ִ ࣪𖤐

turns out i am not built different. the sun does burn.

your nose was pink for three days.

you were very brave about it, which means you complained exactly enough to make dean laugh and then hid behind your lemonade whenever i offered to get aloe. i kept offering anyway. not because i thought you couldn’t handle it. you could handle a lot. more than people gave you credit for. but you had this way of pretending practical care didn’t matter while quietly melting when someone remembered.

so i remembered.

that whole summer started quieter than i expected. you were shy at first, kind of withdrawn, with your glasses sliding down your nose and your graphic tee half-tucked into your shorts because you’d clearly done it by accident and then decided to live with it. you were short enough that dean made one joke about losing you in a crowd, and you gave him such a flat look over your frames that he actually backed off.

for ten minutes. a personal record.

you seemed careful with yourself then. not cold. never that. just selective. like your real personality was something people had to prove they wouldn’t mishandle. i understood that more than i said. maybe that’s why i didn’t push. i just made room for you at the table, slid books your way when you looked interested, and pretended not to notice when you read over my shoulder.

that was when i started seeing more of you.

the town was one of those sleepy seaside places that looked harmless until you checked the missing persons reports. faded signs. boardwalk shops. a motel pool nobody trusted. one tiny aquarium near the pier with a jellyfish exhibit you stared at for so long dean asked if you were communicating with them. you said, “not yet.”

i laughed before i could stop myself.

you were morbidly curious in a way that made research less miserable. where most people got unsettled, you leaned closer. fascinated. you’d ask questions no civilian should think of asking, then blink at me like you hadn’t just suggested a theory involving cursed tide pools and ritual drowning patterns with the same voice someone else might use to ask for fries.

you were creative too. always sketching in the corners of motel receipts, on napkins, in that green sketchbook you kept beside your bag. creatures from cases. little anime-style faces. exaggerated versions of dean looking offended. once, a tiny velma-looking version of yourself holding a magnifying glass and standing beside a blob labeled local evil.

i kept that one... maybe i got a little sentimental.

you fit into the road better than you thought. passenger-seat napper, easy with the music, sneakers kicked against the floor mat, head tilted toward the window while golden hour moved across your face. you’d fall asleep fast in the car, then wake up confused and offended by the existence of daylight. once, your glasses were crooked, and instead of fixing them, you looked at me and said, “how long was i dead?”

“twenty minutes.”

“embarrassing.”

“you snored.”

“i did not.”

you didn’t. i just liked making you glare.

when the impala broke down outside that weird bait-and-souvenir shop, you got out and announced you could help. dean asked if you knew anything about cars. you said, “spiritually, maybe.” then you held the flashlight wrong, handed me a rag when i asked for pliers, and somehow made the whole thing better just by staying calm.

you were good at that, beni. acting unsure and still showing up. it mattered.

i noticed the tiny things because you made them worth noticing. the way you switched into spanish under your breath when you dropped something or got annoyed. the way your humor came out sharper once you trusted us. the way you went quiet when you were overwhelmed, but leaned closer instead of leaving if you felt safe. the way you wore comfort like armor most days, graphic tee, shorts, sneakers, then looked almost suspicious of your own reflection the one evening you decided to wear a dress.

you came out of the motel bathroom tugging at the hem like you weren’t sure. dean opened his mouth. i kicked him under the table.

you looked at me. “what?”

“nothing,” i said. “you look nice.”

“nice?”

“really nice.”

you looked away so fast i thought i’d said the wrong thing. then you mumbled, “okay, book boy,” and pretended to inspect your lemonade. but you smiled. small. private. enough.

friends-to-lovers sounds simple when people say it after the fact. like it just happens naturally, smoothly, without anyone making an idiot of themselves. ours was not smooth. it was me pretending i didn’t care that your knee touched mine under the diner booth. you pretending you didn’t notice when my hand stayed at your back a little too long while we crossed the boardwalk. both of us sitting too close while dean watched from across the room with the expression of a man suffering through free entertainment. “this is painful,” he said once.

you didn’t look up from your game. “then perish.”

i nearly dropped my book.

that was the thing about you. no game at all, honestly, but dangerous anyway. you didn’t flirt like you knew you were flirting. you just said something weird and funny and specific, then looked at me with those big curious eyes behind your glasses, and suddenly i was thinking about kissing you in the middle of a conversation about haunted aquariums. i didn’t. not on the first date. which you also insisted was not a date, for the record.

we stayed in after a long day at the pier, with takeout spread across the motel bed and a terrible movie playing too loud because the remote was half-broken. dean lasted twenty minutes before declaring going out to “find real food,” which meant pie. you and i stayed there, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor, your sketchbook open on your lap, your lemonade gone watery beside you.

the movie was awful. genuinely. the dialogue sounded like it had been written by someone who’d heard of humans but never met one. you kept making quiet little comments that got funnier the longer the night went on. at some point, you drew the monster in the corner of the page with sunglasses and little sneakers. i laughed so hard my side hurt.

you looked proud, then shy about being proud. “don’t make it a thing,” you said.

“i’m not.”

“you’re smiling like you’re making it a thing.”

“maybe i like when you’re funny.”

“dangerous information.”

it was. by then, i knew i cared about you in a way that made leaving complicated. but i also knew you didn’t like being rushed. you could be witty and curious and quietly bold, but feelings made you cautious. so i gave you quality time instead. research at the same table. walks near the water at golden hour. an aquarium afternoon where i read every plaque because you kept stopping to draw the fish. aloe left beside your bed without a speech. a ridiculous local t-shirt bought in your size because you said it was ugly enough to be charming. you wore it the next morning. i tried not to stare. failed.

the kiss came later. after the first not-date. after the terrible movie. after enough shared takeout that dean stopped pretending we were normal. it was late, nearly the end of summer, and we were outside the motel while the air finally cooled. you were in that weird t-shirt, sleeves too big, glasses pushed up into your hair, looking at the stars like you were trying to memorize them before the road took them away. i said your name.

you looked at me. “yeah?”

i could have made a joke. probably should have. instead, i said, “i like being around you.”

you blinked. “that’s... very direct for you.”

“i’m trying something.”

you smiled, but softly this time. no joke ready. no escape hatch. i stepped closer, slow enough that you could step back if you wanted to. your hand found the front of my shirt, just barely holding on.

then i kissed you. careful at first. your mouth sweet from lemonade, your fingers curling tighter in my shirt when you kissed me back. it wasn’t rushed. it was the kind of kiss that made the whole summer rearrange itself around one quiet second.

afterward, you hid your face against my chest and said, “this is embarrassing.”

i wrapped my arms around you. “why?”

“because i’m happy.”

i think about that all the time.

we got our soft ending, beni. not perfect. nothing with us ever is. but soft. you came with us for one more town, then another weekend after that, your sketchbook squeezed between my books and that weird t-shirt folded in your bag. dean complained about the space. he also bought you lemonade at the next gas station without asking, so don’t let him fool you.

and me? i kept making room. for your drawings, your games, your morbid questions, your sleepy car naps, your glasses on the nightstand beside mine. for every shy part of you, and every strange, bright, witty part that came after.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

you look too good in the passenger seat, catch him staring and make one smug little comment, and now dean has to defend his dignity with eviction threats. ๋࣭ ⭑ you stretch out, steal his sunglasses, put your feet nowhere near the dash because you do value your life, and still somehow make yourself look unfairly at home. dean says you’re distracting him. you say he should keep his eyes on the road. he tells you to get out before your ego ruins the suspension. he doesn’t mean it. unfortunately, you look even hotter laughing at him.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

you point out a weird engine sound before he does ๋࣭ ⭑ you tilt your head, listen for half a second, and say, “is she supposed to make that noise?” dean acts offended on behalf of the car, himself, and possibly john winchester’s ghost. then he hears it too. now he’s furious because you noticed first. he tells you to get out if you’re going to “talk dirty about his baby.” you tell him denial isn’t going to save him from the car breaking down in a couple of miles.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

you flirt your way out of shotgun rules. you smile sweetly, steal control of the radio, and somehow convince him it was his idea until he realizes he’s been emotionally scammed. ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re smooth about it. too smooth. one second dean’s driving, fully in charge, and the next you have your song playing, his jacket around your shoulders, and his fries in your lap. he blinks, realizes you charmed him inside his own car, and immediately feels betrayed. he says you’re banned from the front seat. you say he loves you there. silence. guilty silence.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

you say one quiet, accurate thing about why he drives too fast after a bad case, and dean nearly crashes from emotional exposure. ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t yell. you don’t tease. you just look over at him and say something sharp enough to slide under his ribs. something about running from silence. something about how the road only feels safe because he can pretend forward motion is the same thing as healing. dean’s face goes blank. then he says, “out.” he doesn’t mean out of the car. he means out of his head.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

you hang your head out the window like a golden retriever ๋࣭ ⭑ you convince him to take a “shortcut.” it’s not a shortcut. it’s a scenic route through questionable back roads and one suspiciously haunted-looking bridge. dean threatens to kick you out after the third wrong turn, but the worst part is that he’s smiling while he says it. you bring chaos to the impala. he hates it. he loves it. he needs a migraine pill.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

you open the glove compartment, see the disaster inside, and make the mistake of calling it “disorganized.” ๋࣭ ⭑ dean takes that personally because every receipt, cassette, fake badge, and random weapon-related item has a purpose. allegedly. you start sorting things without asking, and he looks at you as if you have rearranged his organs alphabetically. he tells you to get out. you tell him the car deserves better filing. he gasps. actually gasps.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

you say the impala is “just a car” ๋࣭ ⭑ dead silence. immediate danger. even the radio stops breathing. you might mean it casually. you might be making a philosophical point about attachment, memory, and objects as emotional vessels. dean doesn’t care. he hears blasphemy. his hands tighten on the wheel, his jaw does that scary little thing, and he says, very calmly, “take it back.” you ask why he’s being weird. congratulations, you’re now spiritually outside the vehicle.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

you cry during a song and make the car emotionally unsafe ๋࣭ ⭑ he glances over and sees you staring out the window with watery eyes, trying to pretend you’re fine. horrible. illegal. now he has to decide between comforting you and pretending he didn’t notice, which is basically his personal saw trap. he tells you not to make him “deal with feelings at seventy miles an hour.” you laugh through it. he softens. eviction canceled.

♈︎ 𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

you tell him he missed a turn, then reach over to point at the road like he is not dean winchester driving his own baby. ๋࣭ ⭑ he pulls over so fast it feels theatrical. you’re laughing because you know you pushed it, and he’s glaring because nobody critiques his driving from the passenger seat unless they have a death wish. he tells you to get out. you say fine. he says fine. neither of you moves for ten seconds because this is foreplay with traffic laws.

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

you eat something crumbly in the front seat, and you swear you’re being careful, but dean hears one single crumb hit the leather and starts acting like you shot him. ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re hungry. reasonable. human. dean disagrees because apparently pastries are a federal offense inside the impala. he catches you brushing crumbs off your lap and immediately pulls that wounded husband face, the one that says baby has been disrespected. he threatens to make you ride in the trunk. you offer him a bite. he takes it while still complaining.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

you keep changing the music ๋࣭ ⭑ dean gives you one warning. one. you call his playlist “emotionally constipated dad rock,” and suddenly the whole car goes silent. he pulls over, points at the door, and says, “walk.” you grin because you know he’s two seconds from laughing. he hates that you’re right.

for the record, the mug is not sentimental. it’s a mug. an ugly one too. cherry-red, chipped on the rim, with a cartoon crab wearing sunglasses and the words pinch me, i’m coastal across the front. real high-class stuff. you bought it at that little roadside shop outside the seaside town because you said it had “terrible vacation energy,” and apparently that was a compliment. i said it was hideous. you said, “good. then you’ll remember it.” yeah. well... you weren’t wrong.

that summer started with you in the passenger seat, windows down, ray-bans on, hair all messy and wavy from letting the air do whatever it wanted. you had some special summer color in it catching in the sun when you turned your head, and i kept pretending i was looking at the road instead of the way it moved around your face. you controlled the music with the confidence of somebody who knew exactly what she wanted, then acted easygoing when sam suggested a song, even though your mouth did this tiny judgmental twist every time.

i saw it. i respected it. mostly because you had good taste.

you were built for road trips in a way that made me suspicious. bare legs stuck out in little shorts, tank top, flip-flops kicked off somewhere near the floor mat, one hand wrapped around a gas-station slushie, the other adjusting your sunglasses every time the sky got too bright. you loved summer, but summer also beat you up a little. minor sunburns, mosquito bites all over, freckles showing up, bugs treating you like the best meal in town.

you’d scratch at one bite and complain, “why do they only want me?”

i’d say, “because you’re sweet.”

you’d roll your eyes so hard i’m surprised they didn’t stay there.

that was us for a while. friends. easy insults. long drives. me trying to make you laugh when you got overwhelmed and you pretending it didn’t work. you had this whole thing where you denied everything so hard it basically confirmed it. deny, deflect, change the song, take a sip of slushie.

not that i was much better. sam would say your name and i’d look too fast. you’d walk out of the motel room in a tiny pair of shorts and a loose tee, brown mascara, tinted sunscreen, hair still damp from the shower, and i’d suddenly become fascinated by the engine, the map, the nearest wall, anything that wasn’t you.

friends, sure. very normal friends.

the town was quiet in the mornings, before tourists got loud and the sidewalks started cooking. you liked walking then, while the air still had mercy in it. i didn’t always want to get up early, but you made it worth it. you’d appear outside the motel with your ray-bans pushed on top of your head, slushie swapped for coffee sometimes, moving slow until you warmed into yourself. the beach was close enough to hear, and you told me you loved it even though you’d only really been once. there was something about that that got to me. how much you could love a thing you hadn’t had enough of yet.

i wanted to give you more of it. not in a big heroic way. don’t get excited. i mean stupid things. driving a little slower by the water. buying marshmallows because you mentioned roasting them. making sure there was aloe in the motel bathroom because you forgot sunscreen until it was too late and then looked personally betrayed by your own bad decisions. letting you have the good seat at the outdoor table because it had shade, even though you didn’t notice at first.

actually, you did notice. you always noticed the tiny stuff, eventually.

“you put me on the shaded side,” you said one afternoon, squinting at me over your sunglasses.

“did i?”

“dean.”

“maybe i’m just a gentleman.”

“that sounds fake.”

“hurtful.”

you smiled anyway.

that smile was a problem. not a clean, pretty, movie-poster smile either. a real one. a little crooked when you were trying not to laugh, bigger when you lost the fight. it showed up when i made a bad joke after you got overwhelmed by the crowd near the boardwalk, when i stole a marshmallow before it was toasted enough and nearly burned my tongue, when you beat sam at some superhero trivia thing because superman is apparently serious business in your world.

we went to the movies twice that week. once for a horror movie that made sam critique the lore under his breath until i kicked his chair, and once for a superhero thing you got excited about before the previews even ended.

i liked watching you watch the screen.

sounds dumb. i know. but you’d sit there with your knees tucked up, cherry slushie between your hands, face lit blue and red, completely gone into it. during the horror movie, you grabbed my arm at a jump scare and then immediately acted like you meant to.

“protective instinct,” you said.

“sure.”

“i was protecting you.”

“from the possessed doll?”

“you’re welcome.”

i didn’t let you move your hand off my arm.

the impala broke down on the way back from the beach because apparently even baby got tired of watching us not do anything about each other. sam went looking for service. you came around the front of the car with your flip-flops scraping gravel, sunglasses sliding down your nose, and said, very calmly, “i can help.”

i said, “you know cars?”

“no.”

“great start.”

“but i can hand you things.”

you handed me the wrong thing three times, read instructions off your phone with total confidence, and somehow made the whole situation less annoying. you had grease on your fingers, a mosquito bite on your ankle, and a little sun on your nose. you were trying so hard to be useful without admitting you had no clue what was happening, and i wanted to kiss you right there against the fender.

i didn’t. because i’m an idiot, but a patient one. sort of.

the first time i almost cracked was the baking disaster. you wanted to make something sweet at the motel because the room had a tiny kitchenette and you said that counted as a sign from god. it counted as a warning, actually. flour on the counter, sugar stuck to your wrist, you moving slow and messy and determined while i sat at the table pretending not to enjoy the show.

“stop watching me,” you said.

“i’m supervising.”

“you’re distracting.”

“am i?”

you looked over your shoulder, and for one second, neither of us had anything smart to say. then sam walked in, saw the counter, and said, “did something explode?” you threw a dish towel at him.

that night, we took the burnt-but-still-edible cookies outside with a bag of marshmallows and sat near a little fire pit behind the motel. the sky was clear, not kansas-clear, but close enough that you started talking about home skies, about how stars out there felt bigger because there was room for them. your voice got softer.

we talked until sunrise a few days later.

that was the real date, though i don’t think either of us said the word. the case was done, the town was sleeping, and you were sitting outside in an oversized tee, legs folded under you, ray-bans on the table for once. no bright sun making you squint. just you, tired and open, telling me about road trips, about wanting the beach more than you’d had it, about how you liked being cared for in ways people could prove. practical stuff. noticed stuff. i could do that. hell, i wanted to.

you were rubbing at another mosquito bite, so i reached over and caught your wrist. “stop,” i said. “you’re gonna tear it up.”

“responsible adult dean winchester. horrifying.”

i got the bite cream from my jacket pocket and handed it to you.

you stared.

“what?” i asked.

“you had that ready?”

“bugs like you.”

and there it was again. that quiet. the kind you got when a joke would have been easier, but you couldn’t find one fast enough.

“oh,” you said.

yeah. oh.

i think you knew then. i think i knew too.

the kiss came later that same morning, when the sky was going pale and pink over the rooftops. you were half-asleep, leaning into my side, and i was trying to convince myself not to ruin a good thing by wanting more of it. then you lifted your head and looked at me like you were waiting for somebody else to crack first.

so i did.

i touched your cheek, thumb near the freckles you’d forgotten were there until summer brought them back. you didn’t move away. you just held very still, eyes on mine, daring me without saying a word.

“cora,” i said.

“yeah?”

“tell me to stop.”

your mouth twitched. “no.”

so i kissed you. slow enough to make both of us feel it. you tasted like sugar and smoke and cherry slushie, and your hand slid into the front of my shirt like you needed something to hold on to. when i pulled back, you looked annoyed.

“what?” i asked.

“nothing.”

“that’s your lying face.”

you kissed me again before i could be too smug about it.

after that, summer got easy in the way i didn’t trust at first. you still controlled the music. still pretended not to judge everybody else’s choices. still forgot sunscreen unless someone put it in your hand, which, yeah, became my job. you still baked messy, bought sweets, scratched bug bites, and looked at me over your sunglasses when i said something dumb. but you also let me pull you closer at night. let me hold your hand when crowds got too much. let me make you laugh when the day pressed down too hard.

and somehow, sweetheart, we got a soft ending. no big goodbye. no dramatic exit. no pretending we were just friends until it hurt. we left that seaside town with your mug wrapped in a towel, your music still playing, and your feet on the dash like you’d always belonged there. sam slept in the backseat. you fell asleep beside me before the next state line, sunburn fading, hair a mess, one hand tucked near mine.

i kept driving with the windows down. not because the road was calling. because you were there, and for once, staying felt a hell of a lot more tempting than leaving.

“yeah, well, next time don’t throw yourself in front of a werewolf and maybe we can skip the stingy part.”

you scoff lightly. “you’re welcome, by the way.”

dean gives you a look that usually comes before a lecture, a bad joke, or both. “you’re welcome? seriously?”

“i saved your ass.”

“i had it handled.”

“you were on the floor.”

“temporarily.”

you roll your eyes, but the motion tugs at the bruise blooming along your cheekbone, and dean sees it. his mouth shuts for half a second, anger snagging on concern before he can hide it.

then he goes right back to being unbearable— “you don’t get to do that,” he says, lower now, pressing clean gauze to your arm. “you don’t get to jump in front of teeth and claws because you think you’re faster than death. you’re good, alright? damn good. but you’re not bulletproof.”

“neither are you.”

“don’t give me that crap.”

you blink up at him. “dean—”

“no, i mean it.” he tapes the gauze down with more force than necessary, then smooths the edge with his thumb, guilty about it immediately. “you scared the crap outta me back there.”

“breaking news—hunts are scary.”

“don’t be cute.”

“can’t help it.”

his eyes flick to your mouth. quick. stupidly quick, but not quick enough. your teasing falls apart a little.

dean turns toward the sink, grabs another cotton pad, and mutters, “i can’t keep doing this.”

the room seems to shrink around the two of you. the dripping faucet. the wet towel shoved under the sink pipe. your boots knocking lightly against the cabinet when you shift.

“doing what?”

“watching you get hurt.” you’re quiet now. he drags a hand over his face, leaving a faint smear of your blood near his wrist. “watching you bleed and pretending i’m not losing my mind every time something gets close to you. telling myself it’s the job. telling sam i’m fine. acting like i don’t—” he stops, jaw working around the rest.

you sit up straighter. “like you don’t what?”

“nothing.”

“dean.”

“drop it.”

“no.”

he looks at you then and all the fight drains out of his shoulders in the ugliest, softest way. “acting like i don’t care about you more than i should.”

your fingers curl around the edge of the sink. “more than you should?”

“yeah.” he laughs once, no humor in it. “stupid, huh?”

“very,” you whisper. his face shutters. you catch his wrist before he can step back. “because i thought i was being obvious.”

dean stares at you. his hand comes to yyour cheek, careful around the bruise, and he kisses you with all that leftover panic still under his skin. it’s not smooth. his nose bumps yours, your fingers grab the front of his flannel too hard, and he makes this rough little sound when you pull him closer.

the cotton pad drops into the sink.

“you’re still hurt,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“then be gentle.”

his thumb moves along your jaw, slower now. “gentle?”

you hook your ankle behind his calf. dean’s smile touches your lips before he kisses you again, and the bathroom light keeps flickering above you, buzzing away while neither of you bothers to move.

in this universe, i see you starting as a civilian with a very useful eye—maybe someone working in a clinic, archive, motel, diner, local office, or some small-town place where people talk too much and assume you’re not listening. wrong. you’re listening to everything. your mercury in aries gives you quick instincts and blunt observations, while your mars in pisces makes you more sensitive to atmosphere than you might admit. you’d probably get dragged into hunting because something feels wrong before it is provable—strange dreams, a pattern of disappearances, someone coming to you for help—and once you realize people are in danger, your taurus stubbornness does not let you walk away. cautious? yes. soft underneath? also yes. but impossible to move once you’ve decided something matters.

✧ first meeting + first impression

you meet dean because you are already too involved in a case for his liking. maybe you’re the local who keeps noticing the details the cops miss, or the one witness who refuses to give him an easy answer because his fake badge story is terrible and you have enough virgo rising suspicion to know when someone is improvising.

dean’s first impression of you, zineta, is that you’re pretty, composed, and way too sharp to charm casually. he tries the usual dean winchester grin, probably expects you to soften or blush or hand over information, and instead you ask one very direct question that makes him pause. your mercury in aries catches him off guard because you don’t dance around the point when something matters, but your venus in gemini keeps the exchange playful enough that he doesn’t feel fully attacked. he clocks the warmth too, though—your leo moon gives you a glow once you’re engaged, and dean is very vulnerable to people who can be both steady and bright. unfortunately for him, you are not easy to impress. tragically for you, he takes that as a challenge.

✧ the friendship dynamic

your friendship with dean would start with friction and turn into something weirdly comfortable before either of you admits it.

you’re not the kind of person who throws yourself into chaos just because he says “trust me”, and that immediately makes him both annoyed and interested. your taurus sun and virgo rising want proof, consistency, and a plan that does not sound like it was written on a napkin in a gas station parking lot, while dean’s aquarius sun and sagittarius moon are much more comfortable improvising, joking, and pretending danger is only serious after it has already exploded. you challenge that. not loudly all the time, but directly enough that he has to listen. and the funny thing is, zineta, once he realizes your caution comes from intelligence rather than fear, he starts respecting it.

your venus in gemini also keeps the friendship lively—you can tease him, question him, argue back, and keep up with his humor without making everything too heavy. emotionally, though, your leo moon wants to feel appreciated, not just useful, and dean can be bad at saying the tender thing unless it is disguised as a joke. so your friendship becomes this rhythm of banter, stubbornness, shared glances, and small acts of care neither of you names too quickly.

he makes you loosen your grip on control a little. you make him slow down long enough to think. honestly, somebody had to.

✧ quirks + fun things

→ dean acts personally offended whenever you point out that his plan has “about six holes in it”, but then quietly adjusts the plan anyway. → you can go from calm and practical to fiery in half a second, and he is deeply entertained by how fast your leo moon/aries mercury combo appears when provoked. → he starts pretending to ask for your opinion “just to be polite”, but everyone can tell he actually trusts your judgment.

ꔛ. something more,

✧ are you compatible .ᐣ first steps .ᐣ

there is definitely romance potential here, zineta, but it’s not the softest, easiest match in the world. it’s more of a chemistry with complications situation. your venus in gemini works beautifully with dean’s love of banter, teasing, movement, and mental spark, while your leo moon connects with his leo rising/jupiter energy in a way that makes the attraction feel warm, obvious, and a little theatrical even when you’re both pretending to be normal. your jupiter in sagittarius also matches his sagittarius moon and venus, which gives the connection a fun, adventurous, “let’s get out of here and see what happens” pull. but your core is still taurus, and your rising is still virgo, so underneath the playful chemistry, you need steadiness and dean is not always steady. he would initiate first, most likely, because he is much more likely to turn tension into action before thinking about the emotional consequences. you’d notice it before he says anything, though. you’re too observant not to.

✧ the relationship dynamic

being with dean would feel exciting, affectionate, frustrating, and strangely addictive. he brings out your more spontaneous side—the part of you that wants to stop overthinking, get in the car, take the risk, say the thing before you have time to polish it into something safer. your venus in gemini enjoys the playfulness of him, the teasing, the late-night conversations that start as jokes and accidentally become honest, the way he makes everyday danger feel weirdly alive instead of just terrifying.

but your taurus sun and virgo rising need reliability, and that is where the relationship gets tricky. you want someone who shows up consistently, who says what they mean, who does not make you guess where you stand. dean loves hard, but he does not always love clearly. arguments would probably happen when you feel like you’re being practical and he feels like you’re trying to control the situation, or when he deflects with humor and you get tired of pretending the joke fixed anything.

affection, though, would be very physical and lived-in: him standing too close, checking your reactions in dangerous rooms, remembering your preferences while acting casual about it, you noticing when he’s exhausted and calling him out before anyone else dares. it’s not peaceful all the time, but it is alive, and that would be hard for both of you to ignore.

✧ their favorite n worst version of you

dean’s favorite version of you, zineta, is when your warmth breaks through your composure. when you stop trying to be reasonable for two seconds and let your leo moon show—laughing too openly, getting passionate about something, defending someone, giving him that look like you know exactly what he is doing and you are not falling for it. he likes that you have presence without needing to dominate a room, and he likes that your softness does not make you easy to push around.

his least favorite version is when you get too self-contained. when your taurus/virgo side decides it’s safer to handle everything alone, stay calm, stay useful, not ask for too much. it bothers him because he can tell when you’re hurt, but if you refuse to say it directly, he does what dean does best: guesses wrong, panics internally, and makes a joke. tragic. very male.

✧ fighting, hurting, making up

dean causes more damage, but not because you’re harmless or because he cares less. it’s because his emotional coping style is messier than yours. your taurus sun can be stubborn, and your mercury in aries can come out sharp when you feel dismissed, so yes, you can absolutely say something too bluntly in the heat of the moment. but dean’s bigger issue is avoidance. he can pull away, joke around, act casual, or make a decision “for your own good” instead of actually letting you into the fear behind it. that would hit your leo moon harder than he realizes, because you need to feel chosen, respected, and valued—not handled.

emotionally, you are probably more mature in the sense that you understand what bothers you and can name it when pushed, but dean is more used to surviving than communicating.

making up would take honesty from both sides: you softening enough to admit when something hurt instead of hiding behind practicality, and him staying in the conversation instead of trying to charm his way out of it. when he does apologize, it might be awkward and rough around the edges, but sincere. and annoying. because it would probably work on you more than you want it to.

ꔛ. overall ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 7.8 / 10

this has a lot of pull! the chemistry is real, the banter works, and dean would absolutely be drawn to your mix of steadiness, wit, warmth, and quiet fire. you are not someone he can easily read once and be done with, which keeps him interested, and your venus in gemini + leo moon gives the relationship enough sparkle to keep it from feeling too heavy.

but the emotional mismatch is real too. you need more consistency than dean naturally gives, and he would have to learn that loving you means more than protecting you or making you laugh. it means being clear. present. reliable when it counts.

so, honest review? he would want you, respect you, and be very taken with you—but he would have to grow up emotionally to love you well.

you had this way of saying it that started off as a joke and somehow got funnier the less funny it got. sam stopped reacting after the fourth time, which only made you lean forward between the seats, all innocent, blue slushie in hand, and ask it again while looking directly at me in the rearview.

“are we there yet?”

“val.”

“what? i’m just checking.”

“we’re in the same car. you know exactly where we are.”

“so that’s a no?”

i should’ve known i was in trouble then. i mean, i knew you were cute. that part wasn’t complicated. you were shy at first, quiet around the edges, looking at us like you were trying to decide whether we were safe enough to be weird with. sweatpants even in summer, tank tops, shoulders already trying to escape the sun, hair messy from the drive, and this kind face you kept hidden behind nerves and a joke you weren’t sure you should make yet.

then the real you started leaking through. little by little.

you’d say something funny under your breath and act shocked when i laughed. you’d listen when sam went full encyclopedia about the case, not just nodding to be polite, but actually listening, asking questions, giving him room to talk even when he got too detailed. you were open-minded in a way that made people loosen up around you. no judgment. no flinching. nothing too weird, nothing too much. you were the kind of person someone could tell the ugly truth to and somehow not feel uglier afterward.

which... for guys like us, is dangerous.

that summer took us somewhere neither of us had any business liking. some unfamiliar little town wrapped around a lake, half campground, half local fair, with dust roads, cheap food stalls, and a motel that looked as if it had survived three decades simply out of spite. there were missing campers, stories about lights moving through the trees, and one cranky old guy at the bait shop who swore the lake “didn’t like strangers.”

sam was thrilled. i was sweaty. you were hiding from direct sunlight like a vampire with a personal grudge. which was fair. you burned fast, overheated faster, and treated shade as a basic human right. you had this whole routine down: sunglasses, sleeves, sitting under awnings, choosing the seat farthest from the window, accepting sunscreen only as a necessary evil and then making sure everybody else dealt with it too.

you’d point the bottle at me with this sweet little smile that did not match the threat in your eyes. “neck,” you’d say.

“i’m fine.”

“you’re turning pink.”

sam laughed. traitor.

so i let you fuss. not because you were bossy. because your hands were gentle even when your mouth wasn’t. you’d rub sunscreen across my neck or shoulder with this careful focus, tongue caught between your teeth, then immediately back away like you hadn’t just made every thought in my head take a hard left into trouble.

friends. that’s what we were supposed to be. friendly. normal. yeah, okay.

you were good company in the easy ways first. road snacks, bad jokes, slushie runs. you were easygoing about the music, which i appreciated, because some people get in my car and suddenly think democracy applies to the radio. you just let the tapes play, sometimes humming, sometimes making little faces when a song hit too close but never actually complaining. you were shy until you weren’t, and then you’d say something so blunt i had to cough to cover my laugh.

you had no game, by the way. none. and before you argue, val, flirting by accident and then panicking does not count as game. you’d sit too close on the motel bed while we watched some terrible late-night movie, shoulder against mine, knee pressed to my thigh, then realize what you were doing and suddenly get real interested in the takeout container in your lap. you’d tell me i had nice hands while i was cleaning a gun, then immediately follow it with, “not in a weird way,” which made it weird in the best possible way.

i didn’t help. i’d pass behind you in a tight space and put a hand at your waist because i’m not a saint. i’d steal the cherry from your slushie just to make you glare at me. i’d call you sweetheart and watch you pretend not to like it.

sam noticed. sam always notices. “you two know you’re allowed to just talk, right?” he said once.

you looked up from your video game, squinting at the screen because you insisted on playing outside even though the sun made that basically impossible.

“we do talk,” you said.

“not about the thing you’re both pretending isn’t happening.”

you blinked at him.

i said, “nerd, go research something.”

you laughed so hard you nearly dropped the game.

the campground got under your skin in the best way. you liked the lake, especially once the sun started going down and the air stopped feeling personally aggressive. you liked the campfires, the crackle of wood, the quiet after families drifted back to their tents. you liked fishing even when you caught nothing, which was good, because we caught absolutely nothing.

you liked the fair too, all bright lights and sticky pavement and prizes nobody needed. that’s where you bought the keychain. a tiny fishing rod. baby blue. objectively stupid. you held it up and said, “it’s cute.”

“it’s gonna break in two days.”

“then it’ll have lived a full life.”

i didn’t know what to say to that, so i bought it for you before you could pay.

you went quiet in that soft, surprised kind you got when somebody noticed what you wanted before you asked. then you looked down at the keychain in your palm and said, “thanks, dean.” that got me worse than it should’ve.

you had tiny habits i started collecting without meaning to. the way you pushed loose dirt around with your shoe at the campsite, making it flat, then moving it into a little pile, then filling a hole because apparently the ground needed organizing. the way you got overheated and cranky, then felt bad about being cranky, then apologized when you didn’t need to. the way you got kind of thrilled when the motel had a terrible movie channel, as if bad dialogue and greasy takeout could fix an entire day. maybe it could.

that was our date, though neither of us called it one until later. long day, ugly case, lake mud on my boots, sam passed out at the table with a book open under his face. you and i stayed up on the floor between the beds, backs against the mattress, sharing chinese takeout from the cartons while some movie played on the tv with acting so bad even i was offended.

the room was cool for once. late enough that the air outside had finally stopped trying to cook us alive. your knee touched mine under the blanket you’d dragged down from the bed. you were tired, hair a little messy, face soft in the blue flash of the tv. no big moment. no music swelling. just you stealing a noodle from my carton because you said mine looked better.

“you have your own,” i said.

“share with me.”

so i did. you smiled like you’d won something.

we talked for hours after the movie stopped making sense. you told me about summers camping with your family, swimming in lakes, fairs, campfires, how those were the memories that stuck because they felt simple and safe. i told you less than you told me, because i’m me, but you didn’t push. you just listened. and when i said something too sharp to avoid saying something honest, you didn’t make me regret it. that’s probably when friends turned into something else.

or maybe that’s just when i stopped being able to lie about it.

the kiss surprised both of us, which is funny considering how long we’d been walking around it. you were laughing at something stupid i said, leaning sideways into me, and then your laugh faded because you realized how close we were. i could’ve made a joke. should’ve, probably. would’ve been safer. instead, i reached over and touched your chin, just enough to turn your face toward mine.

“this okay?” i asked.

you swallowed, then nodded. so i kissed you. soft, because you deserved soft. slow, because i wanted you to know i wasn’t messing around.

your fingers curled into my shirt, and the little breath you let out nearly wrecked me. there was takeout on the floor, some awful movie still flickering, sam snoring six feet away, and somehow it felt more dangerous than anything we’d hunted that week.

when i pulled back, you whispered, “that was a surprise.”

i said, “good one?”

you smiled. shy and bright at the same time. “yeah. a good one.”

after that, things didn’t explode. nobody made a speech. you didn’t suddenly become somebody else. you were still val, asking if we were there yet, collecting things, hiding from the sun, making little piles of dirt with your foot, laughing at the worst times, listening better than anyone had a right to. i was still me, which meant i made jokes when i got scared and pretended i wasn’t checking on you every five minutes.

but you started leaning into me more. i started touching you without pretending it was an accident. hands brushing at the fair. my arm around your shoulders near the fire when the night cooled down. your head against my shoulder during another terrible movie, both of us full of takeout and too tired to move. soft stuff. easy stuff. stuff i didn’t know i wanted until you made it feel possible.

summer ended without making a mess of us. that was the weird part. no dramatic goodbye, no noble heartbreak, no leaving before sunrise because i got scared and did something stupid. i mean, i thought about it... then you looked at me over a melting slushie and said, “dean, don’t be weird.” so i didn’t.

we left that unfamiliar town with your keychain on the impala keys and your laugh stuck somewhere in the car. you came with us for the next stretch, then another, and somewhere between the lake road and the next motel, i stopped thinking of you as summer and started thinking of you as the person i wanted beside me when the air finally cooled at night.

so, val, that’s the truth of it...

you were never too shy to keep. never too much to listen to. never some temporary thing i could fold up with a map and leave in a glovebox. you were the soft blue light of a bad movie, a slushie straw between your teeth, dirt under your shoe, and your hand in my shirt after a kiss i was supposed to be too smart to start.

i’m real glad i started it anyway.

soft little clicks. muffled laughter. one time, an actual giggle, which makes dean open one eye in the dark and stare at the ceiling with the grim, hollow expression of a man realizing his baby sister has secrets.

at first, he tells himself it’s nothing. you’re sixteen. you have friends, technically, even if your childhood has been a rotating selection of stolen credit cards, motel pools, and learning how to load a shotgun before most people learn proper division. maybe you’re texting some girl from school. maybe you’re sending sam memes because, somehow, the two of you have an entire private language made of bad jokes and academic sarcasm. maybe you’re doing normal teenage stuff, and dean should be grateful for that.

then the phone buzzes while you’re in the shower. not once. no… the universe isn’t kind on dean’s nerves. it buzzes four times.

he doesn’t mean to look. that’s his story, and he’s sticking to it with both hands and a suspicious amount of guilt. the phone is right there on the bed, screen lighting up where you tossed it beside your hoodie, and dean glances over because he’s hardwired to notice sudden movement. hunter instinct. brother instinct. nosy bastard instinct. whatever.

𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢

dean freezes.

another message drops in.

𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍’𝚟𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛

his heart drops.

by the time you emerge from the bathroom, sam’s gone out for food and dean’s sitting on the edge of the bed with your phone face-down beside him, one knee bouncing so hard the mattress shakes. he looks pale. not blood-loss pale. emotionally ambushed pale. the kind of pale that means he’s seen the future, and the future is some teenage boy with hands.

you stop in the doorway, instantly alert. “what’s wrong?”

dean’s head snaps up. “what’s wrong?”

“yeah,” you say slowly, stepping inside. “did something happen?”

“you tell me.”

you blink at him, then at your phone, then back at his face.

everything inside you goes still. “dean—”

“don’t dean me.”

“did you go through my phone?”

“i didn’t go through it.”

“then why do you look constipated and guilty?”

his mouth opens. closes. he points at you, which is always where his arguments go when he is already losing them. “you are sixteen.”

“are you serious right now?!”

“sixteen!” he repeats, completely dismissing you. “—as in, not old enough for whatever the hell this is.”

your face heats—anger and embarrassment rushing up together so fast you can barely separate them. “oh my god.”

“nope. not god. me. your brother. the guy who keeps you alive.”

“you read my texts.”

“i saw enough.”

“you had no right!”

“i had every right when some little punk is texting my kid about kissing you longer.”

the words hang in the room, awful and protective and ridiculous all at once.

you stare at him. “first of all, i am not your kid.”

dean points harder. “yes, you are.”

“second, he’s not a punk.”

“they’re all punks.”

“you don’t even know him.”

“i don’t need to know him. i know guys.”

“he’s sixteen too.”

“even worse. sixteen-year-old guys are feral.”

that almost trips you into a laugh, and you hate him for it, so you fold your arms and lean into the anger instead. it fits better right now. “i’m dating him.”

dean goes completely still. you can practically see the sentence enter his body and start breaking furniture. “no.”

you let out a sharp, humorless little laugh. “no?”

“no.”

“that’s not how that works.”

“that’s absolutely how it works. i’m the adult.”

“sam’s the adult.”

“sam’s buying tacos.”

“sam would have a conversation!”

“sam would make that sad moose face and ask about emotions.”

“which would still be better than you invading my privacy!”

dean stands then, too full of worry to stay seated, pacing one short line between the beds with his hands on his hips. he looks so much like dad for half a second that it makes something cold touch the back of your neck. then he turns, and he’s just dean again. scared. angry because he’s scared. loud because quiet might make him admit it.

“you sneak around, you hide under the covers, you don’t tell me anything, and i’m supposed to be cool?”

“i hid it because of this,” you snap, hands gesturing vaguely in the air in his direction. “because you act like i’m five every time i try to have one normal thing.”

his face tightens. you hate that it hurts him. you hate that you still want him to understand more than you want to win.

“you think i don’t know what can happen?” you add, voice smaller but sharper somehow. “you think i don’t know the world is gross and dangerous and full of monsters? i know. you and sam made sure i know. but i can’t just be your little sister in the backseat forever, dean. i can’t.”

the room goes quiet except for the heater clicking under the window.

“i’m trying to protect you,” he says.

“i know.” your throat tightens, and it annoys you, because crying would ruin your whole terrifying teenage authority thing. “but sometimes you make it feel like protection means i don’t get to be a person.”

dean rubs both hands over his face, dragging them down slowly. “i shouldn’t have looked at your phone.”

you blink, thrown by the surrender. “no,” you clear your throat, chin tilting by the sudden change, still stubborn because you’re a winchester and apparently doomed. “you shouldn’t have.”

“i know.”

“and you can’t ground me for dating.”

his head lifts. “watch me.”

“i will run.”

“fine. i can strongly disapprove with consequences.”

“that’s grounding.”

the door opens before he can answer, and sam steps in with takeout bags balanced against his chest. he takes one look at you, one look at dean, and immediately stops.

“do i want to know?”

“she’s dating,” dean says, devastated.

sam’s eyebrows rise. “oh.”

“that’s all you have? oh?”

sam sets the food down very carefully. “i’m choosing peace until after dinner.”

you point at sam. “see? wise.”

dean turns on him. “don’t side with her.”

sam looks tired already. “i haven’t even taken my jacket off.”

you grab your phone from the bed and hold it to your chest. dean watches the movement, jaw clenched, still worried, still furious, still so painfully dean that your anger softens at the edges before you give it permission.

“you can meet him,” you decide.

dean’s eyes narrow. “i can interrogate him?”

“meet.”

“background check?”

“no.”

“holy water?”

“dean.”

“fine,” he mutters. “but i’m driving.”

“to where?”

“your first supervised date.”

you groan so loudly sam closes his eyes, but dean looks almost pleased with himself now, which means the battle is nowhere near over. and maybe that’s okay. not because he wins. he absolutely doesn’t. but because when you sit on the bed with your tacos and your phone tucked safely under your thigh, dean stays close enough to annoy you and far enough to let you breathe, and that’s probably the closest he can get to saying he’s trying.

you’d get that look on your face, the one that scared off half the people in that little seaside town before they even got close enough to hear you talk, and then two seconds later you’d be laughing so loud at something stupid sam said that the guy at the bait shop would turn around like somebody had set off fireworks in the canned goods aisle.

mean resting b-face, sunshine interior. real confusing brand. very effective.

i noticed you before i had any business noticing you. hard not to, honestly. you showed up in an oversized t-shirt, short shorts, high pigtails, sunglasses pushed up on your head even though you still kept squinting like the sun had personally wronged you. you had an iced coffee in one hand, a handheld game in the other, and enough stubborn energy to make a priest reconsider patience.

sam said you seemed “passionate.” i said you looked like you might bite somebody. which never happened, sure. but you did, however, tell me i was wrong about the case within ten minutes of meeting me, which is almost the same thing.

the town was one of those sleepy summer places that looked cute until you realized half the locals were lying and the other half were pretending not to hear the thing crying near the docks at night. old inns. peeling signs. boardwalk lights. salt on the windows. too many tourists buying terrible shirts, which is how we ended up with that one you insisted on getting.

butter yellow. ugly little cartoon fish on the back. said i survived gull point and all i got was this lousy t-shirt. you held it up in front of me and said, “be honest.”

i said, “burn it.”

you grinned. “perfect. i’m buying it.”

you wore it the next morning just to annoy me, which worked. sleeves too big, collar slipping a little, pigtails swinging when you moved around the motel room complaining about the heat before seven in the morning.

you overheated fast. everybody learned that. you’d be joyful, loud, bouncing between three thoughts at once, and then the sun would hit too hard and suddenly you were cranky as hell, squinting behind your sunglasses, iced coffee sweating in your hand, announcing to no one in particular that summer was beautiful but also a government conspiracy.

still, you took care of everybody else first. sunscreen, water, shade. bossy about it too. don’t let that sweet yellow thing fool anybody. you’d point at sam with the bottle like you were holding him at gunpoint. “arms.”

sam blinked. “what?”

“sunscreen. arms. now.”

i laughed, which was a mistake, because then you turned on me.

“you too, pretty boy.”

i said, “i’ve survived worse than a sunburn.”

“and yet, you’re not skipping on the fun activity.”

i sat down because i’m mature and understand the importance of skincare. not because you told me to. obviously.

you rubbed sunscreen over my shoulder with this focused little frown, and i remember trying real hard not to look at your mouth while you worked. you were talking the whole time too, flat tone at first, then suddenly animated because you remembered some story about trying to play your 3ds outside when it was way too bright to see the screen. your voice changed when you got excited. jumped around. got louder without you noticing. i liked that. liked watching the careful parts of you give up and let the real you take over.

you were blunt too. too blunt, according to you. according to me, it saved a lot of time. especially with us. because we were doing that stupid dance people do when they both know and neither says it. you had no game, but you had nerve, which is worse. you’d flirt by accident, then look mad about it. you’d lean over me to reach something on the table, smell like sunscreen and iced coffee and lake water, then pull back like you’d just remembered you were supposed to be normal. meanwhile, i was standing there pretending i didn’t want to put my hand on your waist every time you brushed past me.

sam noticed. “you two are exhausting,” he said one night.

you looked up from your watercolors, paint on your thumb, and said, “then stop watching.”

i nearly choked on my beer.

you liked painting at the little motel table when the heat was too much. watercolors mostly. messy seaside skies, yellow smears of sunlight, the shape of the inn where the case started, the lake outside town where you kept threatening to swim even though we were technically there to investigate a possible drowning spirit. you said water made everything better. lakes, sea, motel pools, whatever. if you could get in it, you were happier. that should’ve been my warning.

the impala broke down on the road out to the lake, because apparently baby picked up on the emotional tension and decided to make it my problem. sam went full research mode. i went under the hood. you came over to help with the calm confidence of somebody who didn’t know what she was doing but refused to let that ruin the vibe.

“hand me the wrench,” i said.

you handed me pliers. i looked at them. raised a brow. looked at you.

you said, “emotionally, that felt correct.”

i laughed so hard i hit my head on the hood.

you were good in a crisis, though. better than you gave yourself credit for. you listened. held the flashlight. kept asking questions. got us water without making a whole thing of it. when i got frustrated, you bumped your hip against mine and said, “you’re doing fine.” simple. stupidly simple. hit me right in the ribs anyway.

that was one of the things you did. reassured people like you knew they needed it, even when you were the one sweating through your shirt and pretending you weren’t getting cranky. you acted loud, stubborn, all bright edges, but underneath that, you paid attention. you gave quality time like it was no big deal. sitting beside me while i fixed the car. staying outside while i cleaned weapons. passing me your iced coffee when you had enough and saying, “don’t make it weird,” even though you were the one watching to see if i liked it.

i made it weird. internally.

the music thing was easier than i expected. everybody got a turn, which meant sam got his sad nerd stuff, you got whatever made you move your feet on the dash, and i got the good stuff. you never complained too much. just made faces. dramatic ones. sunglasses on, arms crossed, pigtails bouncing when the car hit a rough patch, judging my entire soul from the passenger seat before falling asleep five minutes later.

you were always the passenger-seat napper. mouth slightly open. cheek pressed to the window. one hand curled around your game even after you’d given up trying to see the screen in the sun. sometimes you’d wake up and catch me looking in the rearview.

“what?” you’d mumble.

“nothing.”

“creep.”

“you drooled.”

“i did not.” and you didn’t. not the point.

the date wasn’t really a date until it was. we went wandering through town at golden hour, because you said the light was “too pretty to waste,” which sounded fake but made sense when i saw you in it. butter-yellow dress that day instead of the big shirts. high pigtails again. sunglasses finally doing their job. you looked happy in this open, unguarded way that made me want to shut up and keep walking beside you.

you bought another iced coffee even though it was late. i told you that was a bad idea. you told me caffeine was a lifestyle choice. we ended up near the water, sitting on a low wall while some local kid played guitar a little badly and tourists stared at the sunset. you swung your legs and talked until your voice got soft from using it all day. not quiet. never fully quiet. just softer.

you told me you usually confessed crushes fast because waiting made your brain unbearable. said you were used to it being unrequited, so it was easier to get rejected and move on. you said it like a joke, but your fingers were twisting the hem of that yellow dress, and i hated everyone who’d ever made you feel like wanting something meant you should apologize for it. i said, “for the record, anybody who didn’t want you back was an idiot.”

you squinted at me, even with the sunglasses. “is that reassurance or flirting?”

“could be both.”

“dangerous.”

“yeah,” i said. “i’m shaking.”

you laughed, then got all shy about it, looking down at your cup. and because i’m me, because i couldn’t let a decent moment live without putting my hands on it, i reached over and fixed one of your pigtails where the elastic had started slipping. ordinary thing. except you went still. my fingers brushed the side of your neck. you looked at my mouth, then away, then back again so fast i almost missed it.

“surprise me,” you said, barely loud enough to hear.

so i did. i kissed you right there by the water, with the street still moving behind us and the sun making everything gold. slow enough that you could back away. close enough that i felt the tiny sound you made before your hand caught the front of my shirt. you tasted like coffee and sugar, and when i pulled back, you looked pissed off about how much you liked it.

“rude,” you whispered.

“you asked for a surprise.”

“i didn’t say make it good.”

“my mistake.”

you kissed me again, harder that time, like you had decided thinking was overrated. good call.

we stayed outside until sunrise later that week. no big plan. just the two of us on the motel balcony after the case was done, knees knocking under the little plastic table, talking because neither of us wanted to go inside and make the ending real. you were wrapped in my flannel even though it was still warm, paint on your wrist from earlier, face bare and sleepy, sunglasses sitting on top of your head for no reason at all in the dark.

you told me things. fast, then slow. guilty things. excited things. blunt things you immediately tried to soften, then gave up on because i wasn’t running. i touched your knee under the table. you leaned into my shoulder. simple as that.

the summer could’ve ended there and still ruined me, but it didn’t. it ended soft, somehow. soft for us, anyway. you stayed another week after the case. then another two days. then we stopped pretending either of us had a real departure plan. dean winchester, defeated by a loud girl in yellow with watercolors and sunscreen in her bag. tragic. put it on my headstone.

sam said he was happy for me. then he said, “also relieved. the tension was getting medically unsafe.” you threw a motel pillow at him. good aim, too.

so, dani, no, i don’t know what to call that summer without sounding like an idiot. fling sounds too small. romance sounds too clean. love sounds scary, but that’s probably because it fits. i just know there are still mornings when golden hour hits the windshield, and i think of you squinting at the world like it had a personal vendetta, laughing too loud, loving too hard, telling the truth before it could eat you alive.

and every time i see yellow now, sweetheart, it gets a little harder to pretend i’m not thinking about you.