ִ ࣪𖤐

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 7 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t catch it immediately, but once you do, you become impossible to shake—steady, stubborn, and quietly present. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 6 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ sam’s calm act works on you for a minute, but the second his routine changes, you know something is rotting under the surface.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 9 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you catch the inconsistency in his jokes, but sometimes you play along too long because the banter is simply too good. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 5 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you hear the shift in his words fast—sam says “i’m fine” too logically, and you’re already side-eyeing.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 2 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ dean barely has to breathe wrong before you’re looking at him like, “who hurt you?” which is his personal nightmare. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 3 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you feel the heaviness in him before he says a word, and sam hates how gently you notice what he’s trying to bury.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 8 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you recognize pride because you have your own, but dean’s performance can still distract you when he makes it charming enough. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 11 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you can tell when sam is off, but you might mistake his silence for distance instead of pain, and that gives him room to hide.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 3 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you notice everything—the fake laugh, the extra drink, the shoulder he’s favoring, the way his eyes don’t match his mouth. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 1 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ sam cannot hide from you. you read the pattern, the posture, the research spiral, the over-politeness. embarrassing for him.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 6 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you can read the room well enough to know when dean’s charm is doing overtime, but you wait for the right moment to press. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 8 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you sense the tension, but sam’s composed sadness is harder for you to confront because he makes it look so reasonable.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 1 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you see straight through the smirk, the jokes, the swagger, the “i’m good.” dean hates it. dean needs it. dean will deny both. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 2 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ sam can hide from most people, but not from you—you smell the guilt, the fear, the self-punishment before he even names it.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 10 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you want to believe the joke because it keeps things lighter, and dean uses that opening like the emotionally evasive criminal he is. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 12 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you assume sam will talk when he’s ready, which is sweet, but unfortunately this man would rather research folklore until his feelings fossilize.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 5 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you know the look of someone functioning through pain, because you do it too, so dean’s “i’m fine” lands suspiciously familiar. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 4 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you understand his control too well. the tighter sam gets, the more obvious it becomes that something inside him is cracking.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 12 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you understand detachment, but that’s the problem—you might respect his space so hard that he disappears into it. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 7 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you can read the mental spiral, but emotions make you both act like two haunted laptops trying to connect to bluetooth.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 4 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t need proof. you feel the sadness under the sarcasm, and dean immediately regrets having a soul around you. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 9 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you sense he’s hurting, but sam’s pain is so quiet and controlled that you sometimes soften around it instead of calling it out.

the reputation is useful. simple. uncomplicated. lets people look at him and decide they know the shape of him without getting close enough to notice the things he hides. nobody expects anything from the guy who can charm a bartender out of an extra slice of pie and be gone before she learns how he actually takes his coffee—which, side note, is not black.

nobody expects him to stay.

but then he gets you.

and god, isn’t that what he has always wanted, even if he would rather swallow broken glass than admit it out loud? someone who looks at him as if there’s still something worth choosing beneath all the damage. someone who laughs at his worst jokes and steals his shirts and reaches across the front seat of the impala to squeeze his hand when the road gets quiet in that particular way it does after a bad hunt.

someone who looks at him like he hung the fucking moon.

he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of love at first.

sometimes, you catch him watching you from across the motel room with this strange, almost startled softness, as though he’s still waiting for the moment you realize you could do better. as though you might wake up and see the blood beneath his fingernails, the exhaustion in his bones, every ugly thing he carries around with him, and decide you made a mistake.

you never do.

tonight, the motel room is warm from the ancient heater rattling beneath the window. sam’s taken off to collect dinner and give the two of you a little privacy after the hunt, making a pointed remark about not coming back for at least an hour while dean tells him to shut up and you try not to laugh into your sleeve.

now, it’s quiet. dean stands near the foot of the bed, looking at you in the amber glow of the bedside lamp. there’s a faint bruise forming near his jaw and a shallow cut at the edge of his eyebrow, cleaned but not bandaged because he insists it makes him look rugged. his flannel is unbuttoned over a dark shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and there’s something in the way his eyes move over you that makes warmth gather low in your stomach.

he looks at you as if he still can’t believe you’re real.

“what?” you ask, leaning back on your palms.

his mouth curves faintly. “nothing.”

“you’re staring.”

“can’t a guy appreciate his girlfriend?”

“you can,” you say. “but you have that face.”

his eyebrows lift. “what face?”

“the one where you look like you’re thinking too hard. which you know… rare, because you barely think at all.”

he huffs out a laugh and steps closer, settling between your knees. “cute.”

“you love me.”

the words come out teasing. casual. you say them often enough now that they shouldn’t feel like anything dangerous. yet, they still make his expression change.

his hand rises slowly, knuckles brushing along your cheek before his palm settles there, rough and warm. “yeah,” he murmurs, quieter now. “i really do.”

your breath catches, because dean’s never learned how to do anything halfway once he finally lets himself do it at all. his tenderness isn+t polished or poetic. it’s awkward in places. too honest. almost shy. he looks at you like he wants to memorize every little shift in your face before the world finds another way to take something good from him.

when he kisses you, it’s slow.

that’s the thing nobody would expect. dean doesn’t kiss you like he has somewhere else to be. there’s no performance in it, no smug little edge designed to prove anything. he cups your jaw carefully and tilts your face toward his, mouth warm and unhurried against yours, letting the kiss deepen only when you lean into him and fist one hand in the fabric of his shirt.

his other hand slides to your waist.

“you okay?” he asks against your mouth.

you smile, breathless already. “mmhm.”

“need an answer, sweetheart.”

“i’m okay.”

“yeah?”

“more than okay.”

something in his face loosens. he kisses you again, and it makes your chest ache in the best, worst way, because he touches you as if your comfort matters more than whatever he wants. every movement is patient. attentive. his thumb drifts along your side beneath the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and he pauses when your breathing changes, eyes flicking to yours immediately. watching. always watching.

you’ve heard people talk about men like dean before. confident men. experienced men. men with reputations. the assumption is that they come with something complicated to prove, that intimacy with them is supposed to be wild or rough or full of tricks designed to make you feel lucky to have their attention.

dean has none of that with you. with you, he’s almost painfully simple.

he wants to kiss you until you forget every ugly thing that happened on the hunt. he wants to feel your arms around his shoulders and hear the little breathless laugh you make when his stubble scratches your neck. he wants to pull back every few seconds just to look at you, eyes softened by something so open it nearly embarrasses him whenever you catch it.

he wants you comfortable.

he wants you warm.

he wants you looking at him like that.

“you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, mouth brushing the corner of yours.

you laugh softly, a little self-conscious despite yourself. “you’re biased.”

“damn right i am.”

“that isn’t how compliments work.”

“works exactly how i want it to.”

he eases you back onto the mattress, following carefully, one forearm braced beside your head so he never puts too much weight on you. his hand slides along your waist, then higher, then down again, not rushed. never rushed. the sheets shift beneath you, motel fabric rough against your legs, while dean kisses along your jaw and murmurs things into your skin that make warmth spread through you in slow, dizzy waves. nothing clever. nothing filthy for the sake of being filthy. just your name. sweetheart. pretty girl. tell me if you need anything. you good? and then, softer, as if it slips out before he can stop it, “god, i love you.”

you tighten your arms around him. “i love you too.”

he goes still for half a second, forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven. it isn’t the first time you said it. far from it. but dean receives every declaration like a man who grew up expecting love to come with an expiration date.

the rest unfolds slowly, with the lamp still glowing beside the bed and the sounds of passing cars drifting faintly through the motel window. dean kisses you until everything outside the room feels distant. the monsters. the blood. the impossible odds. all of it quiets beneath the warmth of him, beneath the steady drag of his hands and the way he keeps checking your face, making sure you’re with him every step of the way.

there’s nothing extravagant about it. nothing reckless. just dean holding you as if he’s been cold his entire life and finally found somewhere warm enough to rest.

afterward, he lies on his back beside you, one arm tucked beneath your shoulders, the other hand moving lazily along your skin. his breathing is still uneven, hair mussed, cheeks faintly flushed. there’s something younger about him in moments like this. softer. almost peaceful.

you turn your head and catch him watching you again. “what?” you repeat the question.

he gives you a tired little smile, but his eyes stay serious. “nothing.”

you wait.

eventually, he looks toward the ceiling, jaw working as if the next words are harder than fighting a nest of vampires with one good knife and a bad plan.

“just don’t get tired of me, okay?” the question is so quiet you almost miss it. it hurts more than anything could.

you shift closer until your cheek rests against his chest, right over the steady beat of his heart. “not planning on it.”

dean exhales, long and slow, while he holds you with both arms like the world has spent his whole life taking things from him and he’s not quite ready to believe it’ll let him keep you.

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ field duty ๋࣭ ⭑ dean likes you beside him because you’re steady, hard to shake, and not dramatic when things get bloody. you’re not the flashiest hunter in the room, but that’s exactly why dean trusts you out there. you hold your ground. you don’t panic. you don’t abandon the plan just because something ugly shows its teeth. he still teases you for being stubborn, obviously, but when the door opens and the lights flicker, he wants you there. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ research duty ๋࣭ ⭑ sam trusts your patience, your focus, and your ability to sit with one dusty book longer than five minutes without losing your mind. sam looks at you and sees someone who can actually handle the slow part of hunting. the old records, the witness timelines, the pattern that only shows up after three hours of checking dates. he also likes knowing you’re somewhere safe while he’s in the field, but don’t call him out on that unless you want him to start blinking too much.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ research duty ๋࣭ ⭑ dean puts you on research because your brain moves faster than his patience, and he needs that weaponized. you’re dangerously good at connecting random details. one weird newspaper clipping, one witness comment, one blurry symbol in a basement, and suddenly you’ve built a whole theory that should not make sense but does. dean pretends he’s annoyed by your rambling, but he listens. he always listens. especially when you find the thing that saves his ass. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ research duty ๋࣭ ⭑ sam loves your mind in research mode, even when you make the process feel like chasing a caffeinated ghost. you’re a lot, but in the lore room? useful. fast. sharp. mildly terrifying. sam gives you research duty because you’ll find the obscure connection nobody else would think to search for, then explain it in six different directions while he quietly tries to keep up. he acts exhausted, but he’s into it. academically, of course.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ field duty ๋࣭ ⭑ dean puts you in the field because your instincts are scary accurate, especially when someone needs saving. you read rooms better than people give you credit for. you notice fear, grief, hesitation, the little emotional cracks a case leaves behind. dean trusts that in the field because sometimes the truth isn’t in the lore; sometimes it’s in the way a witness looks at a locked door. he still gets protective, though. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ research duty ๋࣭ ⭑ sam trusts you with research because you follow the emotional thread of a case without losing the facts. you’re good at understanding why the haunting is happening, not just what is happening. sam appreciates that more than he says. he gives you the old journals, the family history, the tragedy buried under the monster story, because you can read between the lines without turning everything into cold evidence. you find the heart of it.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ field duty ๋࣭ ⭑ dean is absolutely putting you in the field because you walk into danger like the lighting was made for you. you’re too bold to be hidden behind a laptop, and dean knows it. you’re useful when intimidation matters, when confidence sells the fake badge, when someone needs to draw attention while he gets into position. he says it’s because you’re “loud enough to distract anything with ears,” but baby, he trusts your courage. he just phrases it terribly. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ field duty ๋࣭ ⭑ sam sends you into the field because your confidence can crack open doors his careful approach can’t. you’re good with people. good with pressure. good at standing tall when things get ugly. sam may worry your pride will push you into unnecessary risks, but he also knows your presence changes a room. you can command attention while he gathers the details. basically, you’re the spotlight and he’s the strategy. awful power couple energy.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ research duty ๋࣭ ⭑ dean puts you on research because you catch the tiny details that keep him from getting thrown through walls. he’ll complain about your notes, your corrections, your “actually, dean,” voice—but he trusts it. deeply. you spot inconsistencies, translate symbols, organize the mess, and still somehow have time to tell him he’s holding the wrong weapon. he acts offended. then does exactly what you said. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ research duty ๋࣭ ⭑ sam does not just assign you research duty; he practically builds you a throne out of case files. this is your kingdom. archives, patterns, details, timelines, latin translations, suspicious medical reports—you eat it up. sam trusts you here because you don’t just find information, you refine it into something usable. he also enjoys working beside you more than he should. two nerds, one lore table, zero emotional boundaries.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ field duty ๋࣭ ⭑ dean brings you into the field because you can charm answers out of people before he even gets impatient. you’re useful in interviews, fake identities, small-town gossip, and any situation where dean’s “fbi face” starts looking too much like “i hate everyone here”. you smooth the edges. you get people talking. you make witnesses feel safe enough to spill secrets. dean says you’re manipulative. you say you’re persuasive. both things can be true. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ field duty ๋࣭ ⭑ sam trusts you in the field because you can de-escalate a room before it turns into a crime scene. sam knows not every case needs brute force first. sometimes it needs diplomacy, softness, social intelligence, and someone who can tell when a person is lying without making them shut down. that’s you. he likes having you beside him during interviews because you make people open up. also because you make him look less intimidating by association.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ field duty ๋࣭ ⭑ dean wants you in the field because you smell danger before it shows its teeth. you’re intense, controlled, and way too comfortable walking into dark places with a plan you only half-explain. dean hates that. dean respects that. he gives you field duty because you’re good at reading threats, good at staying calm, and good at doing what has to be done when things get ugly. he just wishes you’d stop being so mysterious about it. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ research duty ๋࣭ ⭑ sam puts you on research because you dig too deep, and unfortunately, that’s exactly what the case needs. you don’t skim. you investigate. you pull at the rotten thread until the whole thing comes undone. you find what’s buried. sometimes he worries you enjoy the digging a little too much. he’s not wrong.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ field duty ๋࣭ ⭑ dean would never trap you behind research unless he wanted you to start climbing the motel walls. you belong in motion. roads, interviews, abandoned buildings, bar distractions, bad plans that somehow work. dean gives you field duty because you bring nerve and speed to a hunt, even if you also bring chaos and a suspicious disregard for safety protocols. he complains. then grins. then complains again. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ field duty ๋࣭ ⭑ sam knows you’ll go insane doing research, so he sends you out before you start touching cursed objects for entertainment. you’re better when the case has movement. give you a witness to question, a lead to chase, a suspect to follow, and suddenly you’re brilliant. leave you with three books and a laptop, and you become a workplace hazard. sam assigns you field duty because he values your instincts. also because he values motel property.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ research duty ๋࣭ ⭑ dean gives you research duty because you’re disciplined enough to actually finish the boring part without whining. you’re reliable, focused, and impossible to intimidate with paperwork. dean respects that, mostly because he does not want to do it himself. you handle the logistics, the records, the timelines, the ugly practical details. then you hand him the solution with the expression of someone who has already judged his life choices. he hates that he trusts you. he does, though. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ research duty ๋࣭ ⭑ sam trusts you with research because you treat the case like a problem to be solved, not a vibe to be chased. you and sam work well in the quiet, serious part of hunting. the structure. the evidence. the method. he likes that you don’t panic when the information gets complicated. you organize the chaos into something clean, and honestly, that scratches a part of his brain he pretends is purely professional. liar.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ research duty, against his better judgment ๋࣭ ⭑ dean puts you on research because your theories are weird, but then they keep being right, which is deeply annoying for him. you do not research in a normal way. you connect symbols to radio static, local legends to weather patterns, ghost activity to some obscure historical law nobody asked about. dean spends half the time saying, “what the hell are you talking about?” and the other half realizing you cracked the case. he hates the process. respects the result. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ research duty ๋࣭ ⭑ sam gives you research duty because your brain goes sideways in exactly the way a weird case needs. sam can follow your logic better than most people, which is lucky because you are not explaining it twice. you catch patterns outside the obvious structure, and that makes you valuable when the usual lore doesn’t fit. he still wishes you’d cite sources instead of saying “trust me”, but he does trust you. quietly. reluctantly. a lot.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ field duty ๋࣭ ⭑ dean puts you in the field because your intuition keeps saving people before the facts catch up. he worries about you, obviously. he worries about everyone, but with you it gets extra annoying because you follow feelings into dangerous places. still, he’s seen your instincts work too many times to dismiss them. you sense when a spirit is scared instead of angry, when a victim is lying out of grief, when violence won’t fix the case. dean grumbles, but he listens. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ research duty ๋࣭ ⭑ sam keeps you on research because you understand the emotional shape of a case better from a safe distance. sam trusts your empathy, but he also knows the field can pull too hard on you. research gives you space to notice the story underneath the horror: the loss, the unfinished business, the truth hiding in old letters and family records. you make the case human before it becomes a body count. that matters to him.

he scratches the back of his neck as your daughter races toward the slide, sand still clinging to the knees of her leggings, and says, “you eaten yet?”

you look at him over the rim of your coffee cup. “it’s four-thirty.”

“yeah, well—i’m planning ahead.”

“planning ahead,” you repeat, with the same amount of belief you gave his big park guy routine.

dean narrows his eyes. “some people appreciate organization.”

“you used to pack one shirt for a three-week hunt.”

“it was a good shirt.”

“i’m pretty sure it had holes in it.”

“ventilation.”

the smile happens before you can stop it. his follows a second later, quieter and a little crooked around the edges, and there it is again—that strange pull low in your chest, too familiar to dismiss and too old to feel this new.

he glances toward your daughter, then back at you. “there’s a place a few blocks over. decent burgers. actual tablecloths. no laminated menus stuck together with syrup.”

“high standards.”

“i’m classy now.”

“you have mustard on your jacket.”

dean looks down immediately. you laugh when he realizes there’s nothing there, and he gives you a deeply unimpressed look that would probably work better if his mouth wasn’t twitching.

“you’re still mean,” he says.

“you liked me mean.”

his eyes catch yours just for a second. long enough to remind you that this hasn’t always been teasing on park benches and careful questions about where you live now. long enough to remember motel mattresses, his hand around your wrist as he tugged you back beneath the sheets, his sleepy voice against your shoulder telling you to stay another five minutes when both of you knew there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

dean clears his throat. “yeah,” he says, quieter. “i did.”

your daughter shrieks happily from the slide. the moment breaks before either of you has to do anything dangerous with it.

“my mom can take her tonight,” you say, trying for casual and getting close enough. “if you still want to… catch up.”

“catch up,” dean agrees quickly. “yeah. exactly. two old friends. food. normal amount of catching up.”

“what would be an abnormal amount?”

“guess we’ll find out.”

you agree to meet dean at the restaurant at seven-thirty. he checks his watch afterward and realizes he has just under three hours to help sam kill whatever has been dragging people into the storm drains beneath the town, shower, find a clean shirt, and pretend he hasn’t spent the last decade occasionally thinking about what your laugh sounds like when you’re trying not to let him know he’s funny.

it should be manageable. it isn’t. the creature takes two iron rounds, a machete, one extremely undignified wrestling match in approximately three inches of sewer water, and a final shot from sam before it stops moving. even then, it manages to rupture something wet and foul-smelling all over dean’s chest on the way down.

dean stands there in the dark tunnel, breathing hard, covered from his hairline to his boots in a greyish slime with the texture of half-set gelatin.

sam lowers the shotgun slowly. “you okay?”

dean looks at him.

sam presses his lips together. he makes it almost three seconds before laughing.

“shut up.”

“you smell terrible.”

“yeah, no kidding, sam.”

dean checks his watch and swears. loudly. with feeling.

the motel shower has the water pressure of an elderly garden hose, but he stays beneath it until his skin turns pink and the water finally stops running an alarming shade of brown. he shampoos his hair twice. then a third time because he catches a faint whiff of sewer monster when he leans closer to the mirror and refuses to risk it.

his cleanest shirt is only slightly wrinkled. his jeans are fine. his boots have survived worse. he stares at his reflection, rubs a hand over his jaw, then reaches for the bottle of aftershave beside the sink.

not enough.

dean opens sam’s toiletry bag.

“touch my stuff and die,” sam calls from the other side of the bathroom door.

“why do you have three different bottles in here?”

“because i know how hygiene works.”

“this one says eau de toilette.”

“put it down.”

“what the hell does that even mean?”

“it means you don’t need half a bottle of it.”

dean uses some anyway. then a little more aftershave. then, on the drive across town, he stops at a gas station and sprays himself once with the tester bottle of cologne locked inside a dusty plastic display beside the register, because dignity is a flexible concept and he’s already running twelve minutes late.

by the time he reaches the restaurant, he smells less like a dead monster and more like an airport duty-free shop. you’re already waiting near the entrance.

for one stupid second, dean forgets every excuse he rehearsed in the car.

you’re not dressed for anything fancy. neither is he. but your hair is loose around your shoulders, and there’s a softness to your mouth when you spot him weaving between the tables that makes his palms damp in a way he’d prefer not to examine too closely. you smile. dean smiles back before he remembers he’s supposed to be annoyed with himself for being late.

“sorry,” he says as he reaches the table. “case ran long.”

your eyes drag over him, taking in the damp hair, the faint nick beside his temple, the clean shirt he has clearly pulled from the bottom of a duffel bag.

then your nose wrinkles. “did you bathe in cologne?”

dean slides into the chair opposite you. “no.”

you raise a very questionable brow at him.

“there was an incident.”

“an incident.”

“monster goo.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. it does nothing. your shoulders start shaking anyway.

“glad my suffering’s funny to you.”

“i’m sorry,” you say, entirely insincere. “i’m trying to be sympathetic. it’s just—”

“i smelled worse before.”

that does it. you laugh into your hand, warm and helpless, and dean stares at you with the beginning of a grin he can’t quite suppress.

“much worse,” he adds, because apparently he’s willing to humiliate himself for the sound of it now.

“i believe you.” you reach across the table without thinking and brush your thumb lightly over the scrape at his temple. the touch lasts barely a second before you pull your hand back. “you okay?”

dean goes still. you used to ask him that after every hunt, usually while patching him up in some motel bathroom with your knees pressed against his and your medical kit spread across the sink. he used to lie. you always knew when he did. sometimes you’d let him anyway. “yeah,” he says. “nothing serious.”

your eyes stay on his face for another moment. “what was it?”

“ugly bastard living beneath the storm drains. sam’s digging through the lore. had these teeth—” dean holds two fingers apart, warming immediately to the story. “seriously, they were huge. and it moved fast. faster than it had any right to move, considering it looked like a melted halloween decoration.”

you listen as he talks, interrupting with questions in the right places, your expression shifting with easy familiarity when he mentions sam nearly losing his footing in the tunnel. by the time the waitress arrives, dean has stopped feeling quite so aware of his own hands. by the time your burgers come, he’s made you laugh twice more and learned that you still steal fries from other people’s his plate without asking.

“you have your own,” he says as your fingers retreat from his side of the table.

“yours looked better.”

“they’re the same fries.”

he pushes his plate slightly closer to the middle anyway.

it should feel stranger than it does. there are years sitting between you, too many of them, full of things neither of you knows how to ask without making the evening heavier than it’s allowed to become. but some habits survive untouched. dean still eats the pickle from your burger because you slide it onto the edge of his plate without asking. you still nudge your knee against his when you laugh too hard. neither of you acknowledges the contact. neither of you moves away.

eventually, he asks about you. not in the easy, polite way people do when they are waiting for their turn to speak. dean wants details. where you work. whether you still hate mornings. how long you have lived in town. whether your mom is nearby. what your daughter’s favorite cartoon is and why she apparently considers apple juice a matter of national importance.

you tell him more than you mean to. about preschool drop-offs and your job and the apartment with the unreliable kitchen faucet your landlord keeps promising to fix. about the way your daughter insists on wearing mismatched socks because matching ones are “too serious”. about your mother taking her tonight and giving you a look so unsubtle it should legally qualify as harassment.

dean laughs at that. “she still hates me?”

“she never hated you.”

“she threatened me with a carving knife.”

“she threatened everyone with a carving knife. it was her favorite knife.”

“comforting.”

“she asked whether you were still handsome.”

dean pauses halfway through reaching for his beer. “what’d you say?”

you pick up a fry, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking embarrassed. “i told her age had been very cruel to you.”

“wow.”

“tragic, really.”

“and yet here you are.”

“free burger.”

“right.”

his smile lingers afterward. yours does too.

the plates empty. the restaurant grows quieter around you. someone begins stacking chairs upside down on the tables near the window, and you realize with a start that you’ve been sitting there for almost three hours. dean glances toward the closing staff with visible betrayal, as though they’re personally responsible for the fact that the night has to end.

he pays before you can argue properly, but you argue anyway. he ignores you with the smug ease of someone who has always enjoyed irritating you in very specific, carefully cultivated ways.

outside, the air has cooled. your car is parked beneath a streetlamp at the edge of the lot, but neither of you moves toward it immediately. dean stands in front of you with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, rocking back slightly on his heels. for a man who has faced demons without blinking, he looks strangely uncertain now.

“so,” you say.

“so.”

“this was nice.”

“yeah.” dean looks down, then back at you. “yeah, it was.”

the silence isn’t uncomfortable. it would be easier if he gave you a grin and some teasing line, something familiar enough to hide behind. instead, he watches you with an openness that feels almost accidental, as though the part of him that usually shuts every door has forgotten where the locks are.

“what time do you work tomorrow?” he asks.

you blink. “eight-thirty.”

“i could drive you.”

your eyebrows lift. “dean—”

“or we could get coffee,” he says, too quickly. “before. after. lunch, maybe. doesn’t have to be—” he exhales through his nose, frustrated with his own mouth. “anything. i just thought i could see you again.”

the honesty of it settles between you. slightly awkward. too specific. very dean, even if he looks as though he wishes he could grab the words and shove them back inside his chest.

you should make him work harder for it. maybe you will, eventually. he left once. you remember that too. the motel room door closing. the impala disappearing from the parking lot. the horrible, childish part of you that waited for the sound of the engine returning even after you knew it wouldn’t.

but he’s here now. smelling faintly of too much cologne and looking at you with that small, nervous smile he probably doesn’t realize he’s wearing.

“coffee,” you say. “before work.”

dean’s shoulders loosen. only slightly. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

“i’ll pick you up.”

“seven-thirty.”

“on the dot.”

you laugh softly, pulling your phone from your bag. “you’re a little out of practice.”

“been busy.”

“with sewer monsters?”

“amongst other things.”

you exchange numbers even though some stubborn, embarrassing part of you still remembers his by heart. dean sends himself a message from your phone, then hands it back carefully, his fingers grazing yours.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

you nod. “tomorrow.”

he takes one step backward. then another. he looks reluctant to turn away, and it makes your chest ache in a place you thought had learned better.

“dean?”

“yeah?”

“you’ll show, right?”

his expression shifts. the teasing leaves first. what remains is quieter, stripped of every easy escape he has relied on since the moment he saw you wearing your grandmother’s ring.

“i wouldn’t miss it.”

there’s only a motel room with yellow curtains and a heater that clicks every few minutes without producing much warmth. there’s a half-empty cup of coffee cooling beside your elbow. there’s your paperback folded open across your knees, the pages crowded with underlined sentences and cramped notes in the margins because you can’t seem to read anything without arguing with it a little. there’s dean, standing beside the door with his jacket already on, staring at you as though you have personally offended him by occupying the only chair.

“you know books are supposed to be relaxing, right?” he asks.

you keep your eyes down on the page. “i am relaxed.”

“you wrote three paragraphs beside one sentence.”

“i’m taking notes.”

dean takes a drink from his coffee and glances across the room at sam, who’s sitting at the tiny table beneath the window with his laptop open and several printed maps spread around him. “she’s doing homework for fun again.”

sam doesn’t look up immediately. the corner of his mouth moves first, a quiet little smile he almost manages to hide behind the screen. “leave her alone.”

“i’m not bothering her—i’m concerned. there’s a difference.”

“you tried to take the book away from me ten minutes ago,” you remind him.

“because we have a job.”

“and because you wanted the chair.”

“well, two things can be true.”

you close the book around the receipt you’re using as a bookmark and stand, smoothing your palms over your jeans. dean immediately drops into the chair with the satisfied sigh of a man who has survived a significant hardship. you roll your eyes at him, gathering your hair over one shoulder while you lean closer to the maps. it's long enough now that the ends catch beneath the strap of your camera whenever you forget to move them, dark brown that turns almost black in the motel room’s poor lighting except where your grown-out highlights soften it near the ends. your bangs have reached the awkward stage where they refuse to behave properly, no matter how many times you push them away from your face.

sam reaches across the table without thinking and gently frees one strand caught against the chain of your necklace.

it’s such a small thing. barely anything at all. his fingers don’t even touch your skin, only the moss-green aquamarine pendant you wear every day and the loose piece of hair tangled around it. still, your body notices. horribly. instantly.

“sorry,” he murmurs.

“no, it’s okay.”

his eyes lift to yours for a second, warm and a little uncertain, before he lets the strand fall against your shoulder. 

you’ve been in love with sam winchester long enough to recognize the exact shape of your own bad decisions. most of them are tall, soft-spoken, and currently wearing a faded brown hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

you look down at the map before your face can betray you. “so,” you say, forcing your attention toward the red circles sam has drawn around three separate areas of woodland. “we’re sure it’s a werewolf?”

“pretty sure,” sam says. his voice settles into that calmer register he slips into when he’s explaining something, patient without making you feel inexperienced. “three victims within six weeks. same general area, all killed overnight. the police reports blame an animal attack, but the injuries are too consistent. severe trauma to the chest, hearts missing.”

“romantic,” dean grumbles.

you glance toward him. “you eat while we talk about autopsy reports.”

“i contain multitudes.”

“it’s called diabetes and cholesterol. get it checked.”

dean gives you a flat look over the rim of his coffee cup. sam ducks his head, but not quickly enough to hide his laugh.

that sound still catches you off guard sometimes. not because it’s rare exactly, although it’s rarer than it should be. but because you remember how guarded sam was when you first met him. you remember the distance he kept between himself and the rest of the world, even while he’s polite, even while he’s kind. grief sat heavily on him in those first few weeks. guilt did too. you didn’t understand all of it at the time, and you knew better than to pry open wounds he was trying to carry quietly. you only made coffee when he had been staring at the laptop too long. you brought extra food when dean forgot that his brother doesn’t survive exclusively on gas-station snacks and spite. you listened when sam offered pieces of himself in careful increments.

somewhere along the way, you become part of the rhythm.

you’re not born into hunting. there’s no family journal waiting in a locked box beneath your childhood bed, no parent teaching you how to draw a devil’s trap before you know long division. before sam and dean, the most dangerous thing you regularly did was stand on your tiptoes to reach the top shelf in your kitchen rather than finding a chair. 

then a spirit followed you home from an abandoned hotel, and sam and dean saved your life, and the world became much larger and stranger than it had any right to be.

you’re supposed to go back to normal afterward.

you tried. for almost two weeks when dean answered the phone at two in the morning and heard you say, “hypothetically, how much salt is too much salt to pour across a doorway?”

you’ve been with them ever since.

“the most recent victim worked at a summer camp,” sam continues, tapping the map. “josh miller. twenty-four. his body hasn’t been found, but his truck was abandoned near the service road.”

“which means he might not be a victim,” you say.

sam nods. “he could’ve been bitten during the first attack.”

“and now he’s hiding somewhere familiar,” dean adds. “isolated property, plenty of places to disappear until sundown. simple enough.”

simple enough. you should know better than to trust those words.

the camp looks harmless in daylight.

the main building sits beyond a cracked wooden sign painted with cheerful yellow letters, surrounded by bare trees and damp earth. a row of cabins stretches toward the edge of the woods, their windows dark, their doors locked. there are faded murals along the dining-hall wall. your camera rests against your chest as you walk, tapping softly against your pendant with every step.

dean notices you taking a picture of the sign.

“seriously?”

“what?”

“you making a scrapbook?”

“yes, dean. i’m going to title this page ‘possible werewolf murder camp.’ i’ll add glitter later.”

“make sure you get my good side.”

“that would require extensive editing.”

he points at you without looking back. “your attitude is getting worse.”

“you’re a bad influence.”

“you’re welcome.”

ahead of you, sam checks the lock on the main building and glances over his shoulder. his hair is falling into his eyes again, slightly too long even by his standards, and the mild exasperation on his face does absolutely nothing to disguise his affection.

“both of you,” he says quietly. “focus.”

“i am focused,” dean says. “i’m focused on how mean she’s gotten since we picked her up.”

you follow them onto the wooden steps. “you begged me to stay after the poltergeist case because i was the only one who remembered to bring a first-aid kit.”

“begged is a strong word.”

“you called me from a gas station and said sam was bleeding on the upholstery.”

“he was!”

sam opens the door after a few seconds with the lock pick, shaking his head. “i’m right here.”

your shoes squeak faintly against the linoleum as you step inside, letting your eyes adjust to the dimness. there are chairs stacked upside down on tables and boxes of craft supplies tucked beneath the serving counter. a bulletin board displays photographs from the previous summer: sunburnt teenagers in matching shirts, children grinning with missing front teeth, counselors posing beside a canoe. 

“audry,” dean calls without turning around. “stay where we can see you.”

it shouldn’t bother you. it’s sensible. you’re newer than they are, and dean has a point even when he packages it inside that gruff older-brother tone he’s started using whenever you stray more than ten feet away from him in a dangerous place. 

something in your chest tightens anyway. “i know.” 

sam pauses in the office doorway and looks back at you. the glance lasts only a moment, but he reads you too easily. “you’re doing fine.”

you lower the camera slightly. “i didn’t say anything.”

“you didn’t have to.”

dean appears from behind the counter with a silver knife in his hand. “nobody thinks you’re doing a bad job, short stack.”

you narrow your eyes. “i’m going to let the werewolf eat you.”

“see? attitude problem.” his voice is teasing, but he waits until you roll your eyes before turning away again. 

he knows too. neither of them ever says it directly, this quiet understanding that your fear is rarely about the monster in front of you. it’s about being useful enough to earn your place beside them. capable enough that no one has to regret trusting you. easy enough to keep around.

you look down at your camera, rubbing your thumb against the edge of the screen. your nails are painted a glossy dark green this week, although the polish on your index finger is chipped from forcing open a stubborn ammunition box yesterday. “i just don’t want to be the reason something goes wrong.”

for one second, sam looks as though he wants to say more. something larger than the moment has room for. instead, he reaches out and briefly squeezes your shoulder. “you’re not,” he says. “you won’t be.”

dean straightens near the kitchen door. “found blood.”

the conversation closes around those two words.

you move toward him. the stain is old enough to have darkened against the linoleum, smeared in a broken trail leading toward the back exit. sam crouches to inspect it while dean tests the door.

“lock’s busted,” dean says.

“something left in a hurry,” sam murmurs.

you take a picture of the blood, then another of the damaged frame. the flash briefly fills the room. 

for a second, you see something reflected in the narrow glass panel beside the door. a shape. too tall. too close. “sam—”

the door slams inward hard enough to send dean stumbling back. the creature hits him first, a blur of torn clothing and bared teeth, driving him into the counter with enough force to scatter metal trays across the floor. sam’s already moving. he shoves you behind him with one arm, raises the gun in the other, and fires.

the silver bullet catches the werewolf high in the shoulder.

it howls, twisting toward him.

“dean!” sam shouts.

dean recovers before the creature can lunge again. he drives the silver knife upward beneath its ribs and holds on through the violent jerk of its body, his jaw clenched. his other hand braced against its chest. the werewolf shudders. then it collapses heavily against him.

for several seconds, the only sounds in the room are dean’s breathing and the faint metallic rattle of a serving tray still spinning against the floor.

“everyone good?” dean asks.

sam turns immediately. “audrynne?”

“i’m fine.”

your heart is hammering, but you are standing. nothing hurts. you lower the camera carefully, fighting the tremor in your fingers as dean eases the body onto the floor.

“josh miller,” he says after checking the dead man’s face. “guess we found our missing maintenance guy.”

sam keeps his attention on you for another second. “you sure you’re okay?”

you nod. “yeah.”

you want to feel relieved. you almost do. then you look at the camera screen. the photograph you took before the attack is blurred from your sudden movement, washed pale by the flash. dean is visible near the door. sam is partly caught in the edge of the frame. behind them, reflected faintly in the narrow strip of glass, there are two distorted shapes.

your stomach drops. “guys—”

sam hears it in your voice. he turns before you can explain.

the second werewolf comes through the kitchen window. glass explodes across the linoleum. sam reaches for you, but you’re already moving on instinct, shoving both hands hard against his chest as the creature lunges. he stumbles sideways. claws slice through the air where his throat had been.

then pain tears across your ribs. it’s so immediate that your body can’t make sense of it at first. there’s only the impact, sharp and brutal, lifting you partially off your feet before you hit the floor. your camera skids beneath one of the tables. the aquamarine pendant snaps against your collarbone.

somebody shouts your name.

the werewolf is above you for less than a second. its breath is hot and foul against your cheek, its teeth stained red, but then sam fires. once. twice. silver bullets drive it backward. it crashes through the broken window and disappears into the trees outside.

sam drops beside you. “hey—hey, look at me.”

you blink up at him. his face won’t stay clear. the ceiling shifts strangely behind his head. “i’m okay,” the words come out thin and uneven.

sam looks down at your side, and something in his expression changes. not panic. sam is too practiced at turning fear into action while there’s still something he can do. he pulls off his overshirt and presses it firmly against the wound. pain flares so hard that your vision blurs white.

you make a sound you do not mean to make.

“i know,” he says immediately. “i know. i’m sorry.”

dean’s beside him now, blood streaked across his cheek from a shallow cut near his hairline. he looks at your side and swears under his breath.

outside, something crashes through the undergrowth. the second werewolf is running. dean looks toward the broken window, then back at you. every part of him resists leaving. you see it happen in real time: the calculation, the fury, the sick understanding that if the creature gets far enough into the woods, it’ll disappear until the next body turns up.

sam sees it too. “go.”

dean’s eyes snap toward him. “sam—”

“i’ve got her. go.”

“she needs—”

“dean.” sam’s voice is low and firm in a way that leaves no room for argument. one hand presses against your side. the other cradles the back of your head, keeping you still against his knee. “kill it before we lose it. i’ve got her.”

dean looks at you.

you attempt a smile because you know him. because he’s going to hate himself for leaving even when staying would be the wrong choice. “go.” 

his jaw tightens. then he grabs the gun, checks the remaining ammunition, and runs through the broken door.

sam shifts carefully, sliding one arm beneath your shoulders. “we’re getting you out of here.”

“sam—”

“don’t talk yet.”

he lifts you into his arms.

you’re small enough that he manages it easily, one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, but every step sends a deep tearing ache through your side. you grab the front of his shirt, trying not to cry out. blood has already soaked through the fabric he’s holding against you. it’s warm against your skin, spreading too quickly beneath his hand.

outside, the air is cold and damp. sam lowers himself onto the wooden steps rather than risk carrying you across the uneven ground toward the car alone. he pulls you against his chest, adjusts the pressure on the wound, and looks toward the trees as though he can will dean to return faster.

“stay with me,” he says.

“i’m here.”

“keep looking at me.”

you try.

his face’s turned pale. there’s blood on his hands and along the cuff of his sweatshirt, caught in the lines of his knuckles. your blood. you want to tell him you’re sorry for that. you want to tell him you didn’t mean to make a routine hunt difficult. you should’ve noticed the reflection sooner. you should’ve moved faster. you should’ve listened more carefully instead of letting yourself get distracted by the familiar warmth of his hand on your shoulder.

the thoughts arrive in a frantic, useless rush. “i messed up,” you whisper.

sam’s expression hardens. “no.”

“i should’ve seen it.”

“you did see it.”

“too late.”

“audrynne, stop.” his voice softens almost immediately, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “you saved my life.”

you swallow. the motion hurts for reasons that don’t make sense. “sam—”

“you pushed me out of the way.” his hand tightens behind your shoulder. “so no—you don’t get to do that right now. you don’t get to lie here and convince yourself this happened because you failed some test nobody that didn’t exist.”

the steps beneath you are cold. the woods beyond his shoulder shift in and out of focus. you can hear sam breathing, too fast despite the calmness he’s trying to force into his voice.

you rest your head against his chest. it feels good there.

that’s the strange part. the pain is frightening, and the blood is worse, and somewhere in the distance you hear a gunshot echo between the trees. still, beneath all of it, there is sam. his heartbeat is loud against your ear. his arm holds you close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through both of your clothes. he keeps saying your name quietly, as though each repetition might anchor you inside your own body.

you’ve spent so much time being afraid of being left alone that you almost laugh at the unfairness of it. because you’re not alone. not now. not here.

“it’s perfect,” you murmur.

sam goes still. “what?”

your eyes are heavy. you let them close for one second, then force them open again because he asked you to keep looking at him. “i’m in the arms of my first love.”

his face changes. the fear he’s been holding back present, finally breaking through the careful control. “audrynne.”

“the first person i’ve ever loved,” you continue, the words slipping out softer than you intend. “the person i’ll always love.”

“no.” sam shakes his head immediately. “don’t say it that way.” 

his voice cracks, and he looks angry about it, angry at himself, angry at the blood staining his hands, angry at the entire world for requiring this moment from either of you. 

“you’re not saying goodbye to me. do you hear me?”

“i just wanted you to know.”

“you can tell me later.”

“sam—”

“later,” he repeats. his eyes shine, but he refuses to look away. “when you’re okay. when dean gets back. when we’re in another disgusting motel room and you’re complaining about the coffee and leaving your books everywhere. you can tell me then.”

your mouth trembles into something that almost becomes a smile. “you hate my books?”

“i don’t hate your books.”

“dean says they’re everywhere.”

“dean leaves socks on the floor. he doesn’t get an opinion.”

a laugh catches painfully in your ribs.

sam bends his head closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “stay with me.”

you want to. there’re so many things you want all at once. you want to see the relief on dean’s face when he returns and realizes you’re still breathing. you want to finish the book waiting on the motel nightstand. you want to repaint your chipped nail. you want to tell sam that you’ve loved him quietly through every late-night research session, every cup of coffee, every careful moment when his shoulder brushes yours in the impala and neither of you moves away. but mostly, you want to hear what he might say when he’s not terrified.

“i need more time,” sam says, and the words are so raw that they hurt worse than your side. “okay? i need more time with you. you don’t get to say always as if we’re out of it.”

the woods tilt behind him. you try to answer. you’re not sure whether any sound comes out.

the last thing you feel is sam pulling you closer, one bloodstained hand cupping the side of your face while he says your name again and again.

when you wake, the first thing you notice is the heater.

it clicks once. twice. then rattles with the sort of mechanical resentment only found in cheap motels across the continental united states.

the second thing you notice is pain.

it waits beneath the surface for a moment while your body gathers itself, then settles into a deep ache along your ribs. your mouth’s dry, and your limbs feel impossibly heavy, but you’re warm beneath several blankets. clean bandages wrap your side beneath an oversized shirt you recognize as dean’s.

the room is dim. the curtains are closed. the bedside lamp casts a soft yellow circle across the nightstand, illuminating a bottle of water, painkillers, gauze, and your aquamarine pendant laid carefully beside them. the chain is broken. someone has cleaned the stone until its cloudy green surface catches the light again.

your camera rests safely on the table across the room.

sam is on the floor beside the bed. for a second, you only look at him. he’s sitting with his back against the mattress, one arm folded beneath his head where it rests near your hand. at some point, exhaustion must have dragged him under without permission. his hair is mussed from sleep. there’s a dark smudge beneath one eye and a faint streak of dried blood near his wrist that he missed while washing his hands.

you move your fingers carefully. they brush his hair. sam wakes instantly.

his head lifts so fast that he nearly knocks against the edge of the mattress. his eyes find yours, unfocused for half a second, then suddenly clear.

the relief on his face is immediate.

it’s not subtle or guarded or shaped into something easier to survive. it moves through him so openly that you feel your chest tighten around it. he exhales your name and reaches for your hand, holding it between both of his as though he needs the solid proof of you.

“hey,” you whisper.

“hey.” his voice is rough with sleep. “how do you feel?”

“a little terrible.”

sam laughs once, quietly, and closes his eyes for a second. when he opens them again, they are bright. “yeah. that makes sense.”

“where’s dean?”

“getting food. and more bandages. and coffee.” sam rubs his thumb gently across your knuckles. “he killed the other werewolf. got back fast enough to help me get you here.”

you look down toward your side.

“the cut looked worse than it was once we cleaned it,” he adds immediately, reading your worry. “it missed anything major. you lost blood, and you’re going to be sore for a while, but you’re okay. dean stitched it. he said if you start running a fever or the pain gets worse, we’re taking you to a hospital whether you argue with him or not.”

you smile weakly, then notice the folded piece of motel stationery beside the water bottle. the handwriting across it is large and slanted.

don’t do anything stupid while i’m gone!!!

you pick it up with your free hand. “sweet.”

“he was worried.”

“you were worried.”

sam looks down at your joined hands.

quiet stretches between you, gentle but uncertain. memory returns in fragments: the steps outside the camp, his hand pressed against your side, your cheek against his chest. the terrible honesty that slips loose when you think there won’t be time to regret it. heat rises slowly into your face.

“sam,” you say.

“you don’t have to talk about it right now.”

“i think i do.”

his fingers tighten around yours.

you glance toward the broken necklace on the nightstand because looking directly at him feels suddenly impossible. “i’m sorry.”

“for what?”

“for saying all of that while actively bleeding on you.”

a surprised laugh escapes him. it sounds exhausted and fond and a little painful. “you don’t have to apologize for that.”

“i probably could’ve chosen a better moment.”

“maybe.”

you finally look at him. “i meant it.”

the room stills around the words. sam doesn’t answer immediately. he takes his time with anything that matters. he doesn’t reach for the easiest version of the truth. he turns it over first, careful with the edges.

“i know,” he says.

your stomach twists. before the fear can grow teeth, he lifts your hand and presses his mouth gently against your knuckles.

“i meant it too,” he continues. “what i said.”

you watch him quietly.

“i need more time with you.” his gaze moves across your face, hesitant in a way that feels startling after seeing him so certain during the hunt. “not because i’m afraid you’re going to disappear. not only because of that.”

your breath catches.

sam swallows. “i’ve been trying not to want anything i can lose.”

the honesty of it lands softly and hurts anyway.

you know enough about sam’s life to understand what he means. you know the shape of the grief he carries even when he refuses to name it. jess. his mother. the dreams that wake him some nights and leave him staring toward the motel ceiling until morning. loving him has never made you feel entitled to an answer he’s not ready to give, but you understand now that the distance between you has not been empty.

he’s been afraid of crossing it too.

“that’s not really working for me anymore,” he admits.

a smile tugs weakly at your mouth. “because i almost died?”

his expression tightens. “i hated hearing you say goodbye.”

“i wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“you did.”

“i’m sorry.”

sam lowers his gaze. “i should’ve told you before you had to scare the hell out of me.”

you squeeze his hand. “you can tell me now.”

“i love you,” he says softly.

you feel your eyes burn. “i love you too.”

he smiles then, small and almost disbelieving. you’ve seen sam smile hundreds of times by now: reluctant smiles, tired smiles, brief flashes of amusement when dean says something ridiculous. this one feels different.

his eyes drop toward your mouth, then lift again. “can i kiss you?”

you nod.

sam rises carefully from the floor, moving slowly enough that the mattress barely dips when he sits beside you. one hand comes to rest near your shoulder, the other lifts toward your face and pauses for half a second before his fingertips brush your cheek.

the kiss is soft. softer than you expect after everything. his mouth touches yours with careful warmth, restrained by the bandages beneath your shirt and the knowledge that even breathing too deeply hurts. he doesn’t rush it. he kisses you once, then again when you lean toward him, his thumb tracing gently near your jaw.

your hand catches in the front of his shirt. you’ve imagined this too many times. in diner booths while dean flirts with waitresses to get free pie. in the impala with rain running down the windows. in motel rooms where sam sits beside you on the bed and reads your notes in the margins of whatever book you leave behind. none of those imagined kisses feel anything like this one.

this is quieter. better. real enough to frighten you a little.

when sam draws back, he doesn’t move far. his forehead rests carefully against yours, his breath warm near your mouth.

some part of him is still back on the camp steps, holding pressure against a wound and asking you not to leave. you can see it in the way his eyes search your face whenever you shift, checking for pain before you have the chance to hide it.

“sam,” you say gently. “i’m here.”

he nods. it takes him a second to believe you. then he leans forward and presses his mouth against your forehead, holding it there while your fingers close around his wrist. 

the broken necklace still waits on the nightstand. your camera rests on the table, scratched but intact. dean’s note sits beside the water bottle in his messy handwriting, a small piece of proof that there will be teasing when he returns and coffee that tastes burned and an argument about whether you’re allowed to walk unassisted to the bathroom. ordinary things. the kind you almost lost before you realize how badly you want them.

sam shifts carefully onto the mattress beside you when you make room, still holding your hand between both of his. he doesn’t let go when the heater starts rattling again. he doesn’t let go when your eyes grow heavy. and this time, when you drift back toward sleep, you know exactly there’s still more time.

in supernatural terms, you’re a civilian… but not for long. because your chart has this underlying depth—pluto in scorpio, capricorn placements, that aries rising that pushes you forward even when you’re unsure. you don’t go looking for danger, hannah, but when something feels wrong? you don’t ignore it either.

you’re the kind of person who ends up involved because you care too much to walk away. not a hunter. not exactly. but someone who becomes... important.

✧ first meeting + first impression

you meet arthur ketch because a case crosses through something you know too well—maybe a cursed painting, an old family heirloom, a symbol hidden in artwork, or some men of letters artifact that needs someone with a careful eye and steadier hands than most hunters have. ketch approaches you with that polished, charming, slightly dangerous energy of his, probably expecting you to be useful but easy to intimidate.

and then you’re just... not. you’re shy, sure. unassuming, definitely. but your capricorn rising gives you a quiet backbone, and your virgo mercury means you ask very specific questions that make him realize you’re not just some sweet little civilian who likes art and ice cream.

his first impression of you, hannah, is that you’re gentler than this world deserves, but far sharper than you let on. he notices the softness first—the humor, the awkward little dance-adjacent clumsiness, the way yellow seems to follow you around like a personal brand—but then he notices how much you catch. and that is what makes him pay attention.

✧ the friendship dynamic

your friendship with ketch would start carefully, because let’s be honest, hannah, this man is not exactly giving “safe emotional support golden retriever” on first impression. he’s charming, composed, secretive, and very used to controlling the room, while you’re observant enough to notice when charm is being used as a weapon.

your virgo placements pick apart inconsistencies in his words, his posture, the way he avoids sincerity by making everything sound elegant and detached, and your pisces moon senses the loneliness underneath even when you don’t want to. that’s where the dynamic gets interesting. you don’t challenge him loudly. you challenge him quietly, with a look, a small question, a comment that lands way too close to the truth. and because he has pisces sun and mercury, he understands subtlety. he’s slippery emotionally, yes, but not stupid. he starts respecting the fact that you’re not easily dazzled by him.

meanwhile, he brings out a slightly bolder side of you—not by forcing you to be louder, but by making you realize your quietness doesn’t mean you lack presence. he’d tease your love of sunshine and yellow like it’s terribly impractical for hunting, then still notice when something bright makes you smile. rude. suspiciously attentive. very him.

✧ quirks + fun things

→ ketch acts like your ice cream-and-workout contradiction is deeply amusing, but he will still remember your favorite flavor with annoying accuracy. → you notice every time he lies by omission, and he starts finding that both inconvenient and weirdly impressive. → he watches you draw with this very composed expression, pretending he is not fascinated by how focused and peaceful you look.

ꔛ. something more,

✧ are you compatible .ᐣ first steps .ᐣ

there is definitely romantic potential here, hannah, but it’s not the easiest, softest little match in the world. your virgo venus and his capricorn venus actually work beautifully together because both of you take love seriously in practical ways. neither of you is naturally gushy or reckless with your heart. you both need proof, consistency, competence, and trust built over time.

his taurus mars also works well with your earth-heavy chart, giving the relationship a grounded, physical, slow-burning quality rather than instant chaos. but emotionally, your pisces moon is much softer than his aquarius moon, which can make him feel distant when you need tenderness.

the shift would probably be initiated by him, but not in some dramatic confession. he’d start doing things for you. watching out for you. making dry comments that sound casual but feel strangely personal. you’d notice before he admits it.

✧ the relationship dynamic

being with ketch would feel like slow trust wrapped in tension, which sounds very dramatic, but unfortunately that man brings drama just by standing there in a coat.

your relationship would not be loud or openly sentimental at first. it would build through small, practical acts: him making sure you’re not left exposed during a case, you noticing when he’s injured and quietly tending to it before he can brush it off, him pretending not to care that you’ve brought some ridiculous sunny little comfort into a grim motel room, you pretending not to notice that he keeps making space for it anyway.

your virgo venus and mars love through usefulness, attention, and care, while his capricorn venus responds strongly to loyalty and competence. so affection between you would be understated but very real. the hard part is emotional vulnerability. your pisces moon wants softness and reassurance, even if your capricorn rising tries to act composed, while his aquarius moon can intellectualize feelings or create distance when things get too sincere.

arguments would happen when you feel him shutting you out and he feels exposed by how accurately you read him. you would not be explosive, but you would get hurt quietly. and ketch would have to learn that silence from you is not peace. sometimes it’s disappointment.

✧ their favorite n worst version of you

ketch’s favorite version of you, hannah, is when your leo warmth slips through your carefulness. when you’re laughing at something stupid, dancing badly but happily, drawing with sunlight on your hands, or making some dry little comment that catches him off guard because he forgot, for a second, how funny you are. he loves the contrast in you—the shy exterior, the soft humor, the precise mind, the sweetness that isn’t naive. he would never say it that simply, obviously, because heaven forbid the man be normal, but he would be quietly undone by how much light you carry without needing to perform it.

his least favorite version of you is when you shrink too much. when you convince yourself that being unassuming means being forgettable, or when you hide behind usefulness because it feels safer than asking to be wanted. it would bother him more than he expects because he knows what it looks like to turn yourself into a function instead of a person. and seeing you do it—someone so naturally warm, so quietly alive—would hit a nerve he did not give you permission to touch.

✧ fighting, hurting, making up

ketch causes more damage, hannah. not because you’re incapable of hurting him, but because his emotional habits are sharper. he can be evasive, strategic, overly controlling, and sometimes far too comfortable deciding what is “best” without fully letting someone else into the decision.

your chart is more emotionally self-aware than it first appears; your pisces moon feels deeply, your virgo placements analyze everything, and your capricorn rising tries very hard to stay steady. but that also means when he hurts you, you might process it quietly until it becomes heavier than it needed to be.

you’re more emotionally sincere. he’s more emotionally armored. making up would require him to stop turning everything into a chess move and actually say what he means, while you would need to stop minimizing your own hurt just because you can understand where his behavior comes from. understanding someone’s damage does not mean volunteering to be target practice. very important, babe.

ꔛ. overall ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 7.5 / 10

hannah, this has real potential, but it is not effortless. you and ketch have strong earth-sign compatibility when it comes to loyalty, care, and practical devotion. he would respect your intelligence, your quiet strength, your eye for detail, and the way your warmth sneaks up on people instead of demanding attention. you would also soften him in ways he would pretend are deeply inconvenient.

but emotionally, he can be difficult. his distance, secrecy, and tendency to control situations could hurt you if he doesn’t actively work against those instincts. so the score is good, but not fantasy-perfect.

the honest review? he would be drawn to you, and he could love you deeply, but he would have to learn how to love you gently.