Swiggy

Bobby’s kitchen smelled like coffee grounds, motor oil, and something burnt that Dean had sworn twenty minutes ago was “still edible.” It wasn’t.

Sam sat at the table with a lore book spread open in front of him while Dean leaned back in his chair, boots hooked on another seat, flipping a knife through his fingers.

“So let me get this straight,” Dean said slowly. “This thing can mimic voices, disappear, and apparently rip a guy’s jaw clean off?”

“Not apparently,” Sam muttered, eyes scanning the page. “It did.”

Dean grimaced. “Awesome. Love that.”

Bobby shuffled past them, carrying another stack of books. “You two done bitchin’ or you wanna actually solve the case?”

Dean pointed his knife toward him. “I’m solving. Aggressively.”

“Yeah, well, aggressive ain’t helping when none of us know what the hell this thing is.” Bobby dropped the books onto the table with a heavy thud, sending dust puffing into the air. “Closest thing I found was some old Men of Letters mention from the seventies.”

Sam frowned. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Dean sighed dramatically. “Great. So we’re screwed.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Not entirely. I called somebody.”

Dean perked up a little. “Oh yeah? Who?”

“Lafontaine.”

Dean blinked, and Sam’s eyebrows lifted slightly in recognition.

And immediately, Dean barked out a laugh. “No way. Old man Lafontaine’s still alive?”

Bobby gave him a look. “Barely.”

“Man,” Dean chuckled, sitting forward now, “that guy used to scare the hell outta me.”

“Yeah,” Sam said dryly, “because you tried stealing his truck when you were twelve.”

“I was borrowing it.”

“You drove it into a ditch.”

Dean pointed at Sam. “Allegedly.”

Bobby snorted. “Well, he knows more about weird occult crap than anybody I trust. Said he’d send over everything he had.”

Dean nodded. “Alright. Cool.”

“Wait,” Dean said slowly. “Did he say he was comin’ himself?”

Before Bobby could answer, there was a knock at the door, three sharp taps. Bobby jerked his chin toward Dean. “Get that.”

Dean stood, stretching as he crossed the room. “If this guy’s still wearing those creepy snake skin boots, I’m leavin’.”

He swung the door open casually and froze. You stood on the porch with a duffel bag slung over your shoulder and a folder tucked under your arm. Older, definitely. But not by much.

Still wearing that same unimpressed expression you used to give him when he mouthed off as a teenager. Your eyes flicked over him once, then twice. And your mouth slowly pulled into a smirk.

“Well,” you said. “If it isn’t the pain in my ass.”

Dean stared, like actually stared. Because there was just absolutely no way. No friggin’ way.

The girl who used to force him and Sam to brush their teeth before bed while your dads were out hunting was standing on Bobby Singer’s porch looking like that. Behind him, Sam nearly choked trying not to laugh.

Dean finally found his voice. “Ain’t no way.”

You tilted your head. “That bad, huh?”

Dean looked you up and down again, almost offended by the universe itself.

“No,” he said immediately. “No, it’s— What the hell happened to you?”

You scoffed, brushing past him into the house. “Puberty. You should try it.”

Sam outright laughed this time.

Dean turned slowly toward his brother. “Did you know?”

Sam lifted both hands innocently. “I had a suspicion.”

Bobby already looked deeply entertained by the entire thing. “Good. Everybody’s here. Sit down.”

You dropped your duffel beside the table before pulling out a thick journal absolutely covered in sticky notes, while Dean couldn’t stop staring.

“What?” you asked flatly.

Dean blinked. “You’re—”

“Careful.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Still bossy.”

“And you’re still annoying.” You opened the journal. “Nice to see nothing’s changed.”

Dean let out a breathy laugh through his nose. God, you sounded exactly the same. Which was somehow worse.

“You know,” you continued while flipping pages, “most people say hello before staring at somebody like they just rose from the dead.”

Dean leaned against the table. “I’m processing.”

“Slowly, apparently.”

Sam looked between the two of you with growing amusement. “Wow. This is exactly how I remember you guys.”

Dean pointed at you without looking away. “She used to bully me.”

You gasped theatrically. “I kept you alive.”

“You handcuffed me to a motel bed one time!”

“You tried to follow our dads on a vamp nest run!”

“I was thirteen!”

“And stupid!”

Dean looked at Bobby incredulously. “See? This. This is what I dealt with.”

You looked over finally, eyes glittering with amusement now. “Funny. I remember you following me around like a lost puppy.”

Dean barked out a laugh. “Please.”

“You cried when I left for a hunt once.”

Sam covered his mouth immediately.

Dean whipped around. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did,” Sam said.

“I was like nine!”

You grinned for the first time fully, and Dean honestly forgot what Bobby had even been saying before you walked in. Because this was not the awkward pigtailed girl who used to shove him away from cursed objects and yell at him to wear a jacket. This was—

“Well?” you asked, catching him staring again.

Dean cleared his throat immediately. “You got info on the monster, or you just come here to psychologically torture me?”

Your smile sharpened. “Oh, Dean,” you said. “Why not both?”

You flipped open the journal, all business now. “Okay,” you said, pushing a page toward Sam. “Your victims weren’t dealing with a ghost.”

Sam adjusted in his chair immediately, scanning the symbols scribbled across the paper. “Then what is it?”

“A Veskar.”

Dean frowned. “A what now?”

You pointed toward one of the sketches. “Old parasitic entity. Mostly Eastern European folklore. They attach themselves to abandoned places, feed on paranoia, fear, isolation— all the fun stuff.”

“Okay,” Dean said slowly. “And the jaw-ripping thing?”

“They hunt through sound mimicry. Lure prey deeper in, disorient them, then attack.”

Dean grimaced. “Still hate that.”

“They’re rare,” you continued. “Mostly because hunters usually die before figuring out what they are.”

“Comforting,” Sam muttered.

You ignored him.

“The important thing is they can’t fully manifest unless they anchor themselves to something physical.”

Bobby nodded slightly from the kitchen counter like he already knew where you were going.

“So what’s the anchor?” he asked.

You tapped the page. “Silver.”

Dean blinked. “Silver?”

“Not pure silver. Melted-down religious objects usually. Crosses, rosaries, grave ornaments. They create nests with it.” You looked at Sam. “The abandoned church near the mill?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

“That’s your spot.”

Dean leaned forward now, focused despite himself. “So what kills it?”

You hesitated for half a second.

“Fire works temporarily. Silver blades can wound it.” Then your expression flattened. “Decapitation’s the only permanent kill.”

Dean snorted softly. “Of course it is.”

“You asked.”

Sam flipped another page in the journal. “These symbols…”

“Containment marks,” you answered. “If we can pin it long enough, it can’t phase.”

Bobby pointed toward Dean with a beer bottle. “Hear that? Means you actually gotta use your brain tomorrow.”

Dean scoffed. “I always use my brain.”

You and Sam both looked at him.

Dean frowned. “Rude.”

You started organizing papers across the table. “Alright. Sam and I can work the lore angle tonight, narrow down nesting habits. Dean—”

Dean immediately pointed at himself. “Why do I feel like I’m getting the dumb task?”

“Because you usually do.”

Bobby barked out another laugh, and Dean looked personally betrayed. “Bobby, you hearing this disrespect?”

“Deserved.”

You continued without missing a beat. “You and Bobby hit the church at dawn. Look for silver deposits, religious artifacts, signs of nesting.”

Dean crossed his arms. “And what’re you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t accidentally get yourselves killed.”

“Aw,” Dean said mockingly. “You still care about me.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was practically affectionate. “Please. I care about Sam more.”

Dean placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “That’s evil.”

Bobby moved around the kitchen, already pulling mugs down from the cabinets. “You stayin’ here tonight?”

You looked up. “If that’s okay.”

Bobby stared at you as if the question itself offended him. “Kid,” he said softly, “you always got a place here.”

The room quieted for just a second. Dean noticed the tiny shift in your expression immediately,  the way your shoulders loosened a little, how your face softened in a way he hadn’t seen yet tonight.

“Thanks, Uncle Bobby.”

There it was. Uncle Bobby.

Dean remembered hearing it a thousand times growing up. Usually, right before Bobby patched up your scraped knees or yelled at all three of you for roughhousing near weapons. Bobby grunted like he was pretending the affection embarrassed him.

“You eat yet?”

“Gas station peanuts count?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

“Jesus,” Bobby muttered, already moving toward the fridge. “Hunters are hopeless.”

You smiled faintly. Dean watched as Bobby checked your shoulder for injuries, absentmindedly. The way he automatically grabbed your favorite whiskey from the cabinet without asking, like muscle memory. It did something weird to Dean’s chest.

Before he could think too hard about it, you stood and walked toward the liquor cabinet yourself.

“You still keep the good stuff hidden?” you asked.

“From Dean? Damn right.”

“Seriously?” Dean called from the living room. 

You grabbed the bottle with a victorious hum anyway and poured yourself a glass, then another smaller one. You slid it across the counter toward Bobby, and his face softened immediately.

“Well,” he muttered. “Ain’t you sweet.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Dean watched you lean back against the counter, whiskey glass in hand, talking quietly with Bobby while Sam reread the lore. And honestly? It was screwing with him a little. Because in his head, you were still sixteen years old, yelling at him for teaching Sam curse words.

Not…Not this. Not grown up. Not pretty enough to make him forget what conversation he was in halfway through.

You caught him staring again from across the room, your eyebrow lifting slowly. Dean immediately looked away and grabbed a beer while Sam smirked into his book. Dean kicked his chair hard enough to make him glare.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinkin’ it loud.”

A couple of hours later, Bobby finally shoved himself up from his chair with a groan loud enough to rival the pipes in the house.

“I’m too old for this crap,” he muttered, pointing a finger between the three of you. “Don’t stay up all night bein’ idiots.”

“No promises,” Dean said immediately.

“Especially you.”

Dean grinned. 

Bobby paused beside you on his way out, squeezing your shoulder once. “Night, kid.”

Your expression softened again. “Night, Uncle Bobby.”

Then he disappeared down the hall, bedroom door creaking shut a few seconds later. The TV played quietly in the background. Some old western Bobby definitely fell asleep watching earlier. You swirled the whiskey in your glass lazily before taking another sip.

“So,” Sam said carefully, leaning back in his chair. “How’s your dad?”

You snorted softly. “Still alive somehow. Complains about his knees every five minutes now.”

Dean grinned into his beer. “Good. Means karma’s finally hitting him.”

“You say that like your dad wasn’t just as bad.”

Dean pointed at you. “My father never made us run five miles because we ‘looked energetic.’”

You nearly choked laughing. “Yes, he did.”

“That was one time.”

Sam deadpanned from beside him. “It was not one time.”

You laughed harder at that, head tipping back slightly, and Dean found himself staring again before he could stop it. God, that laugh was exactly the same. Maybe a little lower now. But still the same laugh that used to echo through crappy motel rooms while the four of you survived off takeout and stolen cable.

“You know,” Sam said, smiling faintly, “those were actually some of the most normal parts of our childhood.”

You looked at him softer then. “Yeah?”

Sam nodded. “Seriously. Whenever your dad and ours hunted together…” He shrugged lightly. “It felt normal.”

Dean scoffed. “Speak for yourself. She ran that house like a tiny dictator.”

You gasped. “Excuse me? I kept you both alive.”

“You made schedules.”

“You needed schedules!”

Dean pointed accusingly. “You grounded me once!”

“You snuck out to steal a Playboy from the motel lobby.”

“I was curious!”

“You were fifteen!”

Sam laughed quietly into his drink. Dean turned toward him immediately. “Don’t act innocent. You were her favorite.”

Sam smirked. “Because I listened.”

“Because you were adorable,” you corrected.

Dean looked horrified. “I was adorable.”

“No,” you said instantly. “You were a menace.”

Sam outright snorted. You pointed toward Dean with your whiskey glass. “You wanna know what he used to do?”

Dean narrowed his eyes immediately. “No.”

“He would wait until I fell asleep—”

“Okay, no—”

“—and then put fake spiders in my shoes because he thought that was good pay-back for grounding him.”

Sam burst out laughing while Dean defended himself immediately. “IT WAS FUNNY.”

“You are literally evil.”

Dean grinned shamelessly. “Yeah, and then you chased me around a motel parking lot with a tire iron.”

Your mouth twitched. “Deserved.”

Sam shook his head fondly. “You guys were insane together.”

That made you laugh quietly into your drink. “God,” you muttered. “Our dads used to hate leaving us alone together.”

Dean barked a laugh. “No, they didn’t. They thought it was hilarious.”

You groaned immediately. “Don’t remind me.”

Sam looked between you both curiously. “Wait… are you talking about the marriage thing?”

Dean immediately covered his face with one hand. “Oh, my God.”

You looked equally mortified. “Absolutely not.”

Sam started laughing before either of you could stop him.

Dean pointed at him. “You are enjoying this way too much.”

“I forgot about that!” Sam wheezed.

“Because it was traumatic,” you muttered.

Dean groaned dramatically. “Every damn time we got in trouble—”

You pointed at him, already laughing. “‘One day you two are gonna get married and terrorize some poor town together.’”

Dean dropped his head against the back of the chair. “I can literally hear Bobby saying it.”

“And my dad!” you laughed. “‘Look at ‘em. Already acting like an old married couple.’”

Sam was losing it now. Dean shook his head hard. “No, because they were insane. We were constantly trying to kill each other.”

“Exactly,” you said.

“You broke my nose once.”

“You deserved it.”

“You bent my butterfly knife!”

“You called me bossy!”

“You are bossy!”

You both stopped at the exact same time. Silence.

Then Sam quietly muttered into his drink, “Yeah. You’re definitely getting married.”

Dean grabbed a pretzel off the table and launched it at his forehead immediately, which made Sam laugh harder. And you were smiling at Dean in that same old way you used to when you were kids. All sharp edges and challenges, like every fight between you, had always secretly been fun.

Dean stared for half a second too long again. Your smile faded into something smaller, slightly leaning towards curious. And Dean suddenly became very interested in his beer bottle.

Sam eventually stood with a long stretch, groaning as his back cracked.

“Alright,” he muttered. “I’m done reliving Dean’s humiliating childhood stories for one night.”

Dean pointed at him immediately. “You were there too, jackass.”

“Yeah, but nobody handcuffed me to a motel sink because I ‘chewed too loud.’”

You looked entirely unapologetic. “You did chew too loud.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head as he grabbed his book. “Night, you two.”

“Night, Sammy.”

“Goodnight.”

Then he disappeared down the hallway, leaving the living room oddly quiet. The TV murmured softly in the background while rain tapped lightly against the junkyard windows outside. You took another sip of whiskey, and Dean watched your fingers turn the glass slowly against your knee.

“Y’know,” he said after a minute, voice quieter now, “I always figured you’d get out.”

Your eyes flicked toward him. “Hunting?”

Dean nodded. “You used to talk about it all the time.” He shrugged lightly. “College. Apartment somewhere. Normal life.”

You smiled faintly at that. “Yeah.”

“What happened?”

You looked down into your drink for a second before answering. “The same thing that happened to you, probably.”

Dean didn’t say anything, so you leaned back deeper into the couch cushions.

“The hunter lifestyle never really leaves you,” you said softly. “Even when you try to walk away from it.”

Dean’s jaw tightened slightly, because yeah. He knew exactly what you meant.

You continued after a beat. “I tried once.”

Dean looked over fully now. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

“What, like… serious tried?”

You nodded slowly. “Couple years.” A tiny laugh left you. “Waitressed in Nebraska.”

Dean blinked. “Nebraska?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“You are failing.”

Dean grinned a little into his beer bottle.

You shook your head. “I had an apartment. Plants.” You looked genuinely offended by the memory. “Dean, I kept killing every damn one.”

He laughed softly.

“Couldn’t sleep right,” you admitted after a second. “Every noise sounded wrong. Every town felt temporary.” Your eyes lifted toward him again. “Eventually I heard about a hunt nearby and…”

“You went.”

“Yeah.”

Dean nodded once like he understood perfectly, probably because he did.

“You?” you asked. “You ever really try?”

Dean stared at the label peeling off his beer bottle. “Once or twice.”

Lisa flickered through his head for half a second before he shoved it away. You must’ve seen something on his face because your expression softened slightly.

“That bad, huh?”

Dean huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.” Then Dean glanced sideways at you, something mischievous slowly creeping into his expression.

“Oh, my God.”

You immediately narrowed your eyes. “What?”

“Do you remember—”

“No.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“I know that look. The answer’s still no.”

Dean laughed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “The Impala.”

You physically groaned. “Oh, come on.”

Dean grinned wider immediately. “You remember.”

“I wish I didn’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

You covered your face briefly with one hand. “We were teenagers.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Teenagers makin’ excellent decisions.”

You pointed at him. “Your father was twenty feet away.”

“At a bar.”

“Nearby.”

Dean shrugged. “Still counts.”

You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head. God, Dean remembered that night vividly. Rainstorm outside. The backseat of the Impala. You whisper-yelling at him to stop laughing because someone would hear.

Dean smirked into his drink. “You kissed me first.”

Your jaw dropped immediately. “I absolutely did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“You flirted with me for like six straight months!”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

You rolled your eyes hard, but you were smiling now. Dean noticed, and then noticed how close you were sitting suddenly. At some point during the conversation, you’d both drifted toward the middle cushion without realizing it, to where your knees were almost touching.

Dean’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before he could stop himself, and your smile faded just slightly when you caught it. But neither of you looked away.

“You know,” you said softly, “you were kind of an ass back then.”

Dean snorted. “Back then?”

You laughed under your breath, then Dean leaned a little closer.

“So were you.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“You drove me insane.”

“You drove me insane first.”

Dean’s eyes flicked between yours. God, there it was again. That same tension you used to dance around when you were younger, before life got messy and bloody and complicated. Only now, neither of you was sixteen anymore. Neither of you was pretending not to notice it.

“You still do,” Dean admitted quietly.

Your breath caught a little, just enough for him to notice. And then, you kissed him. Quick at first, like maybe you were testing if it was a bad idea. Dean answered immediately, one hand coming up to your jaw instinctively as he kissed you back harder.

And wow. Yeah. He remembered this, too. The whiskey on your tongue. The way you grabbed his flannel like you were annoyed about wanting him. You pulled back barely an inch, laughing softly against his mouth.

“This is such a bad idea.”

Dean grinned, forehead resting against yours. “Probably.” Then he kissed you again anyway.

He shifted you onto his lap in one quick and eager motion, his hands gripping your hips as your mouths moved together in a slow, heated kiss that had been building for the last twenty minutes. His tongue slid against yours, tasting like whiskey and cheap mint mouthwash. Every time you rocked against him, you felt how hard he already was beneath his jeans.

Dean pulled back just enough to breathe against your lips, green eyes dark with want. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, voice rough and low.

“Been thinking about this since you got here,” he murmured. “Hell, been thinking about it for years.”

Your breath hitched, because of course, the thought had slipped your mind once or twice. The frantic making out, hands under clothes, the way he’d groaned your name like a prayer when you ground down on him. You’d been interrupted by Sam before anything more could happen.

Dean’s lips curved into that cocky smirk, but his eyes were soft. “We’ve got unfinished business, sweetheart. Don’t y’think?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

He kissed you hard once more, then lifted you off his lap like you weighed nothing. You grabbed jackets and slipped out the back door quietly. Bobby was upstairs snoring, and Sam was out cold in some dusty guest room a few doors down.

The cool night air hit your flushed skin as Dean opened the back door of the Impala and guided you inside. The second the door shut, it was like a dam broke.

Dean pulled you into his lap again, hands sliding under your shirt to cup your breasts as he kissed you deep and filthy. “Been dying to get you back in this car,” he growled against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

You moaned as he tugged your shirt off, his mouth latching onto one nipple while his hand worked the other. He was rough but attentive, sucking and biting just hard enough to make you arch into him. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging the way you knew he liked.

“Dean… please.”

“Look at you,” he breathed, eyes raking over your face. “So fucking perfect. Always have been.”

He lay you back across the wide leather seat, hovering over you. “Been dreaming about this for years,” he growled against your neck, kissing and biting his way down your body. He yanked your jeans and panties down in one rough motion, tossing them aside.

Dean settled between your thighs, pushing your legs wide. He looked up at you with that wicked smirk. “Gonna take my time with you first.”

He didn’t wait. His mouth descended on you, hot and hungry. The first slow lick from your entrance to your clit made your back arch. Dean groaned at your taste, like he’d finally gotten something he’d been craving forever.

“Shit, you taste even better than I imagined,” he muttered, then dove back in.

His tongue worked you expertly; long, flat licks followed by tight circles around your clit. He sucked the sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth, humming in satisfaction when your hips jerked. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling and stroking that perfect spot while his mouth devoured you. The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out filled the car.

You moaned loudly, one hand fisting his short hair, the other gripping the edge of the seat. Dean’s free hand pressed down on your lower stomach, holding you in place as he fucked you with his fingers and sucked on your clit.

“Dean—fuck—right there—”

He doubled down, sucking harder, fingers pumping faster. Your thighs started trembling around his head. He looked up at you, eyes locked on yours as he worked you closer and closer to the edge.

“Such attitude, now you’re begging me to please you. Are you close, sweetheart?”

You nodded eagerly, desperately pushing his head down to chase his touch.

He grinned against your center and mufflily ordered, “Come for me, then.”

The orgasm hit you hard. Your back bowed off the seat as you cried out his name, thighs clamping around his head. Dean didn’t stop, licking you through every wave until you were shaking and oversensitive.

Only then did he pull back, lips shiny with your arousal, wearing a proud, filthy grin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crawled up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

“You’re so fucking hot when you come for me,” he murmured, grinding his hard cock against your thigh. “But I’m nowhere near done with you.”

He shoved his jeans down with urgency, then flipped you onto your hands and knees, positioning himself behind you. One hand gripped your hip, the other slid up your back and fisted your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp.

He pushed into you in one deep thrust, bottoming out with a groan. “Fuck, so tight… perfect little pussy.”

Dean set a hard, steady rhythm, hips snapping against your ass, and the car rocked with every thrust. He leaned over you, biting your shoulder as he fucked you deeper.

“You like that? Been waiting years to bend you over in this car and fuck you raw,” he growled, voice low and dirty. “Tell me how good it feels, baby.”

“So good—Dean, harder—”

He gave you what you wanted, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes while his hand reached around to rub your clit. The mix of rough and attentive was dizzying. Every time you moaned his name, he rewarded you with a particularly deep thrust or a filthy compliment.

When you got close again, he pulled you up so your back was against his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other still working your clit. He kissed your neck, teeth grazing your skin.

“Come for me again. Wanna feel you squeezing my cock this time.”

You shattered around him, clenching hard as your second orgasm crashed over you. Dean followed right after with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he came.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you catching your breath. Then he pulled out gently and pulled you into his arms. He grabbed the blanket from the trunk and wrapped it around both of you, shifting so you were curled up against his chest in the backseat.

Dean’s hand stroked slowly up and down your bare back, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, and your hair. The rough, kinky side was gone, replaced by the gentle, protective Dean only you and Sam ever saw.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice warm. “Didn’t go too hard?”

“I’m perfect,” you whispered, nuzzling into his neck. “That was, uh… worth the wait.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Damn right it was.”

The smell of coffee was what did it; strong, burnt, unmistakably Bobby Singer coffee. Dean stirred first with a groan, face buried somewhere warm and familiar. You. His arm was heavy around your waist beneath an old quilt Bobby had thrown over the two of you sometime during the night.

At some point after the… backseat incident, you’d stumbled inside half asleep, laughing quietly and stealing blankets from Bobby’s linen closet before collapsing together onto the couch.

Dean vaguely remembered you threatening to kick him if he snored. Now, morning light filtered weakly through the junkyard windows, washing the room gold. Dean blinked sleepily, then immediately tensed.

Because Bobby was standing over the couch, holding a coffee mug and looking deeply unimpressed. “Well,” Bobby said flatly. “Ain’t this cute?”

You made a sleepy noise beside Dean, face still buried against his chest.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut briefly. “Oh no.”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you slowly woke up. “What?”

Then Bobby’s voice registered, and your eyes flew open. “Oh, my God.”

Dean started laughing immediately as you jerked upright so fast the blanket tangled around your legs.

Bobby looked between the two of you. “Seriously?” he asked. “On my couch?”

“Not on the couch,” you defended instantly, hair a complete mess.

Bobby looked between the two of you, then outside to the Impala, then back at Dean. “Well, as long as it ain't on my furniture…”

Dean was still half laughing, arm thrown over his face now.

You pointed accusingly at Bobby. “You knew this was gonna happen eventually.”

Bobby snorted. “Yeah. Didn’t mean I wanted visual confirmation.”

Dean sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “Morning to you, too, sunshine.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes at him. “Boy, I practically watched this girl grow up. You think I enjoy waking up and finding Winchester draped all over her?”

Dean grinned shamelessly. “Draped?”

“Dean,” you hissed, mortified.

He looked over at you and nearly lost it again because your face was bright red while you tried unsuccessfully to fix your hair.

“You’re laughin’ way too hard for somebody who started this,” you muttered.

Dean pointed at himself. “Me?”

“You kissed me back!”

“You kissed me first!”

Bobby made a gagging noise. “Alright, enough. I don’t need the damn play-by-play.”

You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. “This is humiliating.”

“Actually,” Dean said, stretching lazily against the couch cushions, “this is probably the best morning I’ve had in months.”

You looked over at him despite yourself. And unfortunately…unfortunately Dean looked very good in the morning. Sleepy voice. Flannel half open. That stupid smug grin.

You rolled your eyes immediately to save yourself. “Shut up.”

Bobby shook his head, muttering something about “kids” despite the two of you being fully grown adults. Then he pointed toward the kitchen with his coffee mug.

“Get up. Case ain’t gonna solve itself.”

Dean groaned dramatically, and you threw the blanket off both of you and stood first, stretching your arms above your head. Dean watched the motion automatically, and Bobby caught him.

“Boy,” Bobby warned.

Dean straightened immediately. “I’m respectful.”

“Bull.”

You snorted loudly while walking toward the kitchen. Dean followed close behind without even thinking about it, and Bobby watched the two of you go with the exhausted expression of a man who had seen this coming for about twenty years.

hope you all enjoyed!!! XD

dividers by @sisterlucifergraphics

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