ִ ࣪𖤐

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.

you told me that was exactly why it had to come with us.

then you clipped it onto my keys when i wasn’t looking. real smooth, by the way. very sneaky. except you forgot the part where my car is basically my child and i notice when somebody hangs a plastic seashell off her. i should’ve taken it off.

that pretty much sums up the whole damn summer, if i’m being honest. you kept doing these little things, small enough that i could pretend they didn’t mean anything, and then they’d stick. sunscreen on my face. your hand brushing mine when you passed me a drink. your head tipped against the passenger window, asleep five minutes after saying you were “totally awake.” the glitter temporary tattoo shining on your wrist while you helped me fix the car with all the calm confidence of somebody who had no clue what a socket wrench was. i noticed all of it.

don’t look so smug. i’m not proud.

that cottage was supposed to be a job. a weird little patch of countryside, a couple missing hikers, old trees too close to the road, and a place with bad plumbing that sam kept calling “charming” because he reads too much and has no respect for indoor water pressure. we were there to figure out what was dragging people out near the creek after dark. in, out, burn the creepy thing, maybe get pie somewhere if the universe loved me for once.

and then you showed up.

sunny little thing. you had that summer glow going on, skin clear and warm from all the heat you seemed to love. you moved around the cottage in cutoffs and soft tops, pink-something on your lips, and you kept acting easygoing about everything until somebody suggested skipping sunscreen. then you turned into a general.

“dean,” you said, bottle in hand, eyes narrowed.

“what?”

“you missed the back of your neck.”

“i did not.”

“you did.”

“sweetheart, i’ve been putting sunscreen on since before you were watching mermaid shows.”

you blinked at me. “and yet, here we are.”

sam laughed into his book. traitor.

you came over anyway, all soft hands and bossy little frown, and rubbed sunscreen into the back of my neck while i sat there pretending it didn’t do anything to me. which was a lie. obviously. your fingers were warm, and you smelled of sugar and sun lotion and whatever drink you’d been nursing on the porch. i remember the pressure of your thumb near my hairline, the way you leaned in to check your work, the way you said, “there. now you won’t be bitchy later.”

you loved summer like it was a person who had never disappointed you. the beach, swimming, bonfires, drinks with fruit in them, music coming from some stranger on a sidewalk. you loved all the stuff i usually pretend not to have patience for until somebody makes it fun. and you did. you made it fun. you’d hear a busker playing near a boardwalk and your whole face would change. suddenly you were tugging me toward the sound, laughing before you even got there, moving with the music right there in the street because apparently shame was optional and you’d opted out.

i stood there holding your iced cocktail and trying not to stare.

failed, for the record.

you caught me too, which was the annoying part. you got all awkward afterward, smoothing your hair, pretending to inspect the little umbrella in your drink.

and that was the thing with you. you could be so bright it made everybody around you look a little dull, and then the second something got real, you’d look away first. you liked me. i knew you did. sam knew. probably the old lady selling peaches by the road knew. but you’d get careful about it, sort of shy in reverse. all that warmth, then a sudden retreat. you’d fall asleep against the window during long drives, and when you woke up with your cheek creased and found me looking, you’d make some joke before i could say anything.

i let you. mostly because i was doing the same damn thing. mutual pining. sounds fancy when sam says it. felt more like standing too close to a fire and pretending you weren’t sweating.

the impala broke down on the third day, because apparently the universe saw me having a decent time and took that personally. middle of nowhere. sun dropping slow. heat coming off the road. sam started trying to diagnose the problem with his laptop because he thinks the internet knows my car better than i do. you climbed out, stretched all lazy and golden, and came around to help.

“you know engines?” i asked.

“nope.”

“great.”

“but i’m calm.”

“that’s not a tool.”

“it’s emotional support.”

you handed me the wrong wrench twice. held the flashlight too low. asked if a car could “sound offended.” and somehow, you helped. not because you fixed anything, exactly, but because you stood there in your sandals with a glitter tattoo on your shoulder and sunlight caught in your hair, telling me i was doing great in this soft, serious voice that made me want to kiss you against the side of the car.

i didn’t. growth, maybe. or cowardice. depends who you ask.

the kiss came later, in the most normal place in the world. that’s what kills me. not during the bonfire. not under fireworks. not after some big rescue with blood and rain and the usual nonsense. it happened outside a little shop in the seaside town you wanted to wander through. sam had gone to check a local archive. i was holding a paper cup with whatever iced mocktail you’d convinced me to try, and you were wearing this tiny smile because i’d admitted it wasn’t terrible.

“not terrible,” you repeated.

“don’t get cocky.”

“too late.”

there was a little smear of pink on the straw, and one of those glitter tattoos on your wrist, and music somewhere down the street. people walking by. a kid crying because his ice cream hit the sidewalk. somebody’s dog barking at a seagull that deserved it. ordinary stuff.

then you reached up and brushed something from my cheek. probably nothing. maybe a crumb. maybe you made it up. i didn’t move. you didn’t either. for once, neither of us made a joke fast enough to save ourselves.

so i kissed you.

soft at first, because believe it or not, i do have manners when it matters. you went still for half a second, and i thought, great, dean, incredible work, ruin the summer in broad daylight. then your fingers curled into my shirt, and you kissed me back with this little breath that went straight through me.

when you pulled away, your eyes were still closed.

i asked, because i’m an idiot, “that okay?”

you opened your eyes and gave me this look. “more than okay.”

after that, the cottage got dangerous. not monster-dangerous. worse. you-dangerous. warm evenings on the couch while some summer show played on the tv, you getting sleepy against my shoulder because heat knocked you out faster than a curse ever could. bonfire nights with campfire smoke in your hair and that soft, sweet drink in your hand. your bare knee brushing mine under the porch table. your fingers finding my wrist when you wanted me closer but didn’t want to say it out loud.

i learned you liked physical affection and i took advantage of it. a hand at your back while we crossed the street. my thumb over your knuckles in the car. your feet tucked under my thigh on the couch. little things. quiet things. things that made you relax before you caught yourself doing it.

so i gave you more of them.

and gifts, yeah. don’t tell sam. he’ll get annoying. but i bought you that tiny glitter tattoo pack from the boardwalk shop after you mentioned loving them as a kid. left it next to your drink and acted like i had no idea where it came from. you smiled at that thing for ten minutes. worth every penny.

the last night was where i screwed up, because that’s tradition for me. we had a fire going outside the cottage. sam was inside pretending to read, which meant pretending to give us privacy. the sky had gone all coral-pink at the edges, your color, and you were sitting beside me with your shoulder against mine, quiet in a way i didn’t like.

summer ending has a sound. people packing bags. doors closing. laughs getting too careful. i know that sound too well.

you said, “so what happens tomorrow?”

i almost gave you the easy answer. we drive. you go home. i keep your keychain. maybe i see coral pink in every stupid sunset for the rest of my life and pretend that’s normal.

instead, i got scared and made a joke. you smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

that was worse than any monster that summer.

so i followed you when you walked away from the fire, down toward the fence where the grass was tall and the dark was settling in. you had your arms folded, and i could tell you were trying not to look hurt. trying not to ask for too much. trying to make leaving easier on me, which was ridiculous, because it was already killing me.

“audry,” i called.

you turned around. “dean, don’t.”

but i had to. i told you i’m bad at this. you already knew that, but i said it anyway. told you i make jokes when i should be honest, and i act casual when something matters because losing things feels a hell of a lot easier if i pretend i never wanted them. then i told you i wanted you. not just for a summer. not just for the cottage, or the seaside town, or the kisses that made me forget everything. i told you i loved you.

your face changed. that’s the part i remember most. not the words after, not even the kiss, although, yeah, that’s burned into my brain too. i remember the way you stopped trying to protect yourself from it. the way you stepped into me, both hands on my chest, laughing once because you were about to cry and probably hated that.

“you’re so annoying,” you whispered.

“i know.”

“i love you too.”

you kissed me right there by the fence with the fire behind us and summer ending all around us, and for once, i didn’t feel something leaving. i felt something staying.

so yeah, audrynne, i kept the keychain.

i kept the glitter tattoo wrapper too, stuffed in the glovebox where nobody needs to see it. i kept the memory of you asleep in my passenger seat, sun on your face, trusting me to drive you somewhere good. and if you’re wondering whether i still think about that ordinary kiss outside the postcard shop, the answer is yes.

every damn golden hour.

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ you feel stable enough that dean starts missing you before he’s finished being mad. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is weak against your steady loyalty, especially when you come back ready to repair things properly.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ you make him laugh while he’s still trying to perform righteous indignation, which is deeply inconvenient for his argument. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ you can talk circles around the real issue, and sam notices when charm starts replacing accountability.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you embarrassingly easily ๋࣭ ⭑ dean can withstand anger, danger, and demons; one wounded look from you and suddenly his entire emotional justice system is compromised. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ your remorse feels so sincere that sam starts comforting you before he has fully explained why he was hurt.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ he tries to stay mad, but your warmth is one of his favorite places to stand, and dean has never been good at denying himself for long. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ sam struggles when your pride makes an apology feel conditional, especially if he had to drag the real feeling out of you first.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ dean can handle being criticized until your words land too close to the things he already secretly hates about himself. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ sam understands your intentions even when your delivery cuts, so he keeps translating your sharp edges into care.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ you approach him gently, make the apology feel warm instead of humiliating, and dean loses every intention of staying angry. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ sam wants peace with you so badly that he sometimes accepts a graceful apology before the real issue has been touched.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ you know exactly where dean is vulnerable, and if you weaponize that knowledge once, he never fully forgets it. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ sam can tolerate conflict; what he can’t tolerate is feeling exposed by somebody he trusted with the darkest parts of himself.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you far too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ you disappear after the fight, come back with an apology and a ridiculous story, and somehow dean’s laughing before he remembers he had a point. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ sam finds it difficult to forgive the way you leave when the conversation starts asking something uncomfortable of you.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ your restraint looks too much like indifference when dean’s already afraid he matters less than he hoped. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ sam respects your loyalty so deeply that one serious apology from you carries more weight than ten dramatic gestures ever could.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ your emotional distance activates every fear dean disguises as irritation, especially when you refuse to chase him after a fight. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ sam can respect your need for space, but not if detachment becomes a way to avoid caring openly.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you much too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ dean sees your guilt, immediately starts protecting you from it, and somehow ends up apologizing during your apology. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ your empathy reaches him before his anger can settle, and sam starts understanding your side before he’s finished expressing his own.

but it’s more than that, because before you, that summer was just supposed to be another case. a cottage in the countryside, three missing hikers, some local story about lights near the treeline, a stack of research i had already given myself a headache over. it should’ve been heat, old floorboards, dean complaining about the plumbing, me pretending not to mind sleeping on a couch that folded me in half.

then you showed up with sun-warmed skin, coral pink on your mouth, a bag full of little things you swore were necessary, and the kind of smile that made me look down at my notes too fast.

you loved summer in a way that made it feel less temporary. the way you leaned toward heat even when it made you sleepy, how your whole face went soft in golden hour, how you could look half-asleep on the porch and still be the prettiest thing for miles. you were always reminding us about sunscreen, too, careful and bossy in this sweet way that made dean groan and me sit still even when i didn’t need to.

“sam, your shoulders,” you said that first afternoon.

“i already put some on.”

you gave me this look. totally disappointed. “badly.”

dean laughed so hard he nearly dropped his beer.

you took the bottle from my hand and fixed it yourself, fingers smoothing sunscreen over the back of my neck, and i remember sitting there with every single thought i had going quiet at once. it wasn’t even anything. just your hands, warm and sure. your hip brushing my shoulder. the little hum you made when you concentrated. but it stayed with me, because i was already starting to understand that the small things with you never felt small for long.

you were easygoing about music in the car, which meant dean immediately abused the privilege. you never complained. not really. you just sat in the passenger seat when you managed to claim it, knees tucked up, head tilted against the window, falling asleep somewhere between the second highway and the third cassette. sometimes, when the light hit your face, i’d catch myself watching you instead of reading. your skin always looked clearer in the summer, like the sun had decided to be kind to you specifically. there’d be a faint shimmer left behind from some glitter temporary tattoo you’d put on your wrist, or your shoulder, or once, right above your knee because you said it reminded you of being a kid.

i remember wanting to touch it.

for the record, i was trying to be respectful, so i didn’t.

you made that difficult.

not on purpose. or maybe a little on purpose. you had this way of getting awkward when you liked someone, like you wanted to drift closer and run away at the same time. one minute you’d be laughing with dean, teasing him about his music or the fact that he called the cottage “rustic” when he meant “possibly haunted by raccoons,” and the next, i’d ask if you wanted to walk with me, and you’d suddenly become very interested in your drink.

you weren’t subtle. neither was i, apparently, because dean started doing this horrible thing where he cleared his throat every time we stood too close together.

the car broke down two days in. middle of nowhere, no service, late afternoon heat sitting heavy on the road. dean was under the hood within seconds, muttering things i won’t put in a letter. you got out, stretched, and came around to help with the calm confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what she was doing and refused to let that stop her.

you handed me tools when i asked. sometimes the wrong ones. you held the flashlight even though it was still bright out. you offered encouragement with such sincerity that dean looked personally offended.

“you’re doing great,” you told him.

“i haven’t done anything yet.”

i laughed, and you looked so proud of yourself that i forgot what i was supposed to be fixing.

later, when we finally made it into town, you bought that silly keychain from a roadside stand shaped like a tiny sun wearing sunglasses. dean said it was stupid. you said that was the point. then you clipped it to my bag when you thought i wasn’t looking.

i still haven’t taken it off.

the seaside town was your idea. we were supposed to be checking records at the county office, but there was a boardwalk nearby, and some guy with a guitar playing near the pier, and you heard music before any of us did. i swear your whole body changed. you lit up. one second you were walking beside me, pretending the sun wasn’t making you drowsy, and the next you were tugging me toward the sound with this look over your shoulder that i still think about more than i should.

“come on, tall boy.”

“tall boy?”

“you heard me.”

you danced right there in the street. you just couldn’t help yourself. the busker was playing something soft and bright, and you moved with your iced cocktail in one hand, laughing when the paper umbrella nearly fell out. i stood there holding your little bag and feeling ridiculous because i could fight monsters, translate dead languages, stitch up my own wounds, but i had no idea what to do with the fact that watching you dance made my chest hurt.

you caught me staring. then, because you were you, you got shy about it. you came back to me, cheeks warm, pretending to fix your hair. “what?”

“nothing.”

“that wasn’t a nothing face.”

“i liked watching you.”

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “careful, sam. you’re getting bold.”

the first kiss happened in the least dramatic place possible, which somehow made it impossible to recover from. we were outside a little shop with postcards in the window, waiting for dean to come back with food. there was sunscreen on your nose you hadn’t rubbed in all the way, and a tiny bit of sugar from your drink at the corner of your mouth. you were talking about old summer shows, about how you used to love the oc and h2o, and then you laughed at yourself because you said it was “very on brand” to love beaches and mermaids and drama.

i said you were more dangerous than a mermaid.

you said, “that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

i reached up before i could overthink it and brushed the sugar from your lip with my thumb. you went quiet. the whole street kept moving around us. people passing. music somewhere nearby. dean probably yelling at someone about fries. ordinary things. normal things.

then you kissed me.

or i kissed you.

i still don’t know which one of us moved first. i just remember your hand curling into my shirt, my palm touching your cheek, the taste of something sweet on your mouth, and the way you pulled back with your eyes still closed for half a second.

“okay,” you whispered.

i said, “okay?”

you nodded, then laughed like you were nervous. “ordinary place. memorable person.”

i think that’s when i knew i was in real trouble.

after that, the cottage felt different. softer. tense in a way that made me forget entire paragraphs when you sat too close on the couch. you’d get sleepy in the warmth and drift against my side while some old episode played on the tiny tv, your head on my shoulder, my hand resting carefully on your arm. sometimes you’d wake up enough to tell me not to stop touching you. sometimes you’d pretend you hadn’t said it. i never teased you for that. i wanted you to know you could ask.

there was a bonfire on the last night. dean made it too big because subtlety has never survived contact with my brother. the air was warm, and the sky was coral at the edges before it went dark, and you had another glitter tattoo shining faintly near your collarbone. you smelled faintly of sunscreen and smoke and something fruity from your drink, and i remember thinking, stupidly, that summer had learned your name and was showing off.

you were quiet that night. i hated it.

i knew what quiet meant at the end of things. i knew the shape of leaving before anyone said goodbye. and i tried to do the noble thing. really. i tried to tell myself that you had your life, and i had mine, and maybe this was supposed to stay golden and brief. a cottage, a seaside town, a kiss, a keychain. something sweet enough to remember without ruining.

then you looked at me across the fire, and i couldn’t do it. i couldn’t let the summer end with me pretending i hadn’t fallen in love with you.

so i followed you down toward the trees when you slipped away from everyone else. you were standing near the fence, arms folded, face turned toward the last bit of light. i said your name, and you looked at me like you already knew.

“sam,” you said, careful.

that almost stopped me. i told you i didn’t want to make this harder. i told you i knew our lives were messy, and dangerous, and not exactly built for cottages and boardwalks and dancing to strangers with guitars. i told you i had tried to be smart about it.

then i told you i loved you anyway. not the way people do in movies. i probably said too much. i know my voice shook. i know i looked at the ground because looking at you made it worse. but you stepped closer before i finished, your fingers catching mine, your thumb rubbing over my knuckles like you were trying to calm both of us at once.

“sam,” you said again, softer this time. “you idiot.”

i laughed, because i was terrified. then you kissed me like you were done being afraid too.

so that’s the part i keep, audrynne. not just the kiss, or the fire, or the way dean pretended not to cheer from the porch. i keep the second after. your forehead against mine. your hand still in my shirt. both of us breathing too fast, smiling too much, knowing summer was ending and choosing each other anyway.

the keychain is still on my bag.

i think i knew, even then, that i was keeping more than that.

except sometimes, when you turn that attention on him, the knowing does not help nearly as much as it should.

“you gonna keep staring at the map,” you ask from the other side of the motel room, “or are you waiting for it to get nervous and fess up?”

dean looks up from the papers scattered across the table. you’re stretched out across the second bed with your back against the headboard, one ankle crossed lazily over the other, sleeves pushed up to your elbows. there’s still a faint streak of dirt near your jaw from the graveyard, and your hair’s a little messy from the rain. annoyingly good look on you. not that he notices.

“some of us are working,” dean says.

“some of us dug up the corpse while you complained about getting mud on your boots.”

“these are good boots.”

“they’re very pretty.”

dean narrows his eyes. “don’t call my boots pretty.”

your mouth curves. “sorry, sweetheart. you’re pretty. the boots are rugged and masculine.”

there it is. that stupid little hitch beneath his ribs. dean rolls his eyes and turns back toward the map, pretending to inspect a road he has already checked twice. “you’re hilarious.”

“i know.”

he hears the mattress creak, then your footsteps crossing the thin motel carpet. dean keeps his eyes down until you stop beside him, close enough that you almost touch.

“you missed a street,” you say as you lean over him to point at the map, one hand braced against the table, your chest warm against his back for one brief, completely unnecessary second.

dean goes still before he can stop himself.

you notice. of course you notice. “you okay there, dean?”

your voice is quieter now, amusement softened around the edges. dean clears his throat and shifts in the chair, putting half an inch of space between you because apparently that’s all his dignity can afford tonight. “fine.”

“you seem tense.”

“long day.”

“i could help with that.”

dean looks at you. you’re smiling, but not fully. there’s something watchful in your expression now, something that makes it impossible to decide whether you’re messing with him or waiting for him to stop pretending he doesn’t understand.

his stomach turns over. “you flirt this hard with everybody?” he asks, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

your eyebrows lift. “jealous?”

“curious.”

“dangerous hobby.”

“answer the question.”

for once, you hesitate. only for a second, but dean sees it, and suddenly the air inside the room feels different. heavier.

the rain ticks softly against the window behind you, and the cheap lamp near the bed flickers once before settling again.

you straighten slowly, but you do not step away. “not everybody.”

dean’s pulse trips. he hates that. hates how easy it is for you to knock something loose inside him with two words and a look. he’s spent his whole life understanding attraction in a way that feels uncomplicated, or uncomplicated enough. women are beautiful. women are familiar territory. women make sense.

you’re standing between his knees with a grin that has gone almost shy, and none of this makes sense at all. except maybe it does.

“you know,” you say, voice gentler now, “you could tell me to back off.”

dean looks down briefly, jaw tightening. “do you want me to?” the question slips out before he can stop it. too honest.

your expression changes, teasing falling away until there is nothing easy left to hide behind. “no.”

dean exhales through his nose. he should make a joke. grab the files. tell you sam will be back with food any minute and neither of you needs to turn an ordinary motel room into something neither of you knows how to handle. instead, his hand settles against your hip. careful. hesitant.

you glance down at it, then back at him, and your mouth curves again. softer this time. “there he is,” you murmur.

dean’s thumb shifts once against your shirt before he catches himself. “don’t make a thing out of it.”

“wouldn’t dream of it.”

“you make a thing out of everything.”

“not everything.” you lean closer, slow enough to let him pull away. your breath touches his cheek when you speak again, warm and unfairly intimate. “only the things i want.”

dean looks at your mouth. just for a second.

then the motel key scrapes against the lock, and sam’s voice comes through the door, muffled and exhausted. “please tell me neither of you touched the case files while i was gone.”

you step back before the door opens, but your fingers brush dean’s shoulder as you go, light and casual enough that sam will never notice.

dean sits there with his hand still warm from your waist and the map completely forgotten in front of him, while you take the food from sam and act as if nothing happened. as if dean isn’t already wondering what it would take to make you stop joking.