ִ ࣪𖤐

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.

and there you are. tagged in three new photos from some party he didn’t know about.

not that you have to tell him. not after the fight. not after you stood in front of him two nights ago with your arms wrapped around yourself, asking him where he’d been, and sam said working the case even though you both knew there were too many missing hours in that answer. not after ruby’s name finally came out of your mouth in a tone that made his stomach drop before the argument even became real.

“you keep choosing her,” you said.

sam can still hear it. how tired you had sounded. he had hated that. hated the way it made him feel cornered because some ugly part of him knew you were right, and instead of admitting it, instead of saying i’m scared and i don’t know what i’m becoming, he got defensive. he said you didn’t understand. he said it was bigger than the two of you. he said things that sounded true and cruel at the same time, which might be the worst kind of true.

then you left. no slammed door. you just picked up your jacket and walked out with your mouth pressed tight, and sam let you because he was angry, because he was proud, because he was already half convinced you deserved someone less ruined by whatever was crawling around under his skin.

now you’re smiling in a photo with a red plastic cup in your hand.

the sight of it twists something low in him.

you look good. your cheeks are warm from the crowded room, your shoulders loose in a way they haven’t been around him lately, colored lights catching at the edges of your face.

sam stares at your smile and feels this horrible, selfish ache because he remembers when he could put that expression on you without thinking. stupid jokes over gas station snacks. his hand brushing yours over lore books. your laugh against his shoulder in the impala when dean complained about both of you being annoying.

he scrolls to the second photo.

you’re standing beside someone he doesn’t know. some guy with one hand resting on your waist. not low. not obscene. not enough that sam has any right to feel the hot rush of jealousy that climbs up his throat. it could be innocent. probably is innocent. the guy’s leaning in to hear you over the music, and you’re smiling at something off-camera, not even looking at him, but sam’s body reacts before his brain can be fair. his jaw tightens. his fingers curl around the mouse hard enough that the plastic creaks.

he zooms in. immediately hates himself for it. the hand is casual. familiar, maybe. your body is turned slightly away, but you don’t look uncomfortable. you don’t look trapped. you look fine.

you look fine without him.

that’s the part that makes him feel sick.

sam sits back, rubbing both hands over his face until his eyes burn. his chest feels too small, and there’s this ugly voice in him whispering that maybe this is what he wanted. wasn’t it? distance. freedom from his lies. space from the version of himself he keeps making worse. maybe you’re supposed to go to parties and let someone harmless touch your waist and laugh into the noise because at least there, nobody’s vanishing at midnight to meet a demon in an empty parking lot.

ruby.

even thinking her name feels wrong now. not because he doesn’t want to see her. he does. wants the certainty she gives him, the purpose, the burn of power in his veins that makes grief and fear and helplessness go quiet for a while. he wants it, and he hates wanting it, and somewhere inside all that wanting, he’s been leaving you alone with excuses that get thinner every time he uses them.

the next photo loads.

you’re laughing harder in this one, head tilted back, eyes closed, one hand covering your mouth as if someone caught you mid-sound. the guy’s still there, closer now, his hand no longer on your waist but on the back of your chair, leaning into your space with an expression sam can’t read from a frozen picture.

it could be nothing. sam knows that. he also knows nothing has been enough to ruin people before.

his stomach lurches again, sharp and mean. he imagines the guy asking if you’re single. imagines you pausing. imagines you not knowing what answer to give because sam doesn’t know either.

are you broken up?

the question lands with no mercy.

he thinks of the fight, of your face when he said maybe you should stop waiting up if you hated not knowing where he was. god. he said that. he actually said that to you. like you were unreasonable for noticing the empty side of the bed, the cold coffee, the blood on his lips.

sam closes the laptop. then opens it again. pathetic. your smile stares back at him from the screen, bright and distant and not his to reach for.

he wants to call you. wants to hear your voice, even angry, especially angry, because anger would mean there’s still a string between you he can pull without it snapping. he wants to ask who the guy is despite knowing he has no right. he wants to tell you to come back despite knowing he hasn’t earned it.

instead, sam stays in the motel room with the blue light on his face, looking at a picture of you being held, and tries to figure out when protecting the world started meaning he could destroy everything small and good that was still his.

you bought it because it was ridiculous.

you said ridiculous things deserved homes too, then looked at me like you had accidentally said something too sincere and immediately covered it by asking if i planned to stare at it all day or pay the woman at the counter.

that was you all over that summer. soft thing first, joke second. truth slipped out, then hid behind a laugh.

i think i wanted to learn you from the beginning.

you came into that sleepy seaside town like you were trying not to take up too much room, which was funny, because everything about you made people look twice. your locs, your piercings, the tattoos that showed when your oversized band shirts shifted in the heat, your long nails tapping against your phone while you checked the route like the entire trip would collapse without you. you dressed for comfort most days, baggy jeans and loose comic book tees, sneakers kicked off in the motel room, but sometimes you’d decide to be fancy, and the lashes came out, and the curls, and dean would pretend not to notice how fast i forgot what i was saying.

he noticed. he made it everyone’s problem.

the case was supposed to be quick. a few drownings blamed on tides, whispers about something moving near the old motel pool after midnight, the usual local “don’t go there after dark” story that always means we absolutely have to go there after dark. you were supposed to help with research for one afternoon. instead, you ended up staying the whole week because the town library had terrible records, the motel had cheap weekly rates, and you kept finding connections nobody else caught.

you said you were “just good at puzzles.” you were. not only the kind spread across tables, either, though i remember you sitting cross-legged on the motel carpet with little cardboard pieces scattered around your knees, trying to finish some ocean scene while dean kept stealing edge pieces because he has the maturity of a haunted raccoon. you were good at people too. patterns. moods. the exact second a room shifted. you acted reserved at first, careful with your face, careful with your voice, as if your real personality was something people had to earn.

then you got comfortable.

and god, tee, you were funny. loud in the best way. silly. quick. always laughing once you trusted us enough to let the sound out. you had this way of flirting without realizing you were doing it, leaning over my shoulder to read my notes, stealing my pen, calling me “book boy” like it was an insult even though you smiled every time. then i’d look at you too long, and you’d suddenly get very interested in your water bottle.

you were responsible about water, by the way. aggressively responsible.

every morning before the heat got ugly, you lined bottles on the motel dresser like supplies for a field mission. sunscreen, water, notes, snacks. in that order. you reminded everyone to reapply, and i learned pretty quickly that this wasn’t optional. you were careful with yourself in a way that looked practical but felt intimate when you turned that care on someone else. no rushing. no forgetting. no “you’ll be fine.”

i liked that about you.

i liked watching your long nails click against the sunscreen cap. i liked the little frown you got when you were making sure you hadn’t missed a spot. liked that you would bully me into eating something when i got buried in research, then act as if you weren’t doing anything sweet.

“sam,” you said once, setting a sandwich on top of my notes.

“i’m working.”

“you’re squinting at paper.”

“i’ll eat in a minute.”

“you’ll eat now, tall man, or i’m telling dean you skipped lunch.”

i ate. obviously.

the road trip didn’t help. you planned the route carefully, had every stop marked, every gas station checked, every backup option ready. then you acted easygoing about music while silently judging every single song dean picked. you didn’t have to say anything. your face said plenty. once, when dean put on something loud and smug at seven in the morning, your eyes flicked to the radio, then to me, and i almost choked on my coffee.

“what?” dean asked.

you smiled sweetly. “nothing.”

that smile was dangerous.

when the car broke down outside a bait shop with a sun-bleached shark painted on the wall, you were the first one out after dean. phone already in your hand, locs pulled back, sunlight catching on your piercings while you searched for solutions and read instructions aloud in the calmest voice i had ever heard from someone who kept saying, “i don’t know what any of this means, but it sounds important.”

dean hated that you were useful. i loved it.

you stood beside me while we worked, handing me tools, checking steps, occasionally touching my shoulder to get my attention. every time you did, my whole brain took a second to restart. embarrassing, but true. you were supposed to be a summer thing. a sweet distraction. a little flirtation in a town we were going to leave anyway.

then you made me want to stay for breakfast. then for another morning. then for another night.

the pool was your idea. after everybody else had gone inside, after dean had declared the suspicious-looking pool “mostly not our problem until tomorrow,” after the motel lights started buzzing and the air finally cooled enough to breathe, you came out with a towel over your shoulder.

“swimming after dark?” you asked.

i replied, “that’s how people get murdered in every movie.”

you looked at me over your shoulder. “good thing you’re tall and heroic.”

i followed you because i’m not stupid. or maybe because i am.

the water was warmer than i expected. quiet too, except for the filter humming and your laugh when i splashed you back. you moved easily in the water, comfortable in your body in a way that made me forget to be careful about looking. the pool, the night, your shoulders above the water, your locs pinned up, the ink on your skin dark where it disappeared beneath the surface. you caught me staring and went shy for half a second, which made it worse.

“you’re doing the face again,” you said.

“what face?”

“the serious-sam face.”

“maybe i’m serious.”

“about swimming?”

“about you.”

you drifted closer, slowly, like you were giving me every chance to make it a joke. i didn’t. my back touched the pool wall, and then you were there, water moving between us, your hand resting on my shoulder. i remember the exact pressure of your nails against my skin.

your mouth was cool from the water when we kissed. soft at first, almost careful, and then not careful at all. my hands found your waist under the water, and you made this quiet little sound against my mouth that i still think about at the worst possible times. you were warm and slippery and close, your knee brushing mine, your fingers sliding up into my hair like you’d been waiting all week to do it.

i kissed you harder.

you smiled into it, and i felt absolutely done for.

when we pulled apart, you were still holding onto me. your forehead rested near my chin, and i could hear you trying not to laugh.

“what?” i asked.

“nothing.”

“tee-”

“i’m just thinking,” you said, breathless, “if what happens in summer stays in summer, we might be in trouble.”

we were. so much trouble.

after that night, everything got worse in the best way. you sat closer at breakfast. i kept finding reasons to touch you in public where nobody could make a thing of it. hand at your back, fingers around your wrist, knee against yours under diner tables. you pretended to be casual, and i pretended not to know you were pretending. sometimes you’d fall asleep in the passenger seat after planning the route, and i’d look back from the front, watching morning light slide over your face, the curve of your nails against your water bottle, the tattoos i’d started recognizing by memory.

you made quality time feel like a language. sewing something small at the motel table while i researched. crocheting with a case file open beside you. sending me photos of your black cat because you missed her and then denying that you were emotional about it. making me sit through a puzzle because “your giant brain needs a hobby that isn’t doom.”

sharing space with you was easy in a way that scared me. because winchesters leave. that’s what we do.

the last morning, i tried. i packed before sunrise. quietly. stupidly. dean was asleep. the town was still gray-blue and half-empty. i told myself it was kinder to go before you woke up, before the heat, before breakfast, before you could look at me and make staying feel possible.

i made it to the parking lot.

you were already there, sitting on the hood of the impala with two bottles of water beside you and that novelty mug in your hands.

“wow,” you said. “leaving without hydrating? reckless.”

i stopped so fast my bag hit my leg.

you looked tired, and hurt, and still beautiful enough to ruin my life. oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder, lashes from the night before a little smudged, locs loose now, long nails wrapped around the mug. you were trying to be funny because if you weren’t, you would’ve cried. i knew the order by then.

“tee...” i said.

“you were going to leave.”

i didn’t have a good answer.

you looked down at the mug. “i thought this was supposed to be a fling.”

“so did i.”

“we’re bad at flings.”

“apparently.”

you laughed once, sharp and watery, and that was it. i set my bag down. crossed the lot. stood in front of you while the sun started climbing behind the motel sign.

i told you i couldn’t leave because you’d turned into part of the morning. part of the route. part of every stupid song i judged now because i knew you were judging it too. i told you i noticed you, all of you. the careful parts, the silly parts, the body art and the big shirts and the way you loved things with your whole chest once you felt safe enough. i told you i didn’t want summer to keep you.

you stared at me for a long second.

then you said, “eat something.”

i blinked. “what?”

“you confess love on an empty stomach, you’ll pass out. come on.”

so i stayed.

i failed miserably at leaving, actually.

and maybe that’s why i’m writing this now, with your mug on the table. because the summer didn’t stay in that town. it followed us. in sunscreen on my bag, in water bottles in the backseat, in the way i still look for sage green towels at every motel, in the way i keep remembering you in that pool, smiling against my mouth like you already knew i was gone for you.

i tried to leave once, tee. i’m still so glad you were there to catch me.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you fluster him by simply walking into a room like you know you’re worth looking at—and dean absolutely looks, then gets annoyed at himself for looking. ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t have to flirt. you just exist with that warmth, confidence, and dramatic little glow, and dean’s attention snaps to you before he can stop it. when you catch him staring, he makes a joke. when you smile because you know, he gets worse. leo, you make him feel hunted while standing perfectly still. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you fluster sam when your confidence turns soft on him—when you stop performing for the room and look at him like he’s the only person there. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam can handle you being bright. what gets him is when all that sunlight narrows down to him. you praise him casually, touch his shoulder, call him handsome like it’s obvious, and he immediately loses the ability to be normal. his smile goes shy first. then his eyes drop. cute.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you fluster him by being competent in a way that looks unintentionally hot—rolling up your sleeves, loading a gun correctly, telling him to sit still while you patch him up. ๋࣭ ⭑ dean pretends he’s annoyed when you boss him around. liar. the second you get focused, calm, precise, and a little sharp with him, he’s done. you don’t even have to touch him much. just look at him over a first-aid kit and say, “don’t move,” and suddenly he’s very interested in obeying. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you fluster sam with your brain first, then your hands—organizing lore, correcting translations, leaning over his shoulder to point at a line in the book. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam’s weak for competence. when you stand close enough for him to feel your warmth while explaining something brilliant, his thoughts start tripping over themselves. he listens, of course. he respects you. he’s also absolutely aware of your hand beside his on the table and hates how much it matters.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you fluster him by making everything look effortless—soft smiles, pretty teasing, touching his arm while laughing like you don’t know he’s losing oxygen. ๋࣭ ⭑ dean knows flirting. dean enjoys flirting. dean is not prepared for you to make him feel chosen in public with one little glance. you’re graceful about it, which ruins him. he can turn charm into a weapon, but yours feels natural, and that makes him feel naked in a way he can’t joke his way out of fast enough. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you fluster sam by being gentle and pretty with your attention—straightening his tie, smiling up at him, saying his name softly during a fake-cover conversation. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam becomes devastatingly polite when you fluster him. too polite. “yeah, no, that’s fine,” while his ears are warm and he’s completely forgotten what evidence he was holding. your charm gets under his skin because it doesn’t feel shallow. it feels warm. that’s far more dangerous.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you fluster him without touching him at all—just eye contact, silence, and that awful little look that says you know exactly what he’s thinking. ๋࣭ ⭑ dean hates this. you don’t flirt loudly; you let tension breathe until he’s the one filling the silence. you look at his mouth for half a second, then look away like nothing happened, and he nearly forgets his own name. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you fluster sam by reading him too well—standing too close, lowering your voice, asking one quiet question that sounds innocent but lands somewhere indecent. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam’s composure suffers around you. not because you’re obvious, but because you aren’t. your tension is controlled, slow, private. you make him feel seen and stripped down at the same time, and that’s a dangerous combination for a man already carrying seven different moral crises in his chest.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you fluster him by being carefree in a way that turns physical fast—falling against him while laughing, stealing his jacket, climbing over him in the backseat like personal space is a rumor. ๋࣭ ⭑ you make everything feel accidental. your knee knocks his, your hand lands on his shoulder, your smile comes too close, and dean has to act casual while absolutely not being casual. you’re fun trouble, and he’s deeply, tragically vulnerable to fun trouble. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you fluster sam when you drag him into the moment—grabbing his hand, pulling him after you, making him feel wanted before he has time to overthink it. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam likes control. you interrupt control. sometimes you look back at him with that bright, reckless grin, and his entire careful emotional structure takes a smoke break. he gets flustered because you make desire feel spontaneous, not planned. he doesn’t know what to do with that. obviously, he thinks about it for hours.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you fluster him by staying composed while he’s trying to get a reaction—cool eyes, steady voice, no visible weakness, and suddenly dean wants to earn one. ๋࣭ ⭑ dean flirts to make people crack. you don’t crack easily. that drives him insane. when you finally do give him something—a small smile, a dry comment, your hand brushing his while taking a weapon from him—it hits harder because he had to work for it. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you fluster sam with quiet authority—telling him exactly what needs to happen, holding his gaze too long, making competence feel intimate. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam respects control, discipline, focus. with you, respect starts blurring into something warmer and far less convenient. when you stand close and speak low, serious and certain, he listens too carefully. not just to the plan. to your voice. to the space between you. to the fact that he wants you to keep talking.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you fluster him because you’re impossible to predict—you say something strange, brilliant, completely unbothered, and dean suddenly wants your attention more than oxygen. ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t flirt when he expects it. you don’t react when he performs. you drift just outside his control, and it makes him ridiculous. one casual look, one offhand compliment, one “you’re prettier when you stop talking”, and dean’s left blinking at you while pretending he isn’t affected. he is affected. painfully. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you fluster sam by being weird in exactly the right way—saying something brilliant, leaning close to show him a theory, then wandering away like you didn’t just ruin him. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam’s fascinated first. then flustered. then doomed. your mind catches his attention, but your emotional distance makes every small sign of interest feel enormous. when you choose to sit beside him, when your shoulder touches his, when you quietly say, “i wanted your opinion,” he gets embarrassingly warm inside. disgusting. adorable.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you fluster him with softness that turns intimate by accident—sleepy eyes, gentle hands, saying something honest while standing too close. ๋࣭ ⭑ dean doesn’t know what to do when desire arrives wrapped in tenderness. you look at him too kindly, touch him too carefully, and make him feel wanted instead of hunted. that’s what ruins him. he can handle sexy. he can’t handle sexy and safe at the same time. pisces, you’re a federal threat to his emotional armor. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you fluster sam by making vulnerability feel sensual—soft voice, lingering eye contact, your fingers brushing his wrist like you forgot how powerful that is. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam gets quiet around you in the worst way. the best way. you say something gentle, maybe even a little dreamy, and he looks at you like he’s trying not to reach for something he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve. you don’t have to try. you make intimacy feel inevitable.

♈︎ 𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you fluster him when you get bold without making it seductive on purpose—standing too close during an argument, grabbing his jacket to pull him out of danger, snapping, “move!” while looking way too good doing it. ๋࣭ ⭑ dean acts like he’s amused, but the second your hand lands on his chest to stop him from walking into a room first, his whole brain short-circuits. you’re heat, movement, attitude, and terrible timing. he makes some cocky little comment, obviously, but his voice is rougher than it needs to be. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you fluster him by being physically fearless—getting in his space, stealing his weapon mid-fight, brushing past him like you don’t realize he’s suddenly forgotten the case. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam tells himself it’s adrenaline. it’s not. you move too fast, look too alive, and make impulse feel tempting. when you grin at him after doing something reckless, he stares one second too long before clearing his throat and pretending he was just assessing injuries. sure, sammy.

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you fluster him with comfort that feels sensual without trying—leaning against the counter in soft clothes, offering him food from your fork, brushing crumbs off his shirt like it’s nothing. ๋࣭ ⭑ dean can handle obvious flirting. what destroys him is you being warm and unhurried, moving around a motel room like you belong there. you make domesticity look dangerous. he watches your hands, your mouth, the easy way you settle beside him, and suddenly he’s making a joke because silence would give him away. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you fluster sam by being calm with your body—stretching on the bed with a book, touching his arm to get his attention, existing in a way that feels soft and grounded. ๋࣭ ⭑ it’s not loud tension. it’s worse. sam notices the little things: your shoulder against his, your knee brushing his under the diner table, the way your voice drops when you’re tired. he gets quiet. too quiet. then he looks at you like he’s trying very hard to be respectful while his mind has abandoned him.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you fluster him with your mouth, honestly—not even in a filthy way, just the speed, the teasing, the way you say his name like you’re daring him to answer. ๋࣭ ⭑ dean thinks he can win any banter war. then you lean closer, say something clever with that innocent little expression, and suddenly he’s staring at your lips instead of forming a comeback. you don’t even notice at first, which makes it worse. he recovers with a smirk, but baby, he was gone for a second. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you fluster sam by being witty and physically casual at the same time—talking too close, stealing his laptop, tapping his chest with one finger while proving him wrong. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam’s brain is his safest place, and you keep walking into it wearing a pretty smile and bad intentions. you make him laugh, then hit him with a teasing comment that sounds just suggestive enough to make his ears warm. he tries to answer logically. tragic mistake. you already won.

you worked hard to get him to trust you. months of hunts, patched-up injuries, late-night diner coffee, standing shoulder to shoulder in graveyards while ugly things crawled out of darker corners than neither of you wanted to talk about. you earned the version of him that doesn’t flinch when you reach across him for the weapons bag, the version that tosses you the impala keys without acting like he’s handing over his firstborn child, the version that grins too openly when you insult him back.

and what do you get for all that patience? intimacy? vulnerability? a tender breakthrough? no.

you get a plastic spider in your boot at six in the morning. you get a fake bloody hand in your duffel. you get your shampoo replaced with dish soap, your favorite jacket hung from the motel ceiling fan, and one deeply traumatic morning where every single pair of your socks had been dampened just enough to make you question the mercy of god.

dean thinks this is love language.

you think he needs consequences.

sam knows something is coming before dean does, because sam has survival instincts and dean has whatever the opposite of that is. he watches you from the motel table while dean’s in the shower, your expression calm as you hide the supplies back inside your bag: green food coloring, red hair dye, a bottle of body wash you found in a sad little drugstore clearance bin labeled classic musk, and one large box you have been guarding for three towns.

sam lowers his laptop screen by an inch. “should i ask?”

“no.”

“is anyone going to the hospital?”

“emotionally, maybe.”

he looks at the box. “is that for the car?”

you smile.

sam closes his eyes for a second. “i don’t want to know.”

“correct.”

the setup takes precision, spite, and the kind of quiet focus usually reserved for summoning rituals or assembling ikea furniture without crying. you’d inject the toothpaste with enough green coloring to make the inside of the tube look cursed, swap dean’s shampoo for a violent red rinse that promises temporary color in letters so cheerful they feel legally suspicious, and replaced his body wash with the elderly musk gel that carries the aggressive aura of mothballs, dusty church pews, and a man named eugene who owns three cardigans.

then comes baby.

you move fast in the parking lot, heart beating with the kind of joy that feels criminal. hello kitty steering wheel cover first. pink seat covers next. matching floor mats. a soft blanket stretched across the backseat. tiny headrest bows. one dangling charm from the rearview mirror that swings innocently in the dark, completely unaware it’s about to become the focal point of dean’s psychological collapse.

when you get back inside, sam is sitting exactly where you left him, hands folded beneath his chin.

“i’m not involved,” he says immediately.

“you’re a witness.”

“witnesses can be killed.”

“then maybe keep the poker face.”

he makes a strangled sound and goes back to pretending to read.

dean emerges from the bathroom twenty minutes later with a towel around his waist, red hair, green teeth, and the full confidence of a man who hasn’t yet processed that he looks like christmas tree coming to life. the red is not subtle. it clings to the short spikes of his hair in damp, furious streaks, especially near his temples, where it has taken on a cherry-cough-syrup intensity that makes your soul leave your body for one beautiful second.

his teeth are worse.

bright green. radioactive. cartoon-villain green.

you stare.

sam makes one tiny noise from the table and immediately turns it into a cough so violent it almost deserves an emmy.

dean narrows his eyes at both of you. “what?”

your mouth trembles. “nothing.”

“why are you looking at me weird?”

“i’m just admiring,” you say, voice thin with restraint, “your commitment to personal grooming.”

dean points at you with the hand holding his shaving kit. “don’t start. i have a date.”

that nearly ends you.

sam’s shoulders start shaking.

dean looks at him. “you got a problem?”

sam presses his lips together so hard they almost disappear. “nope.”

dean accepts this too easily. he tosses the shaving kit onto his duffel and keeps moving around the room, utterly unaware that every step sends that tragic old-man body wash clouding behind him. he gets dressed anyway. jeans, boots, dark shirt, leather jacket. somehow, horribly, he still has the posture of a man who thinks he can pull this off.

you sit on the edge of your bed with both hands folded in your lap, nails digging into your palms.

“so,” you manage. “big night?”

“absolutely,” dean checks himself in the mirror, then stops. properly stops. his face goes still in that dangerous little way that means his brain has finally caught up to his reflection, and for one beautiful second, the whole motel room holds its breath.

sam sinks lower behind his laptop.

dean leans closer to the mirror, lips parting just enough to reveal the green. bright. wet. horrifying. his eyes move up to his hair next. red. aggressively red. not cute copper, not sexy auburn, not even passable under bad motel lighting. just red in the way emergency exits are red. in the way cough syrup stains your tongue red. in the way warnings are red.

you press your lips together so hard they hurt.

dean turns slowly. “you.”

you blink, angelic. “me?”

“don’t me me!” he points at his own mouth. “why do i look like i ate a glow stick?”

sam makes a noise so high and strangled that it barely sounds human.

dean whips his head toward him. “you knew?”

sam’s face is pure suffering. “i didn’t know about the teeth.”

“but you knew something.”

sam looks at you, then at dean, then back at his laptop with the dead-eyed survival instinct of a man who has spent his whole life between two disasters and learned to choose silence when necessary. “i wasn’t part of it.”

you finally lose the fight and smile. big. bright. no shame.

dean stares at you for another second, furious, hair red, teeth green, and somehow still carrying the wounded dignity of a man betrayed by his own kingdom.

“rookie work.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“rookie,” he says again, rummaging through a duffel with unnecessary aggression. “you think this is my first rodeo? food coloring in toothpaste? hair dye in shampoo? come on. i practically invented bathroom warfare.”

“you invented bathroom warfare?”

“ask sam about the nair incident.”

sam closes his eyes. “please don’t.”

dean disappears back into the bathroom with all the purpose of a man going to war. water starts running. drawers open and slam. something clatters into the sink. you hear him muttering to himself, low and offended, and then—“sammy! i’m using your toothpaste.”

“why mine?”

“because mine’s been violated.”

you snort so hard you nearly choke. you sit on the edge of the bed, swinging one foot lightly, joy humming through your whole body.

the bathroom door opens again ten minutes later, and the worst thing happens.

dean looks good. of course he does. idiot. absolute curse of a man. the green is gone from his teeth, scrubbed clean by sam’s betrayed toothpaste and probably half a bottle of mouthwash. his hair is still red, but damp and pushed back now, the color settling into something annoyingly intentional under the yellow motel light. it should look ridiculous. it sort of does. but dean has the unbearable confidence to make even bad decisions look styled.

he steps out, jacket on, boots tied, jaw tilted in that way that says he knows he has recovered far too well. “see?” he says, spreading his arms. “still hot.”

you hate that you agree. deeply. personally.

dean catches the tiny shift in your face and grins. “oh, don’t look so disappointed. you made me hotter.”

“your hair looks like a traffic cone.”

“a sexy traffic cone.”

“those don’t exist.”

“i’m making history.” he checks himself in the mirror one last time, turns his head left and right, then nods with disgusting self-satisfaction. “yeah. date’s still happening.”

you keep smiling too much.

dean notices.

his eyes narrow. “what?”

“nothing.”

“no.” he points at you. “that’s not nothing. that’s your evil face.”

you fold your hands in your lap, sweet as a hymn. “have fun tonight.”

dean studies you for another second, suspicion flickering over his face, but ego wins. he grabs his keys from the table, twirls them once around his finger, and heads for the door.

“don’t wait up,” he says.

“wouldn’t dream of it.”

he leaves. the door shuts.

for two seconds, there’s silence.

sam slowly looks at you.

you look back at him.

outside, dean’s boots crunch across the gravel parking lot. there’s the faint jingle of keys. a pause. another step. then—“SON OF A BITCH!”

you’re already laughing by the time the door flies open again.

dean storms in with the kind of rage usually reserved for demons, betrayal, and people who put dents in baby’s doors. his face is red now too, almost matching his hair, which feels thematically excellent. he points toward the parking lot with a shaking hand.

“m-my car.”

you gasp, delighted. “is something wrong with baby?”

“do not call her baby right now.”

“why? she’s dressed so cute.”

“she has bows on her headrests.”

“yes.”

“pink floor mats.”

“mhm.”

“a hello kitty steering wheel cover.”

“limited edition.”

dean stares at you as if you’ve personally rewritten the laws of nature just to hurt him. “my car looks like it got stolen by a twelve-year-old.”

sam makes the mistake of laughing. not much. just one sharp little burst he tries to smother immediately with a cough.

dean turns on him. “oh, you think this is funny?”

sam’s eyes are wet. “no.”

“you’re crying.”

you lose it again, falling back against the mattress while dean glares at both of you, his date forgotten, his dignity in ruins, his red hair glowing under the cheap motel light. for a second, he holds onto the anger. really tries. you can see him fighting for it, clinging to the righteous fury of a man whose soulmate-on-wheels has been degraded by pink polyester and cute cats.

then his mouth twitches. “i’m homicidal.”

“you’re smiling homicidally.”

that breaks him.

dean laughs, sudden and rough, one hand bracing against the doorframe like even he can’t believe how badly he’s been played. the green teeth are gone, which is a shame, but the red hair and the old-man body wash still do plenty of work. he laughs until sam finally gives up pretending to cough and just laughs too, shoulders shaking over the table.

“okay,” dean says eventually, pointing at you. “truce.”

“no.”

his smile drops. “no?”

“beg.”

“i will absolutely not beg.”

you lift your eyebrows. dean glances toward the parking lot. you can almost see him picturing baby sitting out there in all her hello kitty glory, exposed to the public, vulnerable to witnesses, one stray pedestrian away from permanent humiliation.

his jaw works. his pride takes a knee. “please,” he says tightly, “remove the tiny cat cult from my car.”

you beam. “and?”

“and…” he exhales through his nose, already planning murder behind his eyes. “i’ll stop pranking you.”

sam snorts again.

dean does not look away from you. “temporarily.”

“there it is.”

“i’m honest.”

“you’re a menace.”

“you started car crimes.”

“you put a rubber finger in my cereal.”

“that was funny.”

“so is baby’s soft era.”

his grin comes back slowly, dangerous and warm at the same time. “enjoy it while you can.”

you should be scared. honestly, you are a little. dean winchester with a wounded ego, and red hair is not a safe man. but he’s laughing, and sam’s still wiping at his eyes, and for once the motel room holds nothing sharp or haunted or waiting to kill you. *just this—*dean looking ridiculous and happy and too fond of you to hide it properly.

“worth it,” you say.

his eyes linger for half a second longer than the joke needs. “yeah,” he says, quieter under the laughter. “we’ll see.”

your worlds collide when several animals arrive at the clinic with identical black splinters embedded beneath their skin. the injuries look minor until you realize the fragments form pieces of the same sigil. naturally, you begin investigating after your shift instead of minding your own business. terrible for your sleep schedule. excellent for the plot.

your tattoos, septum piercing, metalhead style, and stocky build make people assume you’re tougher than tender. you are tough. but your softness isn’t a contradiction. it’s the reason you keep fighting.

✧ first meeting + first impression

dean notices your tattoos and deftones shirt first, then becomes visibly more interested when you identify metallica playing from the impala before he even opens the door. his first impression is that you’re cool, guarded, and probably fun to annoy. your scorpio intensity clashes with his aquarius energy enough to create immediate tension. unfortunately for everyone, dean enjoys tension.

sam notices your competence first. you already have photographs, notes, and a theory connecting the sigil fragments to an abandoned farm outside town. your virgo rising speaks directly to his, while your scorpio placements oppose his taurus-heavy chart in a way that makes him curious almost immediately. he thinks you’re sharp, serious, and far more caring than your first impression suggests.

castiel notices the animals trusting you. your mars in pisces connects naturally with his pisces moon, while his venus in cancer understands the gentleness underneath your guarded exterior. his first impression is simple: you’re kind when nobody’s watching. that matters to him more than anything performative ever could.

✧ the friendship dynamic

with dean, friendship is built through music arguments, sarcasm, and the discovery that you’re both much softer than either of you advertises. he likes your edge and the fact that you don’t scare easily, but your scorpio-heavy chart reads him too accurately for his comfort.

with sam, the dynamic is quieter and deeper. your scorpio placements oppose his taurus sun, mercury, and mars, creating a strong sense of fascination and trust built slowly through shared research and consistency. he respects your instincts, and you appreciate that he never mistakes silence for disinterest.

with castiel, friendship feels unexpectedly gentle. he understands your compassion without treating it as weakness and takes your veterinary knowledge very seriously, even when dean starts calling you the team’s “monster vet”.

dean makes you laugh. sam makes you feel understood. castiel makes you feel safe enough to soften.

✧ quirks + fun things

→ dean steals control of the clinic speaker whenever your playlist becomes “too depressing”, then adds metallica as if that’s a meaningful compromise.

→ sam starts bringing you photographs of strange animal tracks from cases because he trusts your opinion more than whatever he finds online.

→ castiel becomes deeply invested in every animal recovering under your care and occasionally appears at the clinic just to ask for updates with complete seriousness.

ꔛ. something more,

✧ are you compatible .ᐣ first steps .ᐣ

with dean, there’s immediate chemistry. your scorpio placements square his aquarius energy, creating attraction, tension, and a stubborn refusal to admit either of you cares first. dean initiates the shift, probably after an argument that stopped sounding platonic several minutes ago.

with sam, the romantic pull is stronger and more sustainable. your scorpio stellium opposes his taurus placements, creating a magnetic slow burn with real emotional weight. your pisces mars also softens his grounded energy beautifully. sam notices his feelings first but moves carefully. he understands that earning your trust matters more than rushing the moment.

with castiel, the connection is tender and quietly intimate. his venus in cancer works beautifully with your scorpio placements, while his pisces moon understands your sensitivity. castiel feels the shift before he knows how to name it. you probably have to help him with that part. gently.

✧ the relationship dynamic

with dean, the relationship would be passionate, funny, and occasionally exhausting. he likes your confidence, your style, and your refusal to let him hide behind jokes forever. but your scorpio venus needs emotional honesty, while dean can become evasive when feelings get too serious.

with sam, the relationship would feel private, loyal, and deeply grounded. he shows love through reliability: remembering your shifts, helping with research, bringing food when you forget to eat, and giving you room without disappearing.

with castiel, love would feel gentle and sincere. he’d notice the smallest details, treat your softness carefully, and never expect you to become less guarded before you’re ready. the challenge is communication: castiel means deeply, but doesn’t always explain clearly.

✧ their favorite n worst version of you

dean’s favorite version of you, em, is when your dry humor comes out and you stop pretending you’re above enjoying his nonsense. his least favorite is when you become unreadable after something hurts, because he knows you’re carrying more than you’ll admit.

sam’s favorite version is the one quietly focused on helping something vulnerable—an injured animal, a frightened civilian, even one of them after a bad hunt. his least favorite is when you assume needing support would make you less capable. he doesn’t want you to turn strength into isolation.

castiel’s favorite version is the soft one you reveal accidentally. the one speaking gently to an animal that can’t understand every word but trusts the tone anyway. his least favorite is when you hide that tenderness because you think the world will punish it. he wouldn’t want you to harden just because hardness is easier to protect.

✧ fighting, hurting, making up

with dean, conflict comes from emotional avoidance. he jokes or withdraws, you go quiet and sharper around the edges. dean causes more damage because he may mistake silence for resolution.

with sam, the issue is stubbornness. your scorpio placements and his taurus ones can create standstills, but he’s usually more consistent about repair once he understands what hurt.

with castiel, misunderstandings come from bluntness and secrecy rather than cruelty. he may keep things from you because he thinks he’s protecting you.

emotionally, sam’s the most reliable communicator, castiel’s the most sincere, and dean’s the one most likely to need the conversation dragged out of him with metaphorical pliers.

ꔛ. scenario ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ vet by day ⋆ hunter by night

the clinic is technically closed, which means dean has no excuse for standing in the doorway with a paper bag of fries and the expression of a man personally betrayed by antiseptic.

“you said ten minutes,” he says.

“that was before someone brought in a cat with a cursed splinter in its paw,” you answer, not looking up from the tabby tucked against your chest. “hold the flashlight.”

dean sighs theatrically, but he takes it.

sam’s already beside you, sleeves pushed up, reading from the photocopied page you shoved at him five minutes ago. “the marking matches the sigil from the barn.”

“great,” you murmur. “love that for us.”

the cat growls. your hand moves automatically, stroking beneath its chin until the tension eases.

castiel watches with the solemn concentration he usually reserves for matters of cosmic importance. “it trusts you.”

“animals usually do.”

“more quickly than people?”

you glance at him. “cas.”

“that was not criticism.”

dean snorts. sam tries not to smile and fails.

once the splinter is sealed inside a salt-lined specimen jar, the cat settles against your shoulder as if it has decided you belong to it now. dean hands you a fry without asking. sam reaches over to tuck a loose strand of hair away from your face before it can fall into your eyes. castiel, after a thoughtful pause, places one careful hand on the cat’s head.

the cat immediately begins to purr.

“well,” dean says. “look at that. disney princess powers.”

“jealous?”

“deeply.”

you finally laugh, tired and soft, surrounded by fluorescent light, metallica playing quietly from your phone, and three men pretending they didn’t rearrange the entire evening around waiting for you to finish helping one small, angry animal. honestly, it might be the nicest case this week.

ꔛ. overall ゛with dean ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 7.4 / 10 with sam ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 8.9 / 10 with castiel ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 8.6 / 10

em, dean gives you the strongest immediate spark. he’d love your edge, your music taste, your tattoos, and the fact that your softness has teeth. but emotional consistency would take work.

castiel is a genuinely lovely match. he understands your gentleness instinctively and would never ask you to become less sensitive to survive the world around you. communication may occasionally require translation, but the foundation is safe.

sam is the strongest overall fit. your scorpio placements need loyalty with depth, not surface-level reassurance. sam’s taurus-heavy chart gives you steadiness without making the relationship dull, while your shared virgo energy makes everyday life feel surprisingly natural.

dean would make you feel desired. castiel would make you feel protected. but sam is the one most likely to make you feel trusted with his softness and safe enough to offer him yours.