to blow off steam. Don't go making a tragedy out of a body count."

CRACK.

The sound echoed sharply inside the dead silence of the Impala.

Your palm connected with his cheek before your brain could even process the movement. The force of the slap cracked across his jaw, snapping his head to the side.

For one long, suspended heartbeat, neither of you moved.

The sting in your palm pulsed in time with your racing pulse.

Dean slowly turned his head back to face you. A faint red imprint was already blooming across his cheek, contrasting sharply with his pale jaw. His expression didn't harden with anger.

It emptied completely—a cold, shut-down void that was infinitely worse.

"Fine," he said quietly.

He reached across the center console, unlocked the passenger door with a sharp click, and shoved it open into the black Kansas night.

"If that's how it's gonna be... get out."

You stared at him for half a second, the breath hitching in your chest. Then a sharp, humorless laugh escaped you.

"Oh, don't worry. I was planning on it."

You snatched your denim jacket off the dashboard, shoved the door the rest of the way open, and climbed out onto the gravel shoulder.

"You know what?" you shouted as the biting night wind slapped your face. "You're a jackass!"

Dean didn't answer, his eyes fixed dead-ahead on the empty highway.

You slammed the heavy passenger door hard enough to make Baby rock violently on her suspension.

"Go flirt with another waitress!" you threw over your shoulder.

"I just might!" Dean hollered back through the open window, his knuckles white on the leather steering wheel.

"Great!"

"Great!"

You spun on your heel and started marching down the dark asphalt, hands shoved deep into your pockets, anger burning a hot hole in your ribs.

...

Thirty seconds later...

The low, familiar rumble of the Impala crept up right beside you.

Dean had dropped the car into first gear, rolling alongside your stride at little more than walking speed. He kept his head straight, staring through the windshield, his profile turned to stone.

"You done?" he asked, his rasp cutting through the dark.

"No."

"You made your point."

"I haven't even started."

"You planning on walking forty miles in the dark, sweetheart?"

"If it means I don't have to breathe the same air as you? Absolutely."

Dean let out a sharp, dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "You are the single most stubborn person I've ever met in my life."

You kept walking, not breaking your pace. "Look in a mirror, Dean."

"Yeah," he muttered, his thumb tapping a restless rhythm against the wheel. "Difference is, I've got the three-thousand-pound car."

"You've also got the emotional maturity of a teaspoon."

Dean barked out a short, disbelieving laugh, his green eyes darting to you for a fraction of a second. "Oh, that's real cute."

"I'm serious."

"You slapped me."

"You deserved it!"

"You really think so?"

"I know so!"

Another hundred yards passed in heavy, static-filled silence. Neither of you gave an inch. Dean kept the Impala crawling beside you like a giant, dark, incredibly annoyed guard dog.

You stubbornly kept your eyes locked on the dark line of the road ahead.

Dean drummed his fingers against the leather steering wheel, his patience visibly fraying. "Last chance."

"No."

He slammed the car into park.

The V8 engine idled, low and heavy in the quiet night. Behind you, the driver's side door creaked open.

You heard it and immediately picked up the pace. "Oh, don't you dare," you warned without turning around.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are absolutely doing something, Dean!"

Heavy work boots crunched rapidly across the loose gravel. You spun on your heel just in time to see him closing the last few feet, broad shoulders dark against the glare of the headlights.

"Dean—"

"Nope."

"I swear to God—"

"You had your chance."

"You touch me and I'll—"

Before you could finish the threat, Dean stepped right into your space, hooked a thick, calloused arm securely around your waist, and hoisted you clean off the ground like a sack of grain.

"What the— Dean!"

Your boots kicked uselessly through the cool night air.

"You are impossible!" you yelled, twisting against the solid wall of his chest, your hands digging into the worn leather of his jacket.

"So I've been told," he grunted, not even breaking a sweat as he turned back toward the car with the absolute determination of a man hauling an unruly duffel bag.

"I'm gonna scream that I'm getting kidnapped!" you yelled, glaring down at his damp hair.

Dean didn't even break stride. "By who?" he shot back, his grip tightening like iron around your hip. "Me? Sweetheart, we're in the middle of nowhere. The cows aren't gonna testify."

"You are insufferable!"

"I've heard that one, too."

"You've got exactly five seconds to put me down."

"Nope."

"Four."

"No."

"Three."

"You done counting yet?"

You huffed in frustration and gave his shoulder another ineffective smack.

"Ow," Dean deadpanned, not even flinching. "Careful. You almost hurt the flannel."

"Oh, I'm aiming way higher than the flannel."

He snorted, a low rumble against his ribcage. "Yeah, I figured."

By the time he reached the driver's side, rain had started coming down in earnest, drumming against the lacquer roof of the Impala in heavy, uneven drops.

Dean yanked open the back door with his free hand.

"You are not—"

Your protest ended in an undignified yelp as he unceremoniously deposited you onto the vinyl back seat, the springs squeaking violently beneath you.

"There," he grunted, slamming the door shut before you could scramble back out onto the gravel.

You glared at him through the rain-speckled glass, breathless and furious. "I hate you."

Dean rested an elbow on the roof, rain dripping off his nose, breathing a little harder than he'd ever admit out loud. "No, you don't."

"I am one hundred percent reconsidering every life decision that led me to this exact moment!"

"Fair," he called back dryly.

He rounded the hood in three long strides, threw open the driver's door, and slid inside. The cabin instantly filled with the scent of wet leather, rain, and heat.

The second the driver's door clicked shut, you leaned over the bench seat and smacked the back of his head.

"What the hell!" Dean barked, rubbing the spot, turning his head to glare at you with wide, disbelieving green eyes. "What was that for?"

"For manhandling me!"

"I carried you!"

"You threw me into the back seat!"

"I placed you!"

"You tossed me like a duffel bag full of silver rounds!"

"You were yelling loud enough to wake the dead!" Dean shot back, resting his arm over the steering wheel, his jaw set, though the fierce tension between you was finally starting to crack under sheer absurd exhaustion. "You were gonna attract every damn raccoon in Kansas!"

"I was making a point!"

"Point made!" Dean growled, his gaze locking onto yours through the shadows of the car, his voice dropping into that dark, low rasp that made your chest tighten. "Point made loud and clear. Now sit your pretty ass back, put your seatbelt on, and shut up before I throw you in the trunk!"

The tension in the motel room was thick enough to cut with a hunting knife.

Three days had passed since the side-of-the-road fiasco, and while the bruising silence had eased into their usual brand of dry sarcasm around Sam, the real damage was still sitting right beneath the surface. Normally, a fight like that ended one way: a locked door, a bruised lip, and a furious, sweat-slick makeup session where actions did all the talking Dean was too terrified to put into words.

Not this time.

Sam had finally crashed out, dead to the world in the far bed with his pillow pulled over his head, snoring softly.

You were sitting on the edge of the second bed, drying your hair with a faded towel, when the mattress dipped. Dean slid onto the sheets beside you, smelling of cheap beer and Old Spice, his hot, heavy hand settling over your knee.

Without a word, he leaned in, his green eyes dark and heavy with that familiar, possessive hunger, angling his jaw to press his lips against the sensitive crook of your neck.

You didn't move. You didn't lean in. You just sat there, rigid as iron, towel hovering in your lap.

"Dean," you said, your voice dead even.

"Hmm?" he grunted against your collarbone, his fingers digging into the denim of your jeans, pulling you an inch closer.

You brought your hand up and pressed your palm firmly against his chest, holding him off. "Hands off."

Dean paused, his lips resting right against your skin. Slowly, he pulled back, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "What?"

"I said, keep your hands to yourself," you murmured, keeping your voice low so as not to wake Sam, though your eyes were blazing. "Go find a body count to blow off steam with."

Dean’s jaw clenched instantly. The ghost of his own words from three nights ago hung between you like a physical wall.

"Are you serious right now?" he rasped, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "That was three days ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry, is there an expiration date on being called 'convenient'?" You offered him a tight, sarcastic little smile. "Because last time I checked, I'm just a warm body filling space in your car. And frankly, Winchester, this body is officially off-limits."

Dean stared at you, his green eyes darting over your face, looking for the joke, looking for the usual play where you'd give in after five seconds of heavy eye contact. But you didn't break. You just stared right back, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

"You're unbelievable," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face in total frustration. "I picked you up off the side of the highway!"

"You kidnapped me off the side of the highway!"

"I saved you from pneumonia!"

"And I'm saving myself from another one of your emotional brick walls," you shot back smoothly, shifting backward on the mattress, out of his reach. "Go play with your guns. Go flirt with the girl at the front desk. Do whatever you want, captain. But you don't get the bathroom perks anymore."

Dean let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, throwing his head back toward the ceiling. "So what, you're cutting me off?"

"I'm setting boundaries, Dean. You love rules, remember? 'Keep it simple.'" You patted his cheek—right on the spot you'd slapped three days ago—with mocking sweetness. "Consider it simplified."

Dean’s eyes narrowed into dark slits, his pulse visibly jumping in his throat. He looked like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to grab your wrist and prove to both of you that he could shatter your resolve in ten seconds flat.

Instead, he just gritted his teeth, letting out a sharp, frustrated breath through his nose.

"Fine," Dean growled, pushing himself off the bed so hard the springs creaked in protest. "Fine. Have it your way."

He yanked his leather jacket off the back of the vinyl chair, throwing you one last, furious, desperate glance over his shoulder.

"I'm going to check the Impala," he lied badly, his voice scraped raw.

"Tell Baby I said hi," you called out sweetly.

Dean slammed the motel door shut behind him, leaving you sitting alone in the quiet, smelling the faint trace of his collar, knowing for a fact that for a guy who hated talking about his feelings, his complete lack of a cold shower was driving him absolutely insane.

The neon light outside the window flickered with a persistent, high-pitched buzz, painting the water-stained wallpaper in pulses of pale blue. A full week had dragged by, a week of suffocating silence broken only by clipped remarks about job leads, salt rounds, and mileage.

Sam grabbed his duffel bag, tossing his laptop inside. "Alright," he said, zipping it up and looking between the two of you with the cautious weariness of a man who’d spent seven days walking on active landmines. "The hunter in Lincoln says he found a ghost trail near the old grain silo. I’m gonna hit the library down the street, grab some regional history archives before they close."

"Take your time, Sammy," you said smoothly from the edge of the bed, cleaning the barrel of your silver-plated dagger. "No rush at all."

Sam glanced at Dean, who was aggressively cleaning a shotgun at the small laminate table, his jaw set in its permanent, stone-hard clench.

"Right," Sam muttered, backing toward the door. "If you two kill each other, try not to do it on the carpet. We need the deposit back."

The second the latch clicked shut and Sam’s heavy footsteps faded down the exterior breezeway, the air in the room instantly pressurized.

Dean didn't move for three long seconds. Then, he set the cleaning rag down with a heavy, deliberate thud, pushed his chair back, and stood up.

He didn't rush over. He didn't pull the cool-guy routine either. He just walked over to the foot of your bed, broad shoulders blocking out the flickering neon light, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. He looked like he’d rather be facing a horde of demons with a broken stick than standing in front of you right now.

"Sam's gonna be gone for an hour," Dean said, his rasp low and rough around the edges.

You didn't look up from your blade. "Fascinating. Need me to write it down so you don't forget?"

Dean let out a harsh breath through his nose. He took one step closer, the floorboards creaking under his boots. "Drop the knife."

"No thanks. I like the knife. It doesn't throw temper tantrums or pretend I'm invisible when its feelings get hurt."

"I'm not pretending anything," he growled, though there was no real bite to it—just the raw, exhausted friction of a man running out of armor.

He reached down, his fingers catching the flat of the steel blade, and gently pulled it from your grip, setting it on the nightstand behind you. You raised an eyebrow, leaning back on your elbows, waiting.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, his thumb tracing the jagged line of his jaw. His green eyes darted to the floor, then to the water-damaged ceiling, anywhere but your face, before he finally forced his gaze back to yours.

"I'm an idiot," he rasped out, the words sounding like they had to be torn out of his throat with pliers. "Alright? Satisfied?"

You didn't crack a smile, though your chest tightened. "That's a start, Dean. But we both knew that three years ago."

"I mean it," Dean pushed, taking another half-step until his knees were nearly touching yours. He leaned down, placing his large hands flat on the mattress on either side of your hips, trapping you in his space. The familiar heat of him—smelling of Hoppe's No. 9 gun oil, black coffee, and cheap leather—flooded over you. "What I said in the car... about the body count stuff. About you being convenient."

He stopped, his throat working as he swallowed hard. His jaw twitched violently.

"It was bullshit," he muttered, his voice dropping into that dark, quiet register that usually only came out in the dark. "It was cheap, and it was mean, and I said it because you were backing me into a corner and I panicked like a dumbass."

"You panicked?" You matched his gaze, refusing to let him off the hook easily. "You told me I didn't mean anything to you, Dean."

"Because if I admit that you do..." Dean snapped, the sheer, frantic weight of his Winchester trauma breaking through the cracks, "...I don't get the damn apple-pie life. I suck at it. You know I suck at it."

He exhaled heavily, his forehead dropping for a split second until it rested lightly against yours, his damp bangs brushing your forehead.

"I don't think you're convenient," he whispered against your lips, his ragged breath warm and erratic. "I just don't know how to do this."

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his hands shifting from the mattress to slide up your waist, his calloused thumbs hooking firmly into the belt loops of your jeans.

"I bought you those double-chocolate pies from the diner three towns back," Dean added, his usual defensive, cocky smirk trying—and failing—to hide the raw sincerity in his eyes. "They're in the cooler. Even let you have the last plastic fork."

You stared at him, feeling the steady, frantic thud of his heart against your chest where his jacket pressed against you.

"A pie isn't a full apology, Dean." you murmured, though your hands finally rose, resting against the broad expanse of his chest.

"I know," Dean growled, his eyes darkening as he felt you give in, his grip on your waist tightening until he lifted you an inch off the bed, pulling you flush against him. "Consider it a down payment. Now shut up and let me fix it before Sam comes back with a stack of hundred-year-old property records."

Dean’s hands tightened on your waist, pulling you so close there wasn't a whisper of air left between his chest and yours. The cocky, familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, though his green eyes were still dark with that raw, intense focus.

"A down payment, huh?" you murmured, a slow, teasing smile finally breaking across your face as you toyed with the soft collar of his flannel. "You really think two slices of diner pie buy you out of a week in the doghouse, Winchester?"

"It was double-chocolate," Dean deadpanned, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting circle over the hip bone exposed by your shirt. "That’s practically a proposal in my book."

"You're an idiot."

"Guess you're stuck with me." he rasped out, his mouth dipping down to brush against the corner of yours, teasing, warm, and tasting faintly of stale coffee. "Now are you gonna keep lecturing me, or are you gonna let me make up for lost time?"

"Depends," you whispered, leaning in until your lips grazed his jawline. "Are you gonna behave?"

"Not a chance in hell."

Before you could laugh, Dean’s mouth slammed over yours in a kiss that instantly killed any remaining smart-aleck comeback in your throat. It wasn't the frantic, desperate scramble of the shower; it was slow, heavy, and completely possessive, his tongue sliding past your lips like he was reclaiming lost territory.

You let out a soft sigh into his mouth, fingers tangling in the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck. Dean groaned, a low vibration in his chest, as he shifted his weight, backing you up onto the mattress until your back hit the worn sheets.

His broad shoulders blocked out the flickering neon sign from the window as he hovered over you. His hands were everywhere—slicking up under the hem of your shirt, calloused fingers burning hot against your bare ribs, while yours frantically worked at the heavy silver buckle of his belt.

"Dean..." you gasped out, breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second as he unbuttoned his flannel and tossed it onto the floor, his bare chest heavy against yours. "Sam... the library..."

"Sam's reading a hundred-year-old census," Dean muttered against your throat, biting down gently at the pulse point under your ear, making your toes curl into the mattress. "He's gonna be at least an hour. Shut up."

Your shirt joined his flannel somewhere on the carpet, followed quickly by the metallic clink of your dagger hitting the nightstand as Dean carelessly shoved it out of the way. The heat between you was suffocating, every press of skin against skin burning away a week’s worth of frustration and built-up tension.

Dean pulled back just far enough to tug his jeans down, his chest heaving, those green eyes completely blown out as he looked down at you. You were already half-scrambled in the sheets, panting, reaching up to pull him back down by the back of his neck.

"You're insufferable," you breathed, kicking off your jeans as he slid back over you, his heavy thigh forcing its way between yours.

"You love it," he growled, a dark, breathless grin flashing across his face right before his lips locked onto yours again.

He pinned your wrists to the mattress beside your head, his weight pressing you deep into the springs, every breath a tangled, desperate mess of heat and skin—

CLİCK.

The motel door unlocked and swung wide open.

"Hey, so the library was closed for renovations, but I found a local history book at the gas station—"

Sam froze dead in his tracks.

The silence that hit the room was instant, absolute, and utterly horrific.

Dean didn't even have time to move off you. He was completely shirtless, jeans half-tangled around his knees, pinned directly on top of you in the middle of a tangled wreck of blankets.

Your brain short-circuited. With an undignified, squeaking yelp, you yanked the faded motel comforter straight up over your head, burying yourself into the mattress in full-on, absolute embarrassment mode, shielding your face like a bunker blast was incoming.

"Oh my god—" Sam gagged, instinctively throwing a giant hand over his eyes and spinning on his heel toward the wall so fast he almost tripped over his own boots. "My eyes! Couldn’t you two do it in the bathroom again?!"

Through the thick layers of the comforter, you froze.

Beside you, Dean—who had been scrambling to yank the sheets over his waist—pushed himself up on one elbow, his brow furrowing in pure, bewildered shock.

"...Again?" Dean echoed, his voice cracking slightly.

"Yes, again!" Sam yelled at the wall, his face redder than the neon sign outside. "Do you think I'm deaf?! Two weeks ago outside Topeka, I was standing right outside the door while you two were practically breaking the plumbing! I had to go sit in the Impala for twenty minutes!"

From under the blanket, you peeked out with just one wide, horrified eye. "You... you knew?!"

"Of course I knew!" Sam practically shrieked, gesturing wildly at the closed door while keeping his eyes glued to the ceiling. "You guys aren't slick! You're terrible at this! The lingering looks, the 'checking the Impala' three times a night, the fact that Dean suddenly started wearing cologne—which smells terrible, by the way—"

"Hey!" Dean barked defensively, sitting bolt upright, his face a vivid shade of crimson. "It's classic!"

"—I've been living in a war zone for six months!" Sam cut him off, reaching behind his back, blindly grabbing the door handle. "I am going to the diner. I am buying a coffee. And if you two are not fully clothed and sitting on opposite sides of the room by the time I get back, I am burning the Impala!"

The motel door slammed shut behind him hard enough to rattle the windowpanes.

Silence fell over the room once more.

Dean sat in the middle of the bed, chest bare, hair sticking up in three different directions, staring at the closed door in absolute, speechless utter disbelief.

Slowly, you let the comforter drop from your face, sitting up in the tangled sheets, your face burning so hot you were pretty sure you had second-degree burns on your cheeks.

Dean slowly turned his head to look at you, rubbing the back of his neck, a weak, stunned laugh threatening to bubble up out of his chest. "Well... I guess the cat's out of the—"

"Forget it!" you snapped, shoving his shoulder hard enough to make him tilt sideways, quickly hauling the blanket up around your collarbones as you glared daggers at him. "I am not in the mood anymore! I am never being in the mood again!"

"Come on," Dean wheezed, a genuine, wheezing laugh finally breaking through his embarrassment as he reached out for your waist. "Sweetheart, Sam's a big boy, he'll get over it—"

"Touch me and I will stab you with my silver dagger, Dean!" you yelled, kicking his shin under the blanket and scrambling off the far side of the bed to hunt for your pants. "I hate you! I literally hate your entire face!"

"No, you don't!" Dean called out, lying back against the pillows with a wide, smug, completely satisfied grin spreading across his face, hands laced behind his head despite being utterly thwarted. "You love me. And hey—at least now we don't have to hide in the shower."

The creature wasn't choosing victims at random. Every single attack aligned perfectly with the venue's late-night rotation. Which meant if you wanted a shot at catching this thing in the act, one of you was going to have to go undercover behind the bar.

By the time Sam tracked you down, you were already in the manager’s back office, leaning over a desk covered in shift schedules and going over how to slip an unvetted bartender into tonight's lineup without raising red flags.

"There you are," Sam said, pushing the door open. Relief softened the line of his shoulders, though he quickly cast an anxious glance back down the hallway. "Dean’s practically pacing a hole through the floor out front. Said he lost track of you twenty minutes ago."

"I figured something out," you said, glancing up from the paperwork. "The creature’s targeting the night shift staff."

The manager, looking pale and thoroughly out of his depth, gave a tight nod. "If one of you can actually handle a busy tap, I can slot you in behind the main bar tonight."

"I'll do it," Sam offered without missing a beat, stepping forward.

You turned toward him so fast your neck practically protested.

"No."

Sam blinked, his brow furrowing instantly into that familiar, bewildered crease.

"...No?"

"Not happening."

He frowned, shifting his weight, his tall frame suddenly filling the small office as he tried to reason through your reaction.

"It makes the most sense," Sam argued gently, using his best logical 'Sam' voice. "Bartenders have a eyes-on view of the whole floor. Plus, I can watch the rear exits from the main counter."

"I said no, Sam."

"But—"

"No."

A beat of heavy, awkward silence fell over the room.

The manager looked between the two of you, visibly uncomfortable, clutching his clipboard like a shield. "I mean... look, either of you works, as long as—"

"I'll take the shift," you cut in sharply.

Sam stared at you, his hazel eyes wide with genuine confusion. "Why? What’s the issue?"

You crossed your arms tight over your chest. "Because I said so."

"That's... not really a reason."

"It's the only one you're getting."

Sam ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breath that was half-sigh, half-chuckle. "Babe, come on. I don't get it. What's going on?"

You looked him dead in the eye, dropping all pretense. "I am not letting you spend eight hours getting flirted with by every woman who orders a drink."

Silence. Dead silence.

Sam stopped mid-gesture. The manager froze.

Then, slowly, a huff of disbelieving air escaped Sam's lips, turning into that soft, breathless laugh he only let out when he was caught completely off guard.

"...You're jealous?"

"I am being realistic."

"You think I'm going to flirt with the customers?" Sam asked, his lips twitching as he fought back a full grin.

"I think the customers are going to flirt with you."

"I'll tell them I'm taken," he said, stepping a little closer, his tone dropping into that quiet, reassuring register. "I'll tell them I have a girlfriend."

"They won't care."

"I'll point right at you across the room."

"They'll think I'm your sister."

Sam nearly choked on his own breath.

"My—what?"

"You heard me."

The dam broke, and Sam couldn't stop the wide, dimpled smile from spreading across his face. He ducked his head for a second, trying to regain his composure, but failing miserably.

"So this whole argument..." He gestured between the two of you, huffing out another quiet laugh. "...is because you don't want women hitting on me while I'm pouring draft beer?"

You refused to dignify that with a response. Instead, you turned a stern glare toward the manager.

"I'm taking the shift."

The manager pointed a finger at you without an instant's hesitation, eager to escape the crossfire. "You. Absolutely. You."

"Good."

As you turned to walk out of the office, Sam reached out and caught your hand. His long fingers effortlessly folded around yours, tugging you back just enough to slow your pace to his.

"You know," he murmured, his voice laced with fond amusement as he walked beside you down the narrow hallway, "I think it's kind of cute."

You scoffed, keeping your eyes fixed ahead, though your hands remained locked together. "It won't be cute when some girl in a miniskirt tries to write her number on a napkin for you."

"I'd tell her no."

"What if she's persistent?"

"I'd still tell her no."

"What if she touches your arm?"

Sam let out another low laugh, stopping in the dimly lit hallway and pulling you round to face him.

"Babe."

"What?"

"I love you," he said simply, his thumb brushing over the back of your knuckles. His expression was soft, entirely sincere, and so unmistakably him that it made your chest tighten.

Your stubborn mask slipped for half a second before you forced a classic eye-roll, trying and failing to hide the slight lift at the corner of your mouth.

"I know."

Sam squeezed your hand, his dimples showing again. "And you're still taking the shift?"

"100%."

Sam let his head fall back against the hallway wall with a dramatic, exaggerated sigh. "Right. Of course. I forgot who I was talking to." He looked down at you, his eyes warm and crinkling at the corners. "I guess I'm dating the most stubborn woman on the planet."

"Damn right you are."

You stopped dead in your tracks just outside the manager’s cramped back office, spinning on your heel with enough sudden purpose that your jacket whipped against the doorframe.

​"Hold on."

​Dean, who’d been leaning against the cheap wood paneling of the hallway, halfway through taking a gulp from a lukewarm paper cup of grease-trap coffee, immediately let out a long, heavy sigh. He lowered the cup, his green eyes flicking up to you with classic, long-suffering elder-brother exhaustion.

​"...Aw, hell. Look at that face. She's about to make rules."

​"I am," you said smoothly, taking two steps forward and dropping a finger straight into his line of sight. "And you're first."

​Dean raised a dark eyebrow, shifting his weight so he was leaning more heavily on one hip, looking equal parts amused and defensive. "What'd I do? I'm just standing here."

​"Don't disappear," you instructed sternly. "No 'checking the perimeter' by yourself, no wandering off to talk to the local wildlife, and no stepping out to check on the Impala every twenty minutes."

​"I wasn't planning on it."

​"And don't pick fights just because someone looks at you funny at the bar."

​Dean opened his mouth to protest, a knee-jerk hey now forming on his lips—before the memory of roughly a hundred previous bar brawls caught up with him. He paused, closed his mouth, and tapped his coffee cup against his chin.

​"...Fair," he muttered grudgingly.

​"And if something goes sideways while I'm behind the counter," you continued, holding his gaze, "you call. You don't try to clear the building solo, you don't play hero, and you don't wait until you're bleeding out to hit speed dial."

​Dean rolled his eyes, taking another slow swig of his terrible coffee, though the usual cocky bite was entirely missing from the gesture. "Yes, Mom."

​"I'm serious, Winchester."

​"I know," Dean said. The sharp edge of his deflection softened, his jaw relaxing just a fraction as he held your look.

​Your expression softened along with his, the exasperation giving way to the genuine, heavy weight of caring about two men who made a career out of reckless self-sacrifice.

​"...Be careful."

​Dean's teasing grin faded completely, replaced by that quieter, rarer expression he saved for family—grounded, steady, and unexpectedly sincere.

​"I always am."

​You raised a skeptical brow. "Bullshit."

​He offered a faint, dimpled half-smile. "Well... I try."

​Satisfied that he was actually listening, you gave a firm nod. "Good."

​Then you pivoted forty-five degrees to the left, lock-stock and barrel, fixing your gaze squarely on Sam.

​Sam was leaning against the opposite wall, his towering frame folded casually into the dim lighting of the hallway. The moment your eyes landed on him, his hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, a wide, thoroughly fond smile breaking across his face.

​"My turn?" he asked, his voice low and warm.

​"Your turn," you declared, taking a deep breath like a general addressing a soldier before a high-stakes deployment. "Rule number one: No smiling."

​Sam blinked, his head tilting slightly like a golden retriever trying to process a confusing command.

​"...What?"

​"No smiling."

​"I... can't smile?" Sam repeated, a small, puzzled crease forming right between his eyebrows. "I'm literally sitting at the bar keeping watch."

​"Not at customers," you clarified tightly. "Not at female patrons, not at the staff, not even a polite customer-service smirking."

​From two feet away, Dean snorted directly into his coffee, shoulders shaking violently as he tried and failed to keep it quiet.

​You ignored him completely, keeping your crosshairs locked on Sam. "Rule number two: No laughing at their jokes. I don't care if a woman sits down next to you and tells the funniest joke you've ever heard in your life. Stony silence."

​"I wasn't planning on laughing at anyone's jokes," Sam said, holding his hands up defensively.

​"Rule number three: No leaning on the counter."

​Sam gestured vaguely to his frame. "...I'm six-four. If I sit on a barstool, I have to lean just to rest my elbows."

​"Figure something out. Sit up straight."

​Dean had to bite the inside of his cheek so hard his jaw muscle twitched. He lowered his coffee cup, watching the interrogation unfold like it was a prime-time television special.

​"And rule number four," you pressed on, stepping right into Sam's personal space. "If a woman sits next to you and calls you 'handsome'—"

​"I'll say thank you?" Sam offered innocently.

​"Sam!"

​"...No?" Sam ducked his head a fraction, caught between genuine confusion and a total loss for what the correct answer was supposed to be.

​"You'll pretend you didn't hear her," you corrected flatly. "You will suddenly suffer from localized auditory failure."

​Sam looked genuinely concerned now, his brow furrowing deeper. "Isn't that... kind of rude? I'm sitting at a public counter. People make small talk."

​"Better rude than encouraging."

​Dean lost the battle with his composure entirely. A sudden, loud bark of laughter erupted from his chest, echoing off the narrow hallway walls as he leaned his head back against the plaster. "Oh, man. This is incredible. I need a notebook."

​You pointed a single finger over your shoulder at Dean without ever taking your eyes off Sam's face. "You're not helping."

​"I am absolutely helping," Dean choked out, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "I'm documenting historical protocol."

​Sam’s lips twitched, the corners of his mouth fighting an uphill battle against your strict directives. He rubbed the back of his neck, his thumb tracing the hair at his nape as he looked down at you.

​"So... let me see if I've got this straight."

​"You don't."

​"No smiling. No laughing. No leaning on the bar. No thanking anyone for basic compliments."

​"Correct."

​"And if someone flirts with me while I'm keeping an eye on the floor?"

​"You leave."

​"I'm sitting on a barstool," Sam pointed out reasonably, his voice dropping into that quiet, patient cadence he used when de-escalating a situation. "I'm keeping eyes on the room."

​"You leave emotionally."

​Dean doubled over, putting his hands on his knees as his coffee cup dangerously tilted. "I have no idea what that means! What does that even mean?!"

​"It means," you said firmly, ignoring the elder Winchester’s hysterics entirely, "you act like a tax accountant. Cold. Clinical. Utterly devoid of charm."

​Sam frowned, his hazel eyes wide with pure, unadulterated sincerity.

​"...I've met some pretty friendly accountants."

​You stared at him. The silence stretched between you for three full seconds while you processed the sheer, earnest density of Sam Winchester when he was trying to be helpful.

​"...How are you real?" you whispered.

​Sam couldn't hold the wall up anymore. The stoic act collapsed completely, and a soft, breathless laugh escaped him. He reached out, his long, calloused fingers closing gently around your hand, pulling you a fraction of an inch closer into his space.

​"I'll behave," he promised quietly, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle over the back of your hand.

​"You better."

​He ducked his head down until his eyes were level with yours, his expression melting into something so intensely sweet it practically made your teeth ache. "I'll sit at the end of the counter, order a soda, and stare at the wall until you tell me otherwise. I only have eyes for you anyway. You know that, right?"

​You tried—you really, desperately tried—to maintain your stern, authoritative scowl, but the warmth in his gaze was lethal. The tight line of your mouth softened, a betraying twitch pulling at the corner of your lips.

​Dean stood up straight, brushing off his jacket, his eyes rolling dramatically toward the water-stained acoustic ceiling tiles above.

​"I hunt monsters for a living," he announced to the empty hallway, shaking his head in absolute disbelief.

​Silence settled over the three of you for a long second.

​"And somehow," Dean muttered, pointing a finger between the two of you, "this is still the weirdest, most painful conversation I've had all week. I'm going to go buy a pie. Call me if the monster shows up, or if she puts you in a chokehold for looking at someone, Sammy."

An hour later, the venue had transformed completely.

The low, moody background hum had given way to heavy, rhythmic bass that pulsed through the floorboards and rattled the rows of liquor bottles lined up on the mirror behind the bar. Sweeping neon lights in dizzying shades of violet and icy blue cut through the haze of smoke and condensation, washing over a dense sea of bodies moving shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor.

You moved with practiced, efficient speed behind the damp wood—popping bottle caps, pouring drafts, wiping down slick laminate, and keeping your eyes moving. Beneath the front of customer-service efficiency, you were silently profiling every single person who stepped up to order or passed through the perimeter.

Your earpiece crackled with static.

"So... no sign of our ugly friend yet," Dean’s voice came through, clear and rasping over the line.

"Nothing," you muttered under your breath, ducking near the speed rail to look like you were searching for a bottle.

"You surviving back there?"

"Barely."

"You've been on shift for forty-three minutes."

"And I've already considered poisoning three separate wall-street wannabes."

Dean chuckled, the sound muffled by what was almost certainly a half-chewed bite of food. "Atta girl. Save it for the monster."

Across the crowded floor, tucked into a shadowed corner at the far end of the long oak counter, sat Sam.

He was at the exact barstool you'd designated. A tall glass of soda with two melting ice cubes sat untouched in front of him. His massive hands were folded neatly around the coaster, his back held unnaturally straight.

Watching.

Not smiling. Not leaning over the bar. Not engaging the patrons. Just... existing, like a giant, six-foot-four wallflower in a leather jacket.

You narrowed your eyes through the ambient purple haze. He's actually doing it. He's actually sticking to the script.

Then, a woman in a fitted crimson dress slid onto the vacant stool right beside him.

She was young, pretty, and radiated the kind of easy, high-volume confidence that usually worked on 99% of men in a crowded nightspot.

You slowed your pace at the tap station, picking up a rag and casually wiping down an already spotless section of counter while keeping your sightlines open.

The woman turned toward Sam, offering a sharp, bright smile. She leaned in slightly to throw out an opening line over the thumping bass.

Sam turned his head toward her with polite, wooden efficiency.

"..."

He didn't say a word. He didn't even flash a polite customer-service smirk.

She waited, her smile faltering just a fraction at the utter lack of feedback.

"..."

Still nothing. Sam just held a blank, neutral expression, hazel eyes unblinking.

Your earpiece clicked sharply as Dean caught the exchange from his vantage point.

"Oh, no..." Dean murmured over the comms, his voice dripping with sudden, intense focus. "Look at him. He's frozen."

The woman tried again, laughing lightly at whatever joke she’d just attempted to land, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

Sam blinked once. Then, with deliberate, clinical sincerity, he turned his head completely away from her, resetting his gaze back toward the crowded dance floor.

Total, absolute radio silence.

The woman’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "...Everything okay?"

Sam gave a single, tight nod, his jaw locked. "...Yep."

Another agonizingly awkward beat passed.

"So..." she tried again, determined, leaning a fraction closer. "Do you come here often?"

"..."

Sam stared straight ahead at a neon beer sign on the far wall. Not a crack in his composure. Not a polite twitch at the mouth.

You had to bite the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper.

The woman leaned in closer, a slight edge of offense creeping into her tone. "Look, I was just trying to be friendly."

Sam finally turned back to look at her, his hazel eyes wide and filled with pure, heartfelt apology.

"I'm really sorry," he said, his deep voice carrying clearly despite the music.

She offered a hopeful, tentative smile. "It's fine, I just—"

"I can't."

She blinked. "...Can't what?"

"My girlfriend made rules," Sam explained earnestly, gesturing vaguely toward the universe with one long hand.

Silence. Dead silence.

You froze in place, a cold bottle of draft beer held halfway to the tap.

Over the comms, Dean went entirely, terrifyingly quiet.

The woman stared at Sam, her jaw dropping open by a millimeter. "...Rules?"

Sam nodded with total, uncompromising seriousness. "No smiling."

"...Excuse me?"

"No laughing," Sam continued smoothly, checking off the mental list you'd handed him in the hallway. "And... no encouraging conversations."

She looked at him like he had just spoken fluent Aramaic.

Sam offered her the most apologetic, golden-retriever look humanly possible. "I really don't want to break the rules."

There was a long, excruciating beat where the heavy club bass thundered through the silence between them.

"...Oookay," the woman said slowly, taking a small step back and grabbing her drink off the counter. "I'm gonna... go leave you alone now."

"I appreciate that," Sam said politely, giving her a small, respectful nod.

She walked away briskly, casting glances over her shoulder like she’d just struck up a conversation with the world's most earnest, politest serial killer.

For exactly three seconds, absolute silence hung over the comms channel.

Then—

Dean exploded.

A loud, violent, wheezing cackle tore straight through your earpiece, so sudden and unrestrained you almost dropped the pint glass in your hand.

"Oh my God!" Dean howled.

You pressed your lips tightly together, your shoulders shaking as you fought for control.

Through the line, you could hear Dean loudly slapping his knee—or the tabletop—in a complete fit of hysterics. "He actually—ha!—he actually recited the manifest to her! He gave her the whole damn handbook!"

You looked across the floor.

Sam was still sitting perfectly straight on his stool. He caught your eye through the strobe lights, completely oblivious as to why his brother was currently dying of laughter in his ear.

Seeing you look over, Sam gave you a tiny, solemn thumbs-up from waist height.

A silent, See? I followed protocol. I behaved.

Your shoulders shuddered. You immediately ducked your head beneath the bar counter, pretending to forage through an iced well of tonic bottles just to hide the wide, irrepressible grin breaking across your face.

Dean finally managed to draw in a ragged, gasping breath over the mic. "Sam."

Sam frowned, his voice low as he sub-vocalized into his collar. "What?"

"You are..." Dean wheezed out, breaking into another silent, breathless laugh, "...without a doubt, the single weirdest flirt on the face of the planet."

Sam’s crease returned right between his eyes. "I wasn't flirting. I literally did the exact opposite of flirting."

The creature hit the wet pavement with a sickening thud.

Its limbs twitched once. Twice. Then went entirely limp, a dark, foul-smelling pool spreading beneath it onto the slick concrete.

For a long, tense moment, the only sounds echoing down the narrow back alley were your ragged breathing, the crunch of broken glass under Dean's boots, and the distant, muffled thud of club bass still vibrating through the brick walls.

Dean casually wiped a blade covered in dark monster blood against the thigh of his jeans before sheathing it with a crisp click.

"...Well," he panted, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

You adjusted the torn collar of your now utterly ruined bartender uniform, grimacing at the tear along the shoulder. "...That could've gone worse."

A deep voice from the mouth of the alley answered, flat and dangerously calm.

"It could've gone according to plan."

You and Dean froze in unison.

Slowly... very slowly... the two of you turned around.

Sam was standing under the flicking yellow streetlamp at the entrance of the alleyway. His jacket was half-zipped, his hair windblown and sticking to his forehead from sprinting six full blocks to catch up with the chaos.

He wasn't yelling. He wasn't even raising his voice.

Which, in Winchester terms, made it infinitely worse.

His massive hands were planted firmly on his hips, his jaw set, and his hazel eyes locked on the two of you with the exact kind of calm, exhausted glare that meant a full-blown lecture was mere seconds away.

Dean immediately took half a step sideways, dropping his voice to an aggressive whisper meant only for you.

"...You're his girlfriend."

You stared straight back at him without moving your lips. "...You're his brother."

"You take this one."

"Absolutely not."

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, his shadow stretching down the alley. "Seriously?"

Neither of you answered. You both just stared at him like two teenagers caught sneaking in past curfew.

"You two completely blew cover," Sam said, shifting his weight.

Silence.

"You vaulted over a five-foot granite counter." Sam pointed a long finger at you.

You looked down at your muddy boots. "...Technically, it was a clean hurdle."

Sam turned his gaze onto Dean. "And you."

Dean pointed a thumb at his own chest, putting on his best innocent expression. "Me? What’d I do?"

"You weren't even supposed to be inside the building."

"I heard a commotion!"

"You heard my girlfriend yell, 'There it is, hit the deck!' through the comms!"

Dean shrugged, holding his hands out as if the logic was completely airtight. "Hey, man. I support women's rights."

You snorted, slapping a hand over your mouth to cover the laugh.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing in a long, suffering breath. "Dean."

"...Yeah?"

"That isn't what that means."

"I know."

Another heavy beat of silence stretched over the alley.

Sam looked back and forth between the two of you, shaking his head. "I told you both over the wire to wait for me to circle around to the back."

"It was getting away," you mumbled defensively.

"I know."

"It would've reached the street."

"I know."

"So we chased it."

"I noticed."

Dean cautiously raised one finger into the air. "In our defense..."

Sam leveled him with a glare so cold it could have thawed salt.

Dean slowly lowered his finger. "...Never mind."

"You know what happened because neither of you waited three minutes for backup?" Sam continued, his analytical brain listing the consequences in real-time. "The entire club evacuated into the street."

"..."

"The local police received four separate calls about a gang war."

"..."

"And some guy standing by the VIP entrance recorded Dean tackling a eight-foot monster into a commercial dumpster."

Dean blinked, his eyebrows shooting up. "...Seriously?"

Without a single word, Sam pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, tapped the screen, and turned it around to face the two of you.

There, in glorious, grainy vertical video, was crisp footage of Dean launching his entire body through the air like a linebacker, screaming at the top of his lungs:

"GET BACK HERE, YOU UGLY SON OF A—"

The clip ended with a spectacular, metal-crunching crash directly into a mountain of commercial garbage bags.

Dean stared at the four-inch screen, mesmerized.

"...I actually looked kinda athletic."

You completely lost the battle, bursting into a loud, sudden laugh that echoed off the brick walls.

Sam snapped the phone shut and glared straight at you. "You are not helping your case."

The motel room door slammed shut behind the three of you with a rattle that vibrated through the cheap plywood frame.

Dean didn't even make it two steps into the faded carpet before Sam spun around and jabbed a long finger squarely at his chest.

"Don't."

Dean froze in mid-stride, his hands hovering near his hips. "...I haven't even said anything yet."

"I know," Sam said tightly, his hazel eyes narrowing. "I'm preventing it."

Dean looked between the two of you, taking in the heavy, charged silence filling the small room. He let out a long, dramatic sigh, reached down to scoop up the extra plastic room key off the dresser, and held up both hands in total surrender.

"Right. Got it," Dean muttered, backing toward the door. "I'm gonna go rescue this disaster with six-packs and pie. You two... work out whatever this is."

He pointed vaguely back and forth between you and Sam before slipping back outside into the cool night air. A moment later, the low, familiar rumble of the Impala's engine roared to life, fading into the distance as he pulled out of the lot.

The room fell dead quiet.

Sam waited until the taillights washed out against the curtains before turning fully toward you. He planted his boots wide, folding his arms tightly over his broad chest. The stern, protective hunter mode was still radiating off him in waves.

"You scared ten civilians," Sam began, stepping forward.

"They were already scared," you countered smoothly.

"You completely destroyed the cover."

"It was already falling apart."

"You vaulted a bar."

"There wasn't time to use the swinging door, Sam."

Sam stopped just a few feet away, staring down at you. You held his gaze, squaring your shoulders and looking up at him without flinching.

"...Don't give me that look," he warned, his voice dropping an octave.

"What look?"

"That one."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The innocent look."

You blinked once, wide-eyed, softening your features just a fraction.

Sam let out a low, breathy sigh, his jaw muscle twitching as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"It doesn't work."

"It has before."

"It absolutely has," Sam admitted, his stoic mask slipping for a split second before he caught himself. "Which is why I'm warning you right now. I'm still really annoyed."

You tilted your head, watching him closely. "So... how annoyed are we talking?"

Sam thought for a second, his hazel eyes darkening as a slow, deliberate shift came over his posture. The frustrated, lecturing hunter seemed to melt away, replaced by something far more intense—and far more focused directly on you.

"Annoyed enough," Sam said, his voice dropping into a quiet, raspy register, "that I'm considering locking the deadbolt and not letting Dean back into this room all night."

You frowned, genuinely puzzled for a second. "...Why would Dean be the one getting punished for what I did?"

Sam closed the remaining distance between you in a single, fluid stride.

Before you could take a breath, his fingers hooked gently into the fabric of your jacket near your collar. He didn't pull hard, but the sudden, possessive grip hitched the breath right in your throat. He tilted his head down until his lips were resting right against the shell of your ear, his warm breath fanning across your neck.

"Because if Dean's here," Sam murmured, his deep voice carrying a dark, wicked thread of humor, "he's going to hear everything I'm about to do to you to get you to follow directions next time."

You froze, a wave of heat rushing straight to your face.

Sam pulled back just an inch, his hazel eyes blown wide and dark, a dangerous, dimpled smirk finally breaking across his lips as he held your gaze.

"And trust me, babe," he whispered, his thumb lightly tracing the pulse hammering in your throat, "you're going to be a lot louder than you were in that alley."

A sudden wave of heat rushed straight to your face, your mind short-circuiting as the sheer, unexpected intensity of the moment hit you all at once. The domestic golden retriever had officially left the building.

Your eyes widened in sudden, wide-eyed alarm.

You shoved hard against his chest—which was like trying to push a solid oak door—and scrambled backward toward the unmade motel bed.

"Oh my God—stay away from me, you freaky giant!"

Desperate for ammunition, your hand shot down, snatched the nearest, flimsiest motel pillow off the mattress, and launched it full-force straight at his face.

Whump.

The faded floral pillow hit him squarely across the bridge of his nose.

Sam stood completely frozen in the middle of the room. He didn't flinch, didn't move, and kept the pillow pinned against his face for a full two seconds while the sheer audacity of your attack registered in his brain.

Then, slowly... very slowly... he lowered the pillow with one hand. His long hair was slightly tousled, and his hazel eyes locked onto yours, the dangerous smirk giving way to absolute, unadulterated disbelief.

"...Did you just assault me with cheap motel property?"

"Self-defense!" you declared, pointing an accusing finger at him from behind the safety of the nightstand.

"Against what?"

"Your height! And that look on your face! You were literally looming!"

Sam blinked, holding the pillow by its corner like a piece of evidence. "I was standing next to you."

"You're six-four, Sam! Everything you do is looming!"

Before Sam could step forward to retaliate, the metallic rattle of the doorknob echoed through the thin wooden door as Dean jiggled the handle from the exterior walkway.

"Forgot my wallet!" Dean yelled through the door.

Clack.

The handle hit the locked deadbolt and stopped dead.

There was a long, excruciating beat of silence from the walkway outside.

"...Sam?" Dean called through the wood, his voice dripping with instant, heavy suspicion.

Sam didn't break eye contact with you for a fraction of a second. "Busy."

"Doing what?"

Sam looked down at the pillow in his hand, then back up at you, his voice completely flat and deadpan. "Defending myself against domestic violence."

"I threw a pillow!" you shouted toward the door. "Because he was being a freaky giant!"

Outside, Dean let out a long, heavy, long-suffering sigh that practically vibrated through the cheap plywood frame.