Here For The Fanfiction

nothing answers him. not cas. not dean, who’s two towns over chasing the other half of the case. not the ugly thing that slammed sam into a bookcase and vanished through the floorboards before he could salt the room properly. just sam, breathing hard, one hand pressed against the cut high on his ribs. you hear him shift. hear the little sound he tries to bury when pain catches up.

your hands curl against the brick ledge. you could go. you know you could. angels aren’t supposed to need invitations for every act of mercy, and you’ve never been especially good at following the colder rules anyway. heaven has called you undisciplined, impulsive, and sentimental in a tone that made it sound flawed. castiel once said you were joyful as if he didn’t know whether that was a miracle or a curse.

but sam hasn’t called you. not yet.

there’s another long silence, and then his prayer changes. “okay,” he whispers, rough and reluctant. “if you’re listening… i could use you.”

you’re there before the last word finishes leaving him.

the room flares with soft white light, quick as a match strike, and sam jerks back so hard his shoulder hits the wall.

“sorry!” you say immediately. “sorry. too fast?”

he stares at you, hand still pressed to his side, eyes wide and bright with pain. “you came.”

“you asked.”

“i barely asked.”

“i have excellent hearing.”

that earns you the smallest breath of a laugh, which you treasure shamelessly. then his face tightens, and the laughter disappears beneath a wince.

you step closer, all the brightness in you folding into focus. “sam—”

“i’m fine.”

“you are bleeding through your fingers.”

“yeah, well…” his mouth twitches weakly. “not my best argument.”

you kneel in front of him, careful with the broken glass scattered across the floor. he watches you in a way that shows he isn’t sure he deserve tenderness. it makes something in you ache. angels aren’t supposed to ache this much.

“may i?” you ask, reaching toward his hand.

sam hesitates, then lets you move it.

the wound is ugly but not fatal, though pain doesn’t need to be fatal to be real. you press your palm lightly against his side, grace warming beneath your skin, and he inhales sharply as the cut closes under your touch.

his hand catches your wrist before you pull away. “i didn’t know if you’d answer.”

your eyes lift to his. “i always answer you.”

“i usually call cas.”

“i know.” the words come out too honest. a little awkward, sitting between you with the dust and blood and moonlight.

sam’s thumb shifts once against your wrist. “you heard that?”

“i hear more than i should.” you soften your voice, because teasing him right now would be easy, and kindness matters more. “i don’t mind being second, sam. not if you still call.”

his expression changes in a way you can’t read at first. guilt, maybe. surprise. something warmer hiding under both.

“you’re not second,” he says quietly.

your chest goes strangely still. for once, you have no bright little remark to toss into the room so neither of you has to stand too close to what he just gave you.

sam looks down at your hand still near his ribs, then back at your face. “i just didn’t want to bother you.”

you laugh then, soft and helpless. “you are very bad at understanding angels.”

“probably.”

“sam, i was on a roof waiting.”

his brows draw together. “waiting?”

“in case you needed me.”

the confession lands gentler than fear made it seem. sam’s face softens until he looks younger, tired all the way through and somehow still beautiful with it.

“that’s a little ridiculous,” he murmurs.

“yes,” you say. “i’m told that often.”

he keeps holding your wrist while the night stays dangerous. the thing that hurt him is still out there, the case still unfinished, the world still full of prayers that go unanswered. but for this one breath, in this broken room, sam’s alive beneath your hands. and you’re the one he called.

"I’m getting there, okay? It’s a process"

You huffed, but he wasn’t entirely wrong. Most of the shots were around the chest area, a couple near the shoulder. But the head of the target remained annoyingly untouched.

Which was exactly why Dean had insisted on “supervising”. According to him, he was “offering professional guidance”.

Dean let out a small amused breath, crossing his arms “You keep doing that thing again” He said.

You lowered the gun slightly, turning to look at him “What thing?”

“That little hesitation before you pull the trigger” He said “You tense your shoulder”

“I do not”

Dean gave you a look “You do”

You rolled your eyes “Okay, smartass, are you gonna help or just stand there making fun of me?”

Dean pushed himself off the wall “Oh, sweetheart” He smirked “I can multitask”

You snorted softly and positioned yourself again, lifting the gun.

Dean stepped next to you, one hand settling lightly against your lower back.

“First…” He murmured “Relax”

The touch sent a small wave of sparks up your spine that you hoped very much that didn’t show on your face.

Which was ridiculous.

This was Dean. Your friend. Your very annoying, smug, frustratingly attractive friend.

Meanwhile, Dean’s other hand moved to yours, adjusting your grip.

“Don’t choke the damn thing” He teased softly “Gun’s not gonna run away”

You sigh and nod, trying very hard to ignore how distracting it was having him this close.

His hand stayed at your back while he guided your stance slightly.

“Feet apart a little more” He instructed “That’s it”

You swallowed softly and hoped he didn’t notice.

“Now breathe”

You did.

“Good” Dean murmured near your ear “Take the shot”

You let out a small breath and pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit dead center.

You immediately brightened.

Dean let out a low, satisfied chuckle behind you “There she is” He said warmly “See? All you needed was my expert coaching”

Grinning, you turned your head to him.

And immediately realized just how close he still was.

And apparently he realized it at the exact same moment you did.

The usual teasing disappeared from his expression, replaced by something quieter, softer.

His eyes went briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes again. And God, that definitely didn’t help the weird little flip your stomach suddenly did.

You swallowed. The earlier teasing vanishing and the silence of the bunker suddenly felt heavier. Neither of you moved for a couple of seconds.

Then, the spell broke.

Dean cleared his throat softly and stepped back, suddenly very interested on the floor.

"Right. Uh... that was good, yeah. Good job" He muttered, his usual confidence replaced by a rare, endearing stutter "I’m gonna... I’m gonna go hit the kitchen for a beer. Or... or a sandwich. I’ll… I’ll make a sandwich. You want one?”

He didn't wait for an answer, already moving to the door.

But you didn't miss the small, dorky smile on the corner of his mouth as he disappeared through the door.

You stood there in the quiet of the bunker, your face heating up with a blush, unable to stop smiling either.

That gets his attention. He blinks, tilting his head as he finally meets your gaze. “A worm?”

“Yes,” you say seriously, fighting to keep a straight face. “Like, if I magically got turned into a worm. Would you still love me?”

Sam leans back in his chair, his arms crossing as he gives you a look that’s equal parts amused and incredulous. “How the hell do you even come up with this stuff?”

“Just answer the question,” you say, grinning now.

He sighs, but there’s a playful glint in his eye. “Okay, fine. Yes, I’d still love you. I’d carry you around in one of those little terrariums with fancy dirt. Maybe even give you a cute name, like Wiggles.”

You snort. “Wiggles? Really?”

“What? It’s fitting,” he says, shrugging with a smirk. “I’d keep you safe. Make sure no birds got to you. You’d be the happiest worm alive.”

You giggle, leaning your chin on your hand as you watch him. “That’s... surprisingly sweet.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Well, yeah. You’re my girl, worm or not.”

Your heart does a little flutter at that, but you school your expression into mock seriousness. “That’s very noble of you. Because if the roles were reversed, I definitely wouldn’t love you if you were a worm.”

His jaw drops, and he stares at you like you’ve just betrayed him. “What? Are you serious?”

“Worms are disgusting,” you say, wrinkling your nose.

“You literally just asked me to pledge eternal love to Worm-You!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up.

You shrug, biting back a laugh. “Yeah, but that’s different. I’d be a cute worm.”

Sam groans, leaning forward to rest his head on the table dramatically. “Unbelievable. This is the thanks I get for indulging your weird hypotheticals?”

Reaching across the table, you pat his hand, still laughing. “Come on, don’t take it personally. I’d totally make sure you had a nice patch of dirt to live in.”

He lifts his head just enough to glare at you, though the smile tugging at his lips ruins the effect. “You’re lucky I love you, even if you’d throw me to the birds.”

You grin. “What can I say? You’re a better person than I am.”

“Clearly,” he mutters, shaking his head as he tries—and fails—to hide his amusement.

You freeze. His tone is different—frantic, ragged, stripped of all that careful restraint he’s been clinging to. When you look back, he’s not standing tall, not hiding behind that wall of indifference. He’s slumped, fists slack at his sides, green eyes shining like he’s two seconds from breaking.

“I do love you,” he blurts, raw and trembling. “God, I love you so damn much I can’t—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair like he wants to tear it out. “But I don’t know how to do this anymore. Every time I look at you, I feel like I’m gonna lose you. Like one day I’ll blink, and you’ll be gone, and it’ll be my fault.”

Your chest aches. “Dean…”

He shakes his head, pacing a tight line, like the words are knives tearing him open. “You don’t get it. Everything I touch—I break. Dad, Sam, Cas, people who trusted me. And you—” His voice falters. He finally looks at you, and the sheer desperation in his eyes knocks the air out of you. “You’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’m scared. Scared if I hold on too tight, I’ll crush it. Scared if I let go, I’ll lose it anyway.”

The tears you’ve been holding back spill over. “Dean Winchester,” you whisper, stepping toward him. “You idiot. You think pulling away hurts less? You think shutting me out keeps me safe? All it does is kill me slowly.”

He flinches like you hit him. “I know,” he breathes, voice cracking. “I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

And then he breaks.

The fight drains out of him, and suddenly his arms are around you, pulling you in so tight you can hardly breathe. His face buries in your neck, and you feel the shudder of his chest, the way his breath hitches like he’s barely holding it together.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers again, muffled against your skin. “I don’t wanna lose you. I don’t wanna keep pushing you away, but I’m so damn scared of what happens when the world takes you from me.”

You clutch him back just as fiercely, fingers fisting in his shirt, grounding him. “Dean,” you murmur, pressing your lips to his temple, “you’re not gonna lose me. Not like this. Not when I’m right here, begging you to just see me. To let me love you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the vulnerability there nearly wrecks you. His cheeks are wet, his eyes red, but for once he’s not hiding. Not from you.

“You’re it for me,” he admits, voice shaking but sure. “You always have been. I don’t know how to love quiet, and when I tried, I almost lost you.”

Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the rough stubble of his jaw. “Then stop trying. Love me loud again.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then Dean leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in like you’re oxygen. His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, like you’re sacred, and then his mouth is on yours—soft, trembling, desperate.

It’s not the fiery kisses of before, not the careless passion you remember. This is different. Raw. Fragile. It’s Dean laying himself bare, saying all the words he can’t, pouring everything he has into the press of his lips against yours.

When he finally pulls back, his hands don’t leave you. He just holds you, like if he lets go the ground will disappear beneath him.

“You’re the most precious thing in my whole damn world,” he whispers hoarsely. “And I swear to you, I’m gonna start acting like it.”

Tears blur your vision, but you smile through them, resting your head against his chest. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And in the quiet, with his heartbeat under your ear and his arms locked around you, you finally feel like he’s back.

Dean Winchester, loving you loud.

The first time you notice it, you think maybe it’s the hunt. Stress, exhaustion, the endless weight he carries. But days stretch into weeks, and his distance solidifies into something heavier, something you can’t shake.

You try. God, you try.

New pajamas—lace, silk, even ridiculous ones just to make him laugh. Nothing works. His eyes slide past you, distracted, elsewhere. You curl against him on the couch one night, slipping your hand under his shirt, but he tenses like you’re interrupting a thought he doesn’t want to lose.

“Dean?” you whisper.

“Hm?” His gaze stays on the muted TV.

“Do you even see me anymore?”

That makes him look at you. But not with the intensity you crave, not with the fire he once burned you alive with. Just tired green eyes, searching for words he can’t find. He doesn’t answer.

He’s busy, always busy. Fixing the car, cleaning guns, pouring over lore. Work has swallowed him whole, and where you once fit between his ribcage and heartbeat, there’s just… nothing.

Nights are the worst. You lie awake listening to him shift beside you, restless, his breathing sharp like he’s dreaming of a life where you don’t exist. Sometimes you catch him staring at the ceiling, expression unreadable, and when you whisper his name, he only hums in response, like you’re background noise.

You start to feel invisible.

And it’s cruel, because you remember how he used to be. Dean Winchester, the man who once kissed you like he couldn’t breathe without you, now keeps his mouth shut, lips pressed thin as though love is a luxury he can’t afford.

The silence between you grows louder than arguments ever could.

You want to scream at him, demand answers, but the words catch in your throat. Because deep down, you already know: he’s slipping. Not away from life, not toward death, but away from you.

Where he’s going, God only knows.

One night, you try anyway.

He’s at the table, whiskey in hand, papers spread out in front of him. You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, heart thudding.

“Remember when you couldn’t keep your hands off me?” you say softly.

Dean doesn’t look up. He exhales slowly, runs a hand down his face. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” Your voice cracks. “Asking why the hell my boyfriend looks at me like I’m a stranger? Asking when you stopped loving me?”

That gets him. His head snaps up, eyes flashing—but not with anger. With guilt. With something worse.

“Don’t,” he says again, quieter this time.

You step closer. “Don’t what, Dean? Don’t notice that the man who used to be obsessed with me won’t even touch me now?”

He stands, chair scraping, and for a second you think he’ll close the distance, hold you, say something that stitches the crack in your chest. But he just shakes his head, jaw tight, like he’s holding himself back with chains you can’t see.

“I can’t,” he whispers.

The words land like a blade.

“You can’t, or you don’t want to?”

Dean swallows hard, fists clenching at his sides. “Does it matter?”

It does. It matters more than anything. But you don’t push, because you see the truth written all over him.

This man on willpower—on self-restraint, on walls so high you can’t climb them—he’s not the same one who loved you recklessly. That man’s gone, replaced by someone who doesn’t burn for you anymore.

You hear him before you see him. The creak of the motel door. The hesitant footsteps on gravel. You close your eyes because you already know what’s coming.

“I shouldn’t have said it like that,” Sam murmurs. His voice is low, careful, like he’s afraid of breaking you more than he already has.

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “It wouldn’t have mattered how you said it.”

He exhales sharply, like the truth of that cuts him. You finally turn to face him, and there’s something in his eyes that looks like regret, but it’s not enough. Not enough to fix this. Not enough to fix you.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” he says, raking a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into his voice. “I—I don’t even know when things started changing.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t know when you stopped loving me?”

Sam flinches like you just took a swing at him. “It’s not—God, it’s not that simple.”

“No, Sam,” you bite out, stepping closer, anger curling in your chest. “It is that simple. You either love someone, or you don’t.”

Silence stretches between you. A chasm. A wound too deep to ever really heal.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.

You let out a bitter laugh, tears pricking at your eyes. “Well, congratulations. You did.”

He looks away, jaw tight. And maybe it’s the way he won’t meet your eyes, or maybe it’s the exhaustion pressing down on your bones, but something inside you snaps.

“You could’ve just told me,” you say, voice rising. “You could’ve just been honest instead of letting me sit in the dark, wondering what the hell I did wrong.”

“I didn’t know how,” he admits, and there’s something desperate in the way he says it, like he’s searching for an excuse that doesn’t exist.

“You didn’t know how?” you repeat, incredulous. “You’re Sam freaking Winchester. You’ve faced down monsters, demons, literal hell, and you didn’t know how to be honest with me?”

He rubs a hand over his face, sighing. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

You shake your head, anger giving way to something heavier. Something more painful. “You lost me the second you stopped trying.”

That lands. You see it in the way his shoulders drop, in the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you but knows he shouldn’t.

“I did love you,” he says, and it’s the softest thing he’s said all night. “I still do. Just… not in the way you deserve.”

Your breath catches. Because there it is. The closure you didn’t know you needed. The words that settle like a stone in your chest. It’s not enough to make it hurt less. But it’s enough to make you let go.

You nod slowly, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “Thank you,” you whisper, and you mean it.

Sam looks at you then, really looks at you, like he’s memorizing this moment. Like he knows this is the last time he’ll ever have you this close.

You take a step back, and then another. Because if you don’t leave now, you never will.

“Goodbye, Sam.”

You turn before he can respond. Before he can say anything that might make you stay. And this time, when you walk away, you don’t look back.

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You tell yourself it’s just the stress. That the hunts are weighing on him, that maybe he’s tired, distracted. But then he stops reaching for your hand when you walk beside him. Stops looking at you like you put the stars in the sky.

And that’s when you know.

One night, in some nowhere motel, you sit on the edge of the bed, picking at the frayed hem of your sleeve. Sam is standing by the window, staring at nothing. You swallow, trying to push down the ache in your throat.

"Sam."

He flinches, like he already knows what you’re about to say.

"Do you still love me?"

The room holds its breath.

Sam closes his eyes, his shoulders sagging, like you just asked him the hardest question in the world. And maybe you did.

"I don’t know."

And that—that’s the moment your heart breaks.

Not because he yelled. Not because he fought it. But because he didn’t. Because he’s already let go.

You nod, even though you feel like you might shatter if you move too fast. "Okay."

Sam turns to you then, guilt written all over his face. His lips part, like he wants to take it back, like he wants to fix this—but you both know he can’t.

You stand up. Your legs are shaking, but you stand anyway. "I think I already knew," you admit, voice barely above a whisper. "I just needed to hear you say it."

And Sam—Sam looks like he wants to say so much. Like he wants to apologize, to explain, to promise you something that wouldn’t be true. But he doesn’t. Because Sam Winchester has never been a liar.

So he just nods.

And you walk away.

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You’ve spent the day in the kitchen, putting together a little birthday surprise for Captain America, but it takes longer than you expect. So by the time you’ve cleaned up and put on your pretty party dress, you’re later than you wanted to be. It takes some searching before you find Steve drinking alone in a dark corner of the bar. 

For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a mistake. Maybe Steve wants to be left alone on his birthday and that’s why he didn’t tell anyone. The only reason you know about it is because you’ve studied the files of all the Avengers—and, let’s be honest, paid far more attention to Steve’s than any other.

But then those soulful blue eyes raise and meet yours, and you see a sadness so deep, it nearly cracks your heart in two. You’re so overcome with sympathy for the man out of time that it takes you a moment before you realize he’s seen you, and that means there’s no way you can back out of your plan now. 

So you walk forward, your hands tucked behind your back, keeping your surprise a secret.

“Hi, cap,” you greet him cheerily, watching as he gives you a friendly enough nod. It’s not the warm welcome you’d hoped for, but you can’t begrudge him much.

“Hey, happy fourth,” he says before taking another sip of his beer, the hard Asgardian stuff Thor brought from his home realm. When it doesn’t seem like Steve’s going to say anything more, you take a fortifying breath and pull your hands from behind your back.

“Happy birthday!” you say, holding up an extra large cupcake with frosting and an unlit candle sticking out of it. You didn’t know what flavor Steve liked, so you went with chocolate, vanilla frosting and red, white and blue sprinkles. 

For a moment, Steve just stares at the cupcake in your hands and you wonder again if you’ve made a mistake. The silence drags on, and you have to move so the awkwardness doesn’t swallow you whole. Setting the cupcake on the bar, you pull a lighter from the pocket of your dress.

“I know everyone’s busy celebrating the fourth, but I didn’t want you to think we all forgot about you,” you babble, lighting the candle in the cupcake. “Well, Tony may have, but I didn’t.” You raise your gaze to the super-soldier’s face, giving him a hesitant smile. “I hope you like chocolate.”

Steve stares at you for a long, long moment—so long, it takes all your SHIELD training to stop from squirming under the intensity in his blue eyes. Then the bottle of beer he’d been holding thunks down on the bar and Steve’s arms are wrapping around you, pulling you into his chest while he buries his face in your neck. 

Your arms wind around his broad shoulders on instinct, your fingers sliding against the muscles that are tense beneath the soft cotton of his blue button-up shirt. You knead softly against his bunched-up muscles until he lets out a shuddering exhale and begins to relax into the hug.

The super-soldier’s big body is hunched over yours, and he’s crushing you slightly against his chest, but you hug Steve right back, knowing somehow that he needs this little bit of physical connection. You tuck your face into Steve’s neck, murmuring soft sounds of comfort as you squeeze him tight. 

Steve holds you for so long that your hands grow bolder, your fingers sinking into the soft blond hair at the back of his head. You card your fingers through his hair, raking your nails lightly against his skin until he’s shuddering in your arms and holding onto you even tighter, like you’re the lifeline he desperately needs.

It’s a long time before the big man pulls away, and you’re almost sorry he does, missing the strong bands of his arms around your back, and the steady thrum of his heart against your chest. You swallow down the emotions forming a lump in your throat and watch as the super-soldier mumbles an apology for grabbing you like that.

At first, Steve won’t meet your eye, but when he does, you give him a lopsided smile. “Everyone gets a birthday hug,” you tell him, hoping the nonsensical words will make him feel better. Thankfully, they seem to, and Steve’s shoulders lower from where they’d bunched up around his ears.

The two of you stare at each other for a beat longer than normal, and your smile hitches higher when you see his expression looks lighter than it did when you’d approached. You both look away at the same moment, your eyes finding the cupcake still sitting on the bar. 

The candle has nearly burned down to the frosting and Steve pauses a moment before quickly blowing it out. You clap your hands, the sound almost drowned out by the party still going on in Avengers Tower.

“I hope you made a good wish,” you say, just to fill the muted silence between you two, and rush to continue. “But don’t tell me what it is, or else it won’t come true.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth flickers in a smile. “I think this one will,” he says, his hand finding yours and twining your fingers together. You glance down at your joined hands before his blue eyes capture your attention and his mouth curves into a bigger smile. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze.

“Anytime,” you try to say blithely, but your voice is a little too breathless for you to sound as casual as you want. Tension snaps and crackles in the space between you and Steve. Instinctively, you lean closer to him, spontaneously deciding to press a kiss to his cheek. “Happy birthday, cap,” you murmur, lingering close to him, breathing in the masculine scent of him.

“C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get out of here,” Steve rumbles, grabbing the cupcake off the bar and towing you away from the party by your clasped hands. 

The two of you ride the elevator down to the kitchen, where you find some forks and share the extra-large cupcake together. Steve looks happier than he did at the party as the two of you talk and get to know each other better, his smiles coming more easily as you become more comfortable together. 

You have no way of knowning that you’re making Steve’s birthday wish come true, just by becoming his friend. And you also have no way of knowing that the two of you will become much more than friends. But what you do know is that you’ll never forget Steve Rogers’ birthday, and you’ll do everything you can to make it special every year you’re together.

thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

Because Dean is onto him.

Dean is so onto him.

It starts subtle. Too subtle, considering who they’re dealing with. But still, Sam clocks it immediately—the way Dean keeps looking at him, eyes narrowed, the way he seems hyper-aware of every single movement Sam makes.

Then there are the other things. Like how Dean’s barely touched his pancakes, which, for him, is the equivalent of a full-blown existential crisis. Or the fact that he hasn’t been teasing Sam about his ‘nerd books’ for a full twenty minutes. And worst of all? The way his gaze keeps flicking between Sam and you like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle with half the edges missing.

And yeah, Sam isn’t exactly subtle, either. He’s trying, really, but every time he catches your eye, something warm blooms in his chest, and he knows he’s smiling like an idiot, and damn it, he’s supposed to be better at this.

But then you nudge his knee under the table. Just a small touch, nothing anyone else would notice. But Dean isn’t anyone else.

Dean’s fork drops to his plate with a clang.

Both of you freeze.

Dean leans back in the booth, arms crossed, brows raised. "Alright, I’ll bite. What the hell is going on?"

Your eyes flick to Sam, lips parting slightly like you’re debating how to play this. Sam, meanwhile, is contemplating just getting up and running. He’s fast. He could make it.

Dean’s eyes narrow further. "And don’t even think about lying to me, Sammy. I will find out."

You, being the absolute menace that you are, grin and say, "Wow, paranoid much?"

Dean doesn’t budge. "I know that look. I invented that look."

"What look?" you ask, all innocence, sipping your coffee like you don’t have a single sin to your name. Which is rich, considering the events of last night.

"The you-just-got-laid look," Dean deadpans.

Sam chokes on his coffee. You slap a hand over your mouth, eyes wide, shoulders shaking like you’re barely holding in laughter.

Dean, meanwhile, looks deeply unimpressed.

"Dean," Sam mutters, face heating. "Can you not say things like that in public?"

"So, you did get laid?" Dean demands, smacking his palm against the table.

"I didn’t—we didn’t—that’s not—" Sam groans, dragging a hand down his face, because Jesus Christ, he’s being interrogated in a diner over eggs and toast.

Dean turns his attention to you now, eyes narrowing further. "And you, missy. You got way too much energy this morning. You never have energy before noon."

You shrug. "Guess I just slept really well."

Sam shoots you a look. You are going to get him killed.

Dean’s eyes narrow to slits.

"No. No way. Nope. Absolutely not," he declares, shaking his head like a man in denial. "Tell me you two didn’t—"

Silence.

Sam shifts awkwardly. You raise your brows. Neither of you say a word.

"SON OF A BITCH," Dean groans, dropping his head onto the table with a loud thunk.

"Technically, it’s your fault," you say cheerfully, reaching for the syrup.

Dean lifts his head just enough to glare at you. "How in God’s name is this my fault?"

You grin. "You kept making it a thing. And the more you told us not to, the more appealing it became. Classic reverse psychology."

Dean looks like he’s aged a decade in the last thirty seconds. "You cannot tell me this is happening. Tell me this isn’t happening."

"I mean—" you start.

"Nope," Dean interrupts, holding up a hand. "You know what? I don’t wanna know. I refuse to know. I am removing myself from this entire situation."

"I think that’s for the best," Sam says, sipping his coffee, because if he has to endure this, he’s at least going to enjoy it a little.

Dean groans again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is my nightmare. My actual nightmare. My best friend and my baby brother—God, I think I’m gonna be sick."

You pat his arm sympathetically. "It’s okay, Dean. We’ll be discreet."

Dean glares at you. "You just screwed my brother in a motel room with me in it. Discreet my ass."

Sam groans. "Can we not—"

Dean slams his hands on the table. "New rule! No touching in front of me! No looks, no secret knee nudges, no gross heart-eyes bullshit! And if I hear one sound out of your room at night, I swear to God—"

"Alright, alright, we got it," you say, laughing now. "No PDA in front of Dean."

"Damn right," Dean mutters, stabbing his pancakes with newfound aggression. "You kids are gonna be the death of me."

You exchange a glance with Sam—one that, unfortunately for Dean, is absolutely heart-eyes bullshit. But for now, you let him have his moment, hiding your smile behind your coffee cup.

Because, yeah. Maybe Dean is going to have a stroke over this.

But you and Sam?

Totally, completely worth it.

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The three of you hole up in another motel after a long drive, Dean calling dibs on the bed closest to the door before promptly passing out—leaving you and Sam alone.

Again.

The tension from the night before hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it’s worse.

You’re on your bed, scrolling through your phone, pretending not to notice the way Sam keeps sneaking glances at you from where he’s sitting in the motel chair.

But you do notice.

Because, after a minute, you set your phone down and tilt your head, looking right at him.

“Are we gonna talk about it?” you ask, voice soft.

Sam stiffens. “Talk about what?”

You give him a look. “You know what.”

His jaw clenches.

Because, yeah. He does know.

The way you almost kissed. The way you wanted to. The way you still do.

Sam exhales, raking a hand through his hair. “We probably shouldn’t.”

You hum, considering. “Maybe not.”

And then—

You slip out of bed, padding toward him, slow and deliberate.

And Sam? He stops breathing.

Because you’re close now, standing between his knees, looking down at him with something dangerous in your eyes.

And suddenly, God help him, Sam knows exactly where this is going.

“You can still stop this,” you murmur, fingers brushing up the side of his neck, barely there, making his skin burn.

Sam swallows hard, eyes flicking to your lips. “I don’t want to.”

That’s all it takes.

You’re on him in an instant, straddling his lap, hands in his hair, kissing him like you’ve been dying for it.

And Sam? He loses it.

A low growl rumbles in his chest as he grabs your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your mouth is hot and desperate against his, lips parting for him so easily, like you’ve been waiting for this—

And he’s gone.

His hands roam, fingers digging into your hips, sliding beneath your shirt, feeling the heat of your skin. You sigh into his mouth, rolling your hips down, and fuck, he’s already hard, already aching for more.

“Shit,” he mutters, dragging his lips down your jaw, along the curve of your throat. You shudder, fingers tightening in his hair.

“Sam,” you whisper, breathless. “Want you.”

That’s all it takes.

He stands, lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he walks you back toward the bed.

Dean is right there, dead asleep a few feet away.

It should make you stop.

It doesn’t.

Because the second your back hits the mattress, Sam is on you, kissing you like he’s making up for every second he wasted not doing this.

You tug at his shirt, impatient, and he helps you, yanking it over his head before doing the same to yours, leaving you in just your bra.

His breath catches.

Because, fuck, you’re gorgeous.

You bite your lip, watching his reaction, and that’s it. He’s done for.

His mouth finds yours again, and then he’s kissing his way down, down, down—nipping at your collarbone, sucking a mark into the soft skin just above your bra strap. You arch into him, fingers trailing down his back, nails digging in just enough to make him groan.

He reaches behind you, unclasping your bra in one smooth motion, tossing it aside.

“Jesus,” he breathes, looking down at you like you’re something holy.

And then his mouth is on you, lips wrapping around one peaked nipple, tongue flicking in slow, teasing strokes.

You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair.

“Sam—”

He hums, switching to the other side, his hand slipping between your legs, finding you soaked through your panties.

He groans against your skin. “Fuck, sweetheart. Been like this all night?”

You whimper as he presses his fingers against you, teasing. “Sam, please—”

“Shh,” he soothes, kissing down your stomach as he hooks his fingers in your panties, dragging them down your legs.

And then he’s there, settling between your thighs, looking at you like he’s never seen anything so perfect.

“Gonna make you feel good,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Been wanting to taste you for so long.”

You let out a broken sound as his mouth finally meets you, hot and devouring.

And Sam?

Sam smirks against you—

Sam doesn’t just eat you out—he devours you, slow and thorough, like he’s been waiting for this for years.

His tongue moves with purpose, flicking over your clit in soft, teasing strokes before dipping lower, tasting everything you have to offer. And fuck, he’s good—so good it’s almost unfair.

You clamp a hand over your mouth, back arching, trying so hard to keep quiet, but Sam notices. He glances up at you through thick lashes, eyes dark and knowing, and then—

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and ruined. “Let me hear you.”

You whimper—a high, broken sound that makes Sam groan against you, the vibrations shooting straight through your core. His hands grip your thighs tighter, holding you open as he drags his tongue through your slick folds, slow and filthy, before sucking your clit between his lips.

You shake, breath stuttering, eyes rolling back because it’s too much—his tongue, his mouth, the obscene sounds of him lapping you up like he needs it.

And then—fuck—he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right, pressing against that spot that makes you see stars.

You bite your lip hard, trying so damn hard to stay quiet because Jesus Christ, Dean is right there.

But Sam is ruthless.

He pumps his fingers deep, his tongue never relenting, his pace building faster, harder—

And then you’re gone.

Your orgasm crashes over you in hot, blinding waves, your body tensing, thighs trembling as you fall apart beneath him.

Sam groans like he feels it, like your pleasure is his own, and he doesn’t stop—licking, sucking, drinking you in until you’re shaking, whimpering, too sensitive.

Only then does he finally pull away, breathless, chin glistening, eyes dark with hunger.

You barely have time to recover before he’s on you again, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing damp hair from your face.

You nod, still dazed, still trying to catch up. “More than okay.”

His lips curl into a smirk. “Good.”

Because then he’s shoving his jeans down, thick and aching for you, and you see it—the way his breath hitches, his jaw clenches, the way he needs you just as much as you need him.

But then—

A loud snore from the other bed.

Dean.

And suddenly, you remember—

You’re in a tiny-ass motel room, and Dean is barely a few feet away, dead asleep.

Sam exhales sharply, pressing his forehead against yours, shaking with restraint.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “We’re already pushing our luck.”

And he’s right.

You stare at him for a long second—both of you still breathless, still needy—before your eyes flick toward the bathroom.

Sam follows your gaze, and just like that, he gets it.

Without a word, he scoops you up again, making you squeak as he practically stumbles toward the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him before locking it.

The second you’re inside, you pounce—crashing into him, kissing him hard, desperate, hands roaming, grabbing, needing.

“Shower?” Sam rasps against your lips.

You nod, fumbling for the faucet, barely managing to turn it on before Sam spins you, pressing you against the cold tile as hot steam begins to fill the room.

Then he’s lifting you again, pinning you against the wall, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Fuck,” he groans, lining himself up, the thick head of his cock teasing your entrance.

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Sam, please—”

And then—

He thrusts.

And God help you, you shatter.

⋆.˚ ★— read part 5

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After the library incident, things don’t go back to normal. Not even close.

You start teasing him. Subtly at first—little things, little touches. Fingertips ghosting over his arm when you pass by, leaning just a bit too close when you’re both hunched over a lore book. Casual, innocent things that shouldn’t mean anything.

But they do.

And then there are the other things. The way you call him Sammy now, softer than when Dean says it. The way your voice drops when you’re alone, like it’s meant just for him. The way you bite your lip when he catches you looking at him, like you want him to do something about it.

And he’s trying—really trying—to be the responsible one. To listen to Dean. To not cross a line that can’t be uncrossed.

But then, one night, you push him too far.

It’s after a hunt, back at the motel.

Dean’s passed out on his bed, boots still on, snoring like he hasn’t slept in years. You and Sam are the only ones still awake, sitting at the tiny motel table, the dim glow of the lamp casting everything in soft gold.

You stretch, arms above your head, and Sam has to force himself not to stare at the sliver of skin that peeks out beneath your shirt.

“You’re staring,” you say, amused.

Sam huffs, looking back at his laptop. “No, I’m not.”

You grin. “Liar.”

He shakes his head, typing some nonsense into the search bar just to look busy. “You’re ridiculous.”

You prop your chin on your hand, watching him. “You like it.”

Sam swallows. He doesn’t answer.

Because the truth is? He does. He likes this game, as frustrating as it is.

But he also knows he’s going to lose.

Because the way you’re looking at him now? It’s not teasing. It’s not just a game anymore.

It’s real.

“You know,” you say softly, voice dipping into something that makes his skin prickle, “Dean can’t tell us what to do.”

Sam clenches his jaw. “He’s got a point, though.”

You hum, considering. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just being overprotective.”

“Maybe he’s right,” Sam counters. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

You tilt your head. “Do you want it to be a bad idea?”

Sam’s pulse jumps. He opens his mouth—then closes it, because, God, he doesn’t know how to answer that.

Because the truth is? He doesn’t want it to be a bad idea. He doesn’t want to pretend he doesn’t want you.

And he sure as hell doesn’t want you looking at him like this and thinking he doesn’t want you back.

You shift, moving closer, dropping your voice to something barely above a whisper.

“If you really don’t want this,” you murmur, “just say the word.”

It’s a challenge. A test. A line in the sand.

And Sam?

Sam doesn’t say a damn thing.

Because he can’t. Because you’re close enough that he can see the way your lashes flutter, close enough that he can smell your perfume, close enough that if he just leaned in—

His breath hitches.

Your lips just barely graze his.

And then—

A loud snore comes from the other side of the room.

You both freeze.

Dean shifts on his bed, mumbling something incoherent before rolling over, still completely asleep.

And just like that, the moment is broken.

You pull back, blinking, looking almost dazed. Sam lets out a shaky breath, running a hand over his face, because holy shit—

You almost kissed.

You almost kissed.

And from the way you’re staring at him, lips parted, pupils blown wide, you know it, too.

There’s a long beat of silence before you exhale, a little shaky.

“Well,” you murmur, voice slightly breathless, “that was close.”

Sam swallows hard. “Yeah.”

You study him for a second, then smile—slow and knowing. Like you’ve just realized something important.

“Guess I should go to bed,” you say, standing, stretching. But before you go, you pause, fingers brushing over his where they rest on the table.

It’s the softest touch. Barely there. But Sam feels it like a brand.

You don’t say anything else. Just give him one last look—one that makes his stomach twist—before slipping into bed.

Sam doesn’t move for a long time.

Because he knows—

This is only the beginning.

⋆.˚ ★— read part 4

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Dean, of course, is not amused.

“Oh, come on,” you say, leaning against the library table like you have all the time in the world. “It’s just a little crush. No big deal.”

Dean scoffs. “No big deal? No big deal?” He points at Sam like he’s caught him committing some kind of crime. “It’s a huge deal.”

Sam exhales sharply. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, as evenly as possible. “We work together. We hunt together. We don’t need to—”

You arch a brow. “Explore it?”

Sam groans. You’re doing this on purpose.

Dean rubs a hand over his face. “Oh my God, I hate this.”

You just grin. “I don’t see the problem here.”

Dean gapes at you. “The problem? The problem? You, sweetheart, are my best friend. You know, the one who moves into my motel room every time we’re in the same town? The one who borrowed my flannel and never gave it back?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “That flannel looks better on me.”

“That’s not the point!” Dean groans, looking heavenward like he’s asking for patience. “You’re my best friend, and Sam’s my brother. Do you know how messy that is?”

You hum, pretending to think about it. “I mean… maybe. But not necessarily.”

Dean lets out a strangled sound. “Not necessarily?”

Sam sighs. “Dean—”

“No. No, no, no. You do not get to stand there and look all tall and broody like some damn romance novel hero.” He points a finger at you next. “And you do not get to encourage it.”

You smile sweetly. “Encourage what?”

Dean stares at you, incredulous. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the way you’re looking at him?”

Sam stiffens. Because, yeah. You are looking at him. Differently. Curiously. Like you’re actually considering this now.

And that? That is dangerous.

Dean sighs dramatically. “Look, I just—I know you. Both of you. You’ll think this is cute for two seconds, and then you’ll remember you’re both emotionally constipated and don’t do feelings well. And then it’ll be weird. And guess who gets stuck in the middle when it all falls apart?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please. You are so dramatic.”

Dean glares. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You open your mouth, then hesitate.

And Sam? He tries really, really hard not to be offended by that.

You turn to him instead, a slow smirk creeping across your lips. “You know… I never really thought about it before.”

Oh, no.

Sam already knows this is going somewhere dangerous.

But he can’t look away, can’t move, can’t breathe as you lean just a little closer, tapping a manicured nail against your lower lip.

“Sammy is kinda cute,” you muse, tilting your head like you’re examining a puzzle. “Tall. Built. He’s got that whole soft-but-secretly-deadly thing going for him. It’s kinda hot.”

Dean makes a gagging noise. “Nope. Nope, I am shutting this down right now.”

Sam swallows hard. He should say something. Stop this. Keep it from spiraling.

But then you grin, all mischief and slow-burning heat, and it’s like every reasonable thought he’s ever had just evaporates.

“What do you think, Winchester?” you murmur, voice softer now, like it’s just the two of you in the room.

Sam’s pulse jumps. His mouth is dry. This is not what was supposed to happen.

But the way you’re looking at him? Like you want him to take the bait, like you’re waiting for him to cross that line?

It’s undoing him, piece by piece.

And suddenly, for the first time, he’s wondering what would happen if he just… let himself have this.

His voice comes out rough, unsteady. “Think I might be in trouble.”

Your smirk deepens, a little victorious.

“Yeah,” you say, eyes flicking down to his lips before meeting his gaze again. “I think you are.”

⋆.˚ ★— read part 3

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Sam tells himself it’s nothing. Just a harmless crush. He can ignore it.

Except then you start getting too comfortable with him.

Like now.

“You are so tall,” you huff, standing on your tiptoes, struggling to reach a book on the highest shelf of the bunker’s library.

Sam watches from his chair, amused. “You could just ask for help.”

“No, I’m independent.” You make a dramatic grab for the book, nearly toppling over in the process. “I can totally—”

Sam sighs, standing up and easily plucking the book from the shelf. He hands it to you with a smirk. “You were saying?”

You snatch it from his hands with a pout. “I had it.”

“Sure you did.”

Dean walks in just in time to witness the exchange. His eyes narrow immediately. “Oh, hell no.”

You blink. “What?”

Dean points a warning finger between you and Sam. “I know that look. That’s the look Sammy gets when he starts thinking things.”

Sam scoffs. “I don’t have a look.”

“Yes, you do,” Dean argues. “It’s the I’m totally falling for my brother’s best friend look.”

Your mouth falls open. “Wait, what?”

Sam’s face heats. “I—no. That’s not—”

“Oh my God,” you breathe, eyes going wide. “Are you into me?”

Dean groans. “Son of a bitch.”

Sam rubs a hand over his face, knowing there’s no easy way out of this. He’s always been awful at hiding his emotions, and now that you’re staring at him like he just admitted some huge secret, there’s really no use denying it.

You grin. Grin. Like this is the most amusing thing in the world. “Sammy, do you have a crush on me?”

Dean looks pained. “Please, don’t say it like that.”

Sam exhales sharply. “Maybe. A little. But it’s not a big deal—”

“It’s a huge deal,” Dean cuts in. “Because you’re off-limits, sweetheart. My best friend. My very girly, very high-maintenance best friend.”

You roll your eyes. “I am not high-maintenance.”

“You bring two separate curling irons to hunts.”

“So?”

Dean throws his hands up. “So, you and Sam? Not happening.”

But the way you’re looking at Sam now—considering, interested—makes Sam think maybe, just maybe, you’re not entirely opposed to the idea.

And judging by the way his heart is racing, he knows he’s in so much trouble.

⋆.˚ ★— read part 2

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“…Cas?”

“Yes?” He doesn’t look at you. Not once. His gaze is pinned to the screen like it might shift planes without permission.

You blink. “You good?”

“I do not understand this movie,” he says evenly. “But I like watching it with you.”

Your heart pulls a little tight. God, he’s adorable.

The movie is some light-hearted romcom—you know, the kind with too many pastel kitchen scenes and a ridiculous third-act breakup that makes you want to scream at the TV. But he’s been laser-focused the entire time, flinching when the characters yell, leaning forward when they flirt. And when the lead actress slipped on a cupcake earlier? He gasped. Audibly.

You smile and turn back around, a little warmer than you were a second ago.

Half an hour later, the big kiss finally happens. The music swells. Someone runs through the rain. The couple embraces in a way that’s honestly more cheesy than romantic, but it still makes you grin.

Next to you, Castiel sits so still he could be carved from marble.

And then—very softly: “Is that what you want?”

You blink. “What?”

He finally turns to you, and it’s like he’s been holding the question inside him the whole movie. “Should I… do that?” he asks. “Now?”

You sit up a little, heart flipping. “Cas…”

He’s still holding the popcorn. Like he forgot to let go.

“I don’t understand human courtship rituals,” he says, a little apologetic. “But I think I want to. Especially with you.”

You swallow. “You want to kiss me?”

“Yes,” he says plainly. “But not because the movie told me to. Because you make me feel strange.”

“…Strange?”

He nods. “In a way I enjoy.”

Oh.

You bite your lip, heart full and soft and breaking just a little under the weight of him. “Well. For the record—I do want that. A kiss. With you.”

Castiel sets the popcorn down very carefully. Like it might combust.

Then he leans in—tentative, cautious, eyes flickering between your mouth and your eyes like he’s making sure you’re still okay. And when he kisses you, it’s a little clumsy, just lips brushing lips, uncertain and so careful. But it’s also sweet. Honest. Safe.

When he pulls back, his expression is unreadable for a second. Then—he smiles. Just barely. But it’s real.

“That was…” He seems to search for the word. “…Satisfying.”

You laugh. Loud and unfiltered and way too in love to hide it. “It gets better with practice.”

Castiel tilts his head. “Then we should practice. Extensively.”

The popcorn bag crinkles softly between you as he shifts closer.

You nod. “Yes. Scientific method and all that.”

He kisses you again, and this time he’s smiling into it.

Sam had frozen mid-page flip, blinking at you like you’d just told him he’d won the lottery. "Pointy?"

You shrugged, smirking at the faint pink tint spreading across his cheeks. "Yeah. Like, sharp enough to make you look all stoic and serious, but cute enough to nuzzle into someone’s neck."

He’d raised an eyebrow, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "Not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment."

"Oh, it’s definitely a compliment," you’d teased, tapping the tip of his nose.

Since then, it was like he’d taken the comment to heart in the most unexpected ways.

The first time you noticed it was a few nights later. Sam had pulled you into his arms while you were cooking dinner, his nose brushing against the crook of your neck. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

"Sam, what are you doing?"

"Just testing out the whole 'nuzzle thing' you seem so fond of," he murmured, his lips curving into a soft smile against your skin.

From then on, it became a habit. Whether it was a lazy Sunday morning in bed, the two of you tangled in the sheets, or a quiet moment on the couch, Sam found every excuse to nuzzle you. He’d press soft kisses along your jawline, his nose brushing against your cheek as he whispered things that made your heart flutter.

And when things got more intimate, that "pointy nose" of his became something you anticipated as much as his hands and lips. The way he’d trail it down your neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake, or the way he’d tilt your chin up, nudging you with it before capturing your lips with his own.

"I think you’re obsessed," you teased one night, breathless as he nuzzled into the space just below your ear.

"Maybe," Sam murmured, his voice low and warm. "But you’re the one who started it."

You couldn’t argue with that—not when his pointy nose felt like heaven.

And yet, you were untouched by a part of life that Dean had lost long ago.

The day he discovered you were still a virgin, he thought it was a joke.

The conversation had started completely by accident. He’d made a passing joke about a waitress at the diner you’d visited earlier, expecting you to roll your eyes, shoot back some witty response, or simply telling him to shut up. Instead, you’d just brushed it off, completely detached from the subject. One thing led to another, Dean pushed a little further, and then the bomb dropped.

“Wait, you haven’t…?” Dean asked, his eyebrows furrowing as he stared at you.

"Nope" You shrugged slightly.

"Not even..." He gestured vaguely in the air, his voice dropping to a bewildered tone "Like... anything? At all?"

“Nothing at all” You said easily, like it was simply a fact about you rather than something to be awkward about.

That didn’t make sense to him. You were smart, beautiful and confident, there’s no way you hadn’t gotten opportunities to do ot.

"What, is it like... a religious thing or something like that?" He asked, genuinely trying to understand.

But you had just set your jacket down and looked at him dead in the eye with a calm, sure smile.

"It's just my choice, Dean" You explained simply "I never wanted to do it for the sake of doing it"

Dean frowned “What does that even mean?”

You considered the question for a moment.

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve never been interested in treating it casually” You shrugged “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with people who do. It’s just not for me” You said “I want to feel a real connection first”

To Dean, that concept was entirely foreign. For him, sex had always been an escape; a temporary, uncomplicated distraction from the weight of his life. A few hours of pleasure in a nameless town with a nameless face to forget the monsters.

Meeting someone who viewed it as something special, something to be protected and chosen instead of freely given, caught him completely off guard.

You knew exactly what was out there. You hunted the same monsters he did. Still, despite all of that, you’d decided what mattered to you and refused to compromise it.

And he had found himself inexplicably attracted to the certainty of it. To how you knew exactly what you wanted and refused to settle for less.

Over the next few days, Dean couldn't stop observing you. He started noticing the little things he’d overlooked before, like the way you tied your hair up when you were working on something and wanted to focus. The meticulous way you cleaned your weapons, moving your hands with a gentle precision that contrasted with the sharpness of the blade. And your genuine and unsuppressed laugh that always seemed to echo in the Impala, making him smile without even realizing it.

It wasn't just the physical things, though. It was the way you moved through the world. You didn’t seem particularly concerned with proving yourself to anyone. If Dean teased you, you gave it right back. If you disagreed with him, you said so. If you made a mistake, you owned it and moved on.

There was something strangely refreshing about that. You seemed comfortable being exactly who you were. And maybe that was part of what kept drawing his attention back to you.

One night, at a diner, a waitress with a flirtatious smile and an obvious interest in Dean, leaned a little too close as she refilled his coffee. Her voice was sweet, her eyes on him, offering the quick and easy invitation he’d notmally say 'yes' to. A month ago, he wouldn't have even hesitated. But as he looked at her, he thought of how empty that kind of 'yes' really was.

He didn't offer a wink or a lingering look. Instead, he glanced over at you, sitting across the booth with Sam as you scrolled through lore on his laptop. You were focused on the work, unbothered by the situation in front of you.

The thrill of the waitress was gone, replaced by an unexpected clarity. He didn't want the easy distraction; he wanted the kind of connection that felt like yours. Something that wasn't for everyone, something that actually mattered.

Days kept passing, and more than he’d ever admit it out loud, he kept thinking about your words, unable to shake them away.

Finding someone you actually feel a connection with.

Before you, Dean had never really thought about whether he deserved the women he slept with. It had never mattered. They wanted him. He wanted them. End of story.

But you had accidentally triggered his own thoughts.

Now he found himself wondering if he was the kind of man someone like you would choose.

The answer came fast.

Not him.

Not because he didn’t want it, but because he’d never really learned how to offer anything like that. His life didn’t leave room for slow things. For steady things. For something that lasted longer than a motel stay.

He found himself lying down on motel room beds at night, staring at the ceiling while Sam snore in the bed next to his, and wondering what kind of guy would be enough to make you chooe him.

It certainly wouldn't be some random guy in a bar. It would have to be someone who really saw you. Someone dependable. Someone who earned that trust piece by piece, who didn't just want a quick distraction but wanted you. All of you.

Who would be good enough for that? He thought, a heavy feeling settling on his chest.

You were looking for something real. And Dean wasn’t sure what he had to offer besides motel rooms, loaded guns, and an expiration date ticking in the back of his mind.

You deserved a guy who could offer you calmness, safety and depth. You wanted months. Trust. Connection. Time. And with his pending deal, time was the one thing he didn’t have.

The thought left a strange, bitter taste in his mouth.

Without fully realizing it, Dean started seeking you out just to be near you. Not in any dramatic way, just small, unconscious shifts.

When you were researching at some local library, he’d get in the chair right next to yours instead of sitting across the table, his shoulder would gently brush yours as he pretended to read a lore book. When you were riding in the Impala, he found himself offering you the passenger seat, keeping the volume of the radio just a little bit lower than usual, hoping you'd start talking. And when you sat in the backseat, he would constantly check the rearview mirror, just to catch your eye and exchange a small smile. When he brought back coffee, he’d always hand you yours exactly how you liked it, lingering for a second just to catch your grateful smile. Being close to you grounded him, it quieted the hellhound clock of the deal in his head.

One evening, while Sam tried to figure out the map and Dean was sitting on the hood of the Impala, he watched you, a small smile on his face.

A few feet away, you were focused on a stary dog that had wandered over to you. You were speaking to it gently and feeding it pieces of your leftover jerky, laughing softly when it licked your fingers.

And Dean finally had a moment of clarity.

He was incredibly attracted to you. Not just physically —tho God knew he was— but he was completely drawn to who you were. He respected the hell out of your boundaries, and through you, he was learning that wanting someone and wanting to sleep with them weren’t necessarily the same thing, that intimacy could mean something completely different than what he’d always believed. And now, Dean found himself wanting something much, much deeper than a quick distraction. It was a terrifying realization; that he didn't just want to sleep with you, he wanted to be near you for as long as he had left.