ִ ࣪𖤐

sam shuts the trunk with a low metallic thud, glancing between you and dean as if he’s already exhausted by the argument that hasn’t even formed. “he’s saying it because last time you said you were ‘just checking something’, you ended up in a crawlspace with a ghost.”

“that ghost had answers.”

“that ghost threw a wrench at your head,” dean snaps.

“and missed,” you glare, because you’re a winchester, unfortunately, and sometimes survival has less to do with sense and more to do with being unbearable at the right moment.

dean points at you, the gesture sharp in the cold spill of the impala’s trunk light. “not the point.”

but even as he growls it, there’s something different in the way he looks at you tonight. not less protective. dean’s protectiveness sits under his skin, more part of his personality than sarcasm. still, tonight, he’s letting you stand between him and sam with a gun in your hand, a knife under your jacket, and the case file zipped inside your bag because this is your case. the thought warms you in a small, stupid place you try not to show.

you’d been the one who noticed the missing-person reports clustered around old factory roads, the one who caught that everybody found had been drained but not torn apart, the one who connected the witness statements about the pale man in the mechanic’s jacket. dean called it a vampire at first. sam leaned toward rougarou. you found the old lore entry in bobby’s scanned journal pages, the one about a vetala variant that fed slower, cleaner, almost surgical, usually solitary and territorial.

sam double-checked every source. dean grumbled for two hours about ‘off-brand bloodsuckers’. but they listened. they followed your lead. and now you’re here, boots crunching over gravel wet from an afternoon storm, the air cold enough to bite at your knuckles.

you don’t say how much it matters. that would make it too easy for them to take apart.

“all right,” sam says, pulling the flashlight from his jacket pocket. “we clear the main floor first. victim was last seen near the loading bay. if your theory’s right, it’ll have a nest somewhere dry and dark.”

“my theory is right,” you say.

dean gives you a sideways look. “that confidence better come with a return policy.”

“you’re literally confident with no evidence every day of your life.”

“yeah, but i’m charming.”

sam’s mouth twitches.

you hate that it makes you happy. you hate that being trusted by them feels less like being handed a weapon and more like being handed a place at the table. your brothers love you. you know that. they love you so hard it has bruised every corner of your life. but love and trust aren’t the same thing, and winchester love has a way of locking doors from the inside. tonight, for once, they let you pick the lock.

inside, the mill is a long-boned corpse of a building, all rusted railings, broken windows, and old machinery huddled beneath plastic tarps. rainwater drips through holes in the roof, steady and uneven, tapping against metal beams and puddles in the concrete. your flashlight catches strips of old safety tape, faded signs, a smashed vending machine with warped candy wrappers still trapped behind cloudy glass.

“cozy,” dean mutters.

“you say that about every murder building.”

“because murder buildings keep having terrible decor.”

you bite back a smile and move carefully along the wall, watching the dust, the drag marks, the faint wet smear that isn’t water near the base of a staircase. sam sees it at the same time you do. he crouches, touches two fingers close to it without actually dipping into the blood, then looks up at you.

you nod toward the hall on the left. “loading bay.”

dean’s face changes. not much, just that slight tightening in his jaw, that older-brother switch flipping from banter to business. he steps ahead by instinct. you step with him from sheer stubbornness. for a second, his eyes cut to you. you know that look. it means don’t. you stare back. it means try me.

sam exhales behind you. “both of you, focus.”

the thing is in the loading bay, just where you thought it would be. it drops from the upper beams with a wet, ugly hiss, pale limbs bending wrong, mouth peeling open too wide around teeth stained dark at the edges. 

dean fires first. the shot cracks through the hollow space and sends a flock of pigeons bursting from the rafters. sam moves left, clean and fast, silver flashing in his hand. you take right, heart kicking hard enough to make your ribs feel crowded, and for one bright second, everything works exactly the way it should.

you’re scared. obviously, you’re scared. fear’s not the opposite of courage; dean taught you that by accident every time he gripped the steering wheel too tight and still drove toward the thing everyone else ran from. your hands shake once, then steady. you remember the lore. you remember the weak point. you remember the pattern of its attacks.

the monster lunges for sam.

“sam!” you shout, firing into its shoulder.

it shrieks, twists, and dean’s already there. his knife buries under its ribs, one hard upward shove, and the creature spasms against him. its nails scrape down his jacket. he grimaces, drives the blade deeper, and it drops—ugly, knees folding, body hitting the concrete with a sound that turns your stomach.

silence crashes down after it. for a few seconds, nobody moves.

then dean looks at you, breath coming hard, blood speckled across one cheek. “your theory was right.”

you grin before you can stop yourself. “say it again.”

“don’t push it.”

“no, no, i need the full sentence. maybe with eye contact.”

sam straightens, still watching the body. “it was a clean ID. good work.”

that lands softer than you expect. heavier, too. you look at sam and feel your teasing loosen into something awkward and warm. “thanks.”

dean wipes his knife on the creature’s jacket. “yeah, yeah. gold star. everybody happy? let’s torch ugly here and get gone before this place collapses on us.”

you should’ve left then.

that’s the part you’ll think about later, again and again, when the pain has teeth and sleep comes in broken pieces. you should’ve left. the hunt’s done. the monster’s dead. the three of you are alive, damp, tired, and okay.

sam turns toward the exit first. dean bends to grab the duffel with the lighter fluid and salt. you take one step back, looking over the body, already building the story in your head: how dean will pretend he solved the case by ‘superior instinct’, how sam will argue for research credit, how you’ll demand diner pie as tribute for being correct.

then something moves behind dean. not the dead thing. above him. your brain catches pieces, not the whole. the scrape of claws on metal. the shift of shadow along the beam. sam’s flashlight swinging up too late. another pale shape unfolding from the dark with a mouth already open and one arm drawn back.

dean doesn’t see it.

you do.

there’s no time to say his name properly. no time to think through angles or weapons or whether you’re being brave or stupid. your body makes the choice before your mind catches up, and maybe that’s the most winchester thing about you.

you slam into dean’s side with both hands. he stumbles hard, swearing, the duffel dropping from his grip.

the second creature comes down where he was standing.

the pain is immediate, bright, wrong. at first, you don’t understand it. there’s impact, then heat, then a tearing pressure across your side that knocks the breath clean out of you. the floor jumps up. your knees hit concrete. something inside you seems to tilt out of place.

sam yells your name.

dean yells it louder.

you look down because some dumb, childish part of you needs proof, and proof is there under your hand, slick and dark, spreading too fast through torn fabric. the creature’s claw has opened you from the lower ribs down toward your hip, deep enough that your fingers come away red before you can decide whether to press or pull away.

oh. that’s all you can think.

the monster screams again, but it sounds far off now, dragged underwater. sam moves past you in a blur of long limbs and fury, not calm anymore, not careful. dean’s suddenly in front of you, then beside you, then on his knees, his hands catching your shoulders before you can fold all the way down.

“hey, hey, hey. look at me. look at me.”

you try. his face refuses to stay still. the world flickers around the edges, gray chewing at the lights.

“dean—” you say, but your voice is thin and surprised, which scares you more than the pain.

“nope. don’t do that.” he rips his overshirt open so hard one button snaps and skitters across the floor. “don’t use that little voice on me. you’re fine.”

you want to point out that this is a very obvious lie. you want to say something clever because that’s what you do when dean gets scared. you make him mad so he has somewhere to put it. but the words don’t line up. your thoughts have turned slippery. every breath pulls fire through your side, and there’s so much blood.

dean wads the shirt and presses it hard to the wound.

the sound you make is ugly.

“i know,” he says instantly, face twisting. “i know, baby. i’m sorry. i gotta, okay? i gotta stop the bleeding.”

baby. he only calls you that when he forgets you aren’t six anymore.

behind him, there’s a crash, a snarl cut short, sam’s grunt of pain, then the wet punch of a blade sinking. the second monster hits the ground. for one strange second, you feel guilty that you can’t turn your head to check if sam’s okay.

sam appears anyway, breath ragged, hair falling into his face, knife dripping black-red onto the concrete. “how bad?”

dean doesn’t answer fast enough.

sam sees the blood and goes pale in a way you’ve never seen on a hunt. his hand hovers over you, useless for half a heartbeat, then he drops beside dean and starts pulling supplies from the duffel with shaking efficiency. gauze. bandage roll. tape. 

“we need to move,” sam says. his voice cracks insignificantly on the last word, but you hear it. “dean, we can’t fix this here.”

“i know that,” dean snaps.

you blink up at the ceiling. one of the lights is broken. it hums and flickers and makes everything look chopped into pieces. “did we get both?”

sam looks at you as if the question hurts him personally. “yeah. we got both.”

“good.” you swallow, but your mouth is dry. “my case.”

dean lets out something that isn’t a laugh, not even close. “yeah, congratulations. your prize is me kicking your ass when you stop bleeding.”

“mean,” your brain orders your lips to smile, but all you actually manage is a crooked twitch.

“you haven’t seen mean.” his hand presses harder. “stay with me and i’ll show you.”

sam’s jacket goes over you. then his hands are under your knees and behind your shoulders, and dean shifts to keep pressure while they lift. 

the world breaks open.

you do scream then, or maybe you only think you do. the sound tears your throat raw either way. dean curses, sam says sorry over and over, and you hate them a little for moving you, then love them for not stopping, because stopping means dying on a dirty factory floor beside a dead thing with too many teeth, and you’ve always privately hoped your death would be more dramatic than that. more meaningful. less damp.

your boots drag once. dean barks at sam to watch the door. sam barks back that he has it. their voices keep knocking against each other above you, familiar and frantic, and you hold onto the rhythm because the rest of you feels unstitched.

outside, the cold hits your face so sharply that you gasp.

“there she is,” dean says. “keep those eyes open.”

you do. for maybe two seconds.

the path to the car stretches forever. gravel crunches. rain starts again, light and mean, spotting sam’s jacket across your chest. you can see the impala ahead, black and shining under the thin moon, and for some ridiculous reason you think about how dean’s going to be pissed if you bleed all over the backseat.

“sorry,” you mumble.

“for what?” sam asks, breathless.

“car.”

dean makes a sound near your ear. “are you apologizing to the car right now?”

he opens the back door with one hand while sam lowers you in. it’s clumsy. awful. dean slides in after you without hesitation, dragging you half across his lap, one hand jammed against your side. sam takes the driver’s seat. even through the fog, you understand what that means. dean lets sam drive when the world’s ending or when he’s too broken to pretend his hands belong on the wheel.

the engine roars to life. gravel spits under the tires. your head lolls against dean’s shoulder, and he catches your chin with two fingers, forcing your face up. “nuh-uh. you don’t sleep.”

words tumble from your lips that don’t sound like anything at all. bossy, is what you wanted to muster out.

“you think you get to throw yourself in front of me and then take a nap? that’s rude as hell.”

sam’s eyes flash in the rearview mirror. “dean.”

“what? she likes it when i’m mean.”

you’d smile again, now. the muscles don’t move. 

the road sways. streetlights smear gold through the rain-streaked windows. dean keeps talking, each sentence sharper than the last, rough enough that someone else might think he’s angry at you. you know better. dean’s fear has always worn anger as a jacket because anger has pockets. anger can carry a knife. fear just stands there empty-handed.

“you still owe me twenty bucks from that pool game in omaha,” he says. “and don’t think i forgot. you die on me, i’m collecting from your stash.”

sam takes a corner too fast. your stomach rolls. pain flares white, and for a second there’s no car, no rain, no dean. only your body begging to stop.

“sam,” dean barks, suddenly not mean at all.

“i’m going as fast as i can.”

“go faster.”

“i am!”

the motel is only eight minutes away. maybe ten. it feels longer than every year you’ve been alive. 

you listen to dean’s heartbeat because your ear is against his chest now. it pounds too fast. too human. too scared. his hand is warm and wet where it holds you together, and you wonder if he can feel you slipping under his palm.

“dean,” you manage.

“yeah, i’m here.”

“you okay?”

his breath catches.

then his face comes down close to yours, his cheek rough against your temple for one second, and his voice turns wrecked and furious. “you don’t ask me that right now. you hear me? you do not get to ask me that.”

you want to say you pushed him because he’s your brother. because he would’ve done it for you. because sam would’ve done it for either of you. because this family is a series of bodies stepping in front of other bodies, and you learned the choreography before you were old enough to know there was another way to love someone. instead, your eyes close.

dean says your name. sam says it too.

then everything goes quiet.

when you wake, the first thing you notice is the ceiling. not the pain. not at first. just the ceiling with its ugly popcorn texture and the brown water stain shaped vaguely, stupidly. the motel room is dark except for the blue-gray light leaking around the curtains and the dim yellow lamp near the bathroom. rain taps the window in thin little clicks. your mouth tastes awful. copper and stale air. your body feels too heavy. then the pain arrives.

it comes slowly, not the bright slash from before, but a deep, pulsing misery that wraps around your side and digs in with every breath. your fingers twitch against the blanket. the movement is tiny, but it’s enough. dean wakes instantly.

he’s on the floor beside the bed, back against the mattress, one knee bent, gun loose in his hand. his head snaps up so fast you wonder if he ever really slept. his face is rough with exhaustion, eyes red, hair flattened on one side. there’s blood under his fingernails. your blood.

“hey,” he says, and the word falls apart in the middle.

you try to answer. nothing comes out.

he reaches for the glass on the nightstand, then hesitates as if terrified moving too fast will break you. “water. small sip.”

he helps lift your head. the water is warm and tastes faintly of paper cup, and it’s the best thing you’ve ever had. you swallow twice before he pulls it away.

“don’t chug it,” he mutters. “you’ll puke, and i’m not ready for that.”

your mouth moves before sound shows up. “coward.”

dean freezes. then his face crumples for half a second, so quick you might miss it if you weren’t looking right at him. he laughs once under his breath, no joy in it yet. just relief. “there she is.”

across the room, sam’s asleep in a crooked wooden chair, his long body folded badly, head hanging forward at an angle that guarantees a brutal neck ache. one hand still rests on an open first-aid kit on the table. the other is curled around his phone, screen dark. he looks younger in sleep, but not peaceful. never peaceful. his brows are drawn together, his mouth tight, as if worry followed him under.

dean follows your gaze and softens despite himself. “he’s okay. got clipped, nothing bad. he passed out about forty minutes ago. wouldn’t lie down because he’s an idiot.”

“family trait.”

“yeah, apparently.”

you shift again, trying to understand your body, and pain flashes hot enough to make your vision spot. dean’s on his knees in a second, hand hovering over your shoulder, not touching until he knows where it will hurt less.

“don’t move.”

“what happened?”

his jaw flexes. he looks toward your bandaged side, and you follow the glance despite the dread.

your shirt is gone, replaced with one of dean’s old black tees cut open along the side. thick bandages wrap your middle, bulky and clean now, though rusty red has already started to bloom through one layer. beneath that, you can feel the pull of stitches, tight and ugly.

“we patched you up,” dean says.

“hospital?”

“too far. too many questions. wound missed the worst stuff by a miracle.” his voice goes flat at the edges. “sam cleaned it. i stitched.”

you blink at him. “you?”

his eyes don’t quite meet yours. “yeah.”

your throat tightens in a way that has nothing to do with thirst. “dean…”

“don’t start.”

“is it bad?”

“the stitching? yeah. objectively terrible.” he swallows. “scar’s gonna be nasty.”

sam wakes with a sharp inhale before you can say anything. the chair creaks violently under him, and he looks around with wild eyes until he sees you awake. then he’s up too fast, nearly knocking the first-aid kit off the table.

“hey. hey, don’t—” dean starts.

sam ignores him, coming to the other side of the bed and crouching so he can see your face. “how do you feel?”

“amazing,” you whisper. “thinking of taking up jogging.”

sam’s mouth trembles. he presses it into a line, nods as if accepting this medical information with great seriousness. “okay. terrible, then.”

“neck?”

“what?”

“your neck. the chair looks mean.”

for some reason, that breaks him worse than anything else. his eyes go bright, and he looks down, one hand covering his mouth for a second. when he looks back up, he is holding himself together with visible effort. “you almost died,” he manages.

the room goes still. dean looks away. you know it already. you felt it in the car, in the way the dark came for you, soft and patient. but hearing sam say it makes the truth land in the room with all three of you. not as a possibility. as a fact with wet hair and bloody hands.

“but i didn’t,” you say.

“that’s not the point,” dean snaps, too fast.

your eyes move to him. there’s the lecture. the anger he’s been sharpening because terror is too blunt to use. dean gets to his feet, then seems to realize pacing will make him look frantic, so he stops beside the bed and crosses his arms instead. 

“what the hell were you thinking?”

sam exhales. “dean—”

“no, don’t dean me. she shoved me out of the way.”

“because there was a monster above you,” you say, voice thin.

“yeah, i got that part.”

“then maybe say thank you.”

his eyes flash. “thank you? you want a thank you? fine. thank you for taking a claw to the gut. thank you for bleeding out in the back of my car. thank you for scaring ten years off my life. that work for you?”

you flinch. dean’s loud all the time. but you flinch because underneath it, he sounds young. not your older brother. not cocky, leather-jacket, classic-rock pain in your ass. child young. the kind of young he must’ve been the first time your dad handed him a gun and told him you and sam were his job.

your eyes burn. 

dean sees it and looks immediately miserable, which almost makes it worse. “i’m sorry,” he says, voice dropping. “i’m not—i don’t mean…”

“you mean it,” you say quietly.

he rubs a hand over his mouth. “yeah. i mean it. i mean… what the hell, kid?”

sam sits carefully on the edge of the other bed, facing you, hands clasped between his knees. “you saved dean’s life.”

dean makes a sharp sound.

“you did,” sam says, not looking away from you. “and we know why you did it. nobody’s saying you should’ve stood there and watched him get hurt.”

“i’m saying,” dean cuts in, “that i’m supposed to be the one taking hits for you.”

“that’s not a rule.”

“yes, it is.”

the answer is so immediate, so certain, that it knocks the breath out of you.

sam’s expression folds with pain. he reaches for your hand, fingers closing around yours, warm and careful. “you’re our little sister.”

“i’m a hunter too.”

“i know,” sam says. “we know. tonight proved that.”

“then don’t say it like i’m not allowed to choose.”

“you are,” he says, and that gentleness hurts because he means it. “but we’re allowed to hate that choice. we’re allowed to be scared.”

dean lets out a bitter laugh. “scared doesn’t cover it.”

your eyes fill before you can stop them. you’re too tired to swallow it back, too sore to turn your face away with any dignity. the tears slip hot into your hairline, and dean’s anger vanishes so fast it leaves him looking hollow.

“hey,” he says, softer. “no, don’t. you’ll pull something.”

sam squeezes your hand.

“i didn’t want him to die,” you say, and it’s the stupidest, smallest explanation, barely anything, but it’s all you have. “i just saw it and moved. i didn’t think.”

dean sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle you. his shoulders slump. “i know.”

“i’m not sorry.”

his eyes close.

“i’m sorry you got scared,” you add, voice shaking now. “i’m sorry about the blood and the car and the crappy scar. i’m sorry sam had to drive because that means we’re all traumatized forever.”

sam huffs out a laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob.

“but i’m not sorry i pushed you.”

dean opens his eyes. for once, he has no fast answer. no insult. no joke with teeth. just that look he usually buries under bad attitude.

the tears keep coming, quiet and embarrassing. you aren’t even crying neatly. your chin wobbles, your breathing stutters, and every shaky inhale pulls at the stitches until pain glows beneath the bandages. sam reaches up to wipe your cheek with his thumb, and that makes it worse for some reason. dean looks at you for one more second before his face breaks open with helpless affection and fear.

“come here,” you whisper.

both of them freeze.

“what?”

“hug,” you say, because you might die of humiliation if they deny it. “teary hug. now.”

they move slowly. sam climbs onto the bed first, careful around the wounded side, one arm sliding behind your shoulders with the lightest pressure possible. dean takes the other side, awkward as hell, one knee on the mattress, one hand braced near your hip so he doesn’t lean on you. 

it’s barely a hug at first.  then sam presses his face into your hair. dean’s hand curls around the back of your head. and suddenly it’s real.

you cry harder, silently, because making noise hurts too much. sam murmurs nonsense into your hair, low and broken, telling you you’re okay, you’re here, they’ve got you. dean says nothing for a while. he just holds on, his thumb moving once against your temple as if checking that you’re still warm.

“you ever do that again,” he says eventually, voice rough, “i’m grounding you.”

you sniff. “i’m an adult.”

“don’t care.”

“can’t ground a hunter.”

“watch me.”

you close your eyes, tucked between them, pain and relief tangled so tightly you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. you’re still scared. you thought waking up would end it, but your body remembers the floor, the blood, dean’s hands pressing hard enough to hurt, sam’s voice cracking when he said your name… you’re safe now, or as safe as a winchester gets.

later, there are fresh bandages. painkillers from a bottle with someone else’s name on it. sam reheats soup in the motel microwave and pretends not to hover while you take four whole bites under threat of dean ‘airplaning the spoon’ like the world’s worst nurse. dean changes his shirt but not before you catch him scrubbing your blood off his hands in the sink for too long. 

for the next few hours, they become unbearable in opposite directions. sam keeps track of your fever, your pulse, your pain level, and the timing of every pill with the grim focus of a medical student. dean pretends he isn’t fussing while absolutely fussing, adjusting the blanket with a scowl, cutting your food into smaller pieces, putting a trash can near the bed in case you get sick, then acting offended when you call him sweet.

“i’m not sweet.”

“you tucked me in.”

“you were shivering.”

“sweet.”

“drugged. you’re drugged and confused.”

“sweetheart, even.”

sam makes a strangled noise into his coffee.

dean points at him. “laugh and you’re the one getting stabbed next.”

but he does not leave the bed for long. neither of them does. sam eventually stretches out on the other mattress, one arm flung over his eyes, but his hand stays near the space between the beds. dean returns to the floor because apparently that’s where he has decided he lives now, back against your mattress, head tilted just enough that you can see the exhaustion pulling at him.

the rain lets up near dawn.

you drift in and out, carried by painkillers and the soft scrape of sam turning pages in a book he isn’t really reading. every time you wake, one of them notices. every time you shift, one of them tells you not to. it makes something tender ache under your ribs, somewhere away from the wound. because being loved by them is heavy. too heavy sometimes. it pins you down, wraps you up, steals the room from your lungs. but it’s also dean sleeping on the floor because he wants to be the first thing danger has to climb over. it’s sam ruining his neck in a motel chair because looking away feels worse than pain. it’s mean jokes in the backseat, shaking stitches, soup from a microwave, and two brothers pretending they aren’t hovering while hovering severely.

you let them fuss. just this once.

outside, morning settles over the motel in thin gold strips, and for a while, nobody asks you to be brave.

in the supernatural universe, i could see you working in psychology, maybe around veterans, law enforcement referrals, or people recovering from “unexplainable trauma,” especially in kansas. very cute and normal until the trauma patterns start looking less like ptsd and more like demon possession, cursed objects, or “why do all these people have the same nightmare?”. your gemini placements make you follow the trail, your cancer sun makes you care too much to drop it, and your leo rising makes you harder to ignore than you think.

✧ first meeting + first impression

you meet dean because one of his cases crosses into your professional world. maybe a witness, survivor, or victim’s family member ends up speaking to you, and you notice the story doesn’t fit a normal psychological profile. dean walks in expecting to charm his way through a conversation, flash a fake badge, get what he needs, and leave. unfortunately for him, you have a psych degree, gemini mercury, and military-family radar, so you clock the performance almost immediately.

his first impression of you is that you’re sharp, warm, and a little too good at seeing through him, which is both inconvenient and extremely attractive to him. your leo rising catches his attention instantly, while your sagittarius moon speaks his emotional language more than either of you expect.

with sam, the meeting feels more intellectual from the start. he notices your questions before anything else—the way you don’t just ask what happened, but why someone reacted the way they did. your gemini mercury is fast, layered, observant, and sam respects that immediately. his first impression of you is that you’re thoughtful but not easily fooled. you’re kind, yes, but not naive. your cancer sun gives you empathy, but your chart has too much air and fire to just sit there passively while someone feeds you a bad explanation.

✧ the friendship dynamic

with dean, your friendship has instant spark because your sagittarius moon lines up beautifully with his sagittarius moon and venus, and your leo rising vibes with his leo-heavy presence in a way that feels almost embarrassingly natural. there’s banter, quick jokes, teasing, and that slightly dangerous feeling of two people who can make each other laugh at the worst possible times. he likes that you can be caring without being delicate, and you like that he can make the horror of the job feel less suffocating for five minutes. but there’s also emotional friction, because your cancer sun notices everything he tries to bury, and dean is not always thrilled about being emotionally perceived.

with sam, the friendship is calmer and more conversational. your gemini venus and mars match his venus in gemini, so the two of you can talk for ages—psychology, lore, motives, trauma patterns, why people make terrible choices, all of it. sam feels understood by your ability to connect behavior to pain, while you feel respected by the way he actually listens instead of dismissing your instincts as overthinking.

dean makes you feel alive and wanted in the moment. sam makes you feel heard and intellectually valued. both dynamics are good, but they feed different parts of you.

✧ quirks + fun things

→ dean hates how quickly you can tell when he’s deflecting, so he starts calling your psych degree “witchcraft with student loans”. → sam asks for your opinion on witness behavior so often that it slowly becomes your unofficial role on cases. → both of them learn that when you say “no, psychologically speakin—” they should probably sit down, because you’re about to ruin someone’s fake story in under three minutes.

ꔛ. something more,

✧ are you compatible .ᐣ first steps .ᐣ

with dean, the romantic chemistry is very strong. your sagittarius moon connects directly with his moon and venus, which gives instant attraction, humor, emotional recognition, and that “oh, you get my chaos” feeling. your leo rising also pulls his attention hard, because dean responds to warmth, presence, and confidence even when it’s wrapped in softness. the issue is your cancer sun, because underneath the jokes and chemistry, you need emotional safety, loyalty, and reassurance in ways dean does not always provide naturally. he would initiate first, absolutely. probably with a look that lingers too long, a joke that lands too personal, or one of those moments where the adrenaline drops and suddenly neither of you is laughing anymore.

with sam, compatibility is more subtle but very real. your gemini venus and mars work beautifully with his venus in gemini, so the mental connection is excellent. he likes how your mind moves, and you like that he can actually keep up without making you feel scattered. emotionally, though, your cancer sun and sagittarius moon may sometimes want more warmth and spontaneity than his taurus/capricorn heaviness naturally gives. romance with sam would grow slowly, probably after a lot of trust and late-night conversations. you might notice it first, but he would be the one to make it feel safe enough to admit.

✧ the relationship dynamic

with dean, the relationship would feel passionate, funny, protective, and emotionally complicated. he would adore your humor, your warmth, your ability to cut through his nonsense without making him feel dissected in a clinical way. your sagittarius moon gives you both room to joke, move, and avoid taking every heavy thing too seriously, which is important with him. but your cancer sun is still sitting underneath all that, needing tenderness and consistency. and that’s where dean can struggle. he might love you deeply but still fail to say the exact thing you need when you need it.

with sam, the relationship is steadier and more thoughtful. he gives you respect, patience, and consistency, and he would genuinely value your psychological insight instead of feeling threatened by it. the challenge is that sam can get too internal, too quiet, too heavy, while your gemini/sagittarius side needs conversation, humor, movement, and fresh air.

sam is safer. dean is warmer in motion. sam is easier to trust. dean is easier to want. deliciously inconvenient, really.

✧ their favorite n worst version of you

dean’s favorite version of you is when you’re fully in your element—laughing, reading people, teasing him back, using that bright leo rising and sagittarius moon without holding yourself back. he loves when you can make a room lighter and still catch the lie nobody else noticed. his least favorite version is you stop joking, stop reaching, and start acting like you’re fine because you know how to function through emotional discomfort. he recognizes that trick because he does it too, which is exactly why it bothers him.

sam’s favorite version of you is when your mind is moving freely. when you’re explaining behavior, connecting patterns, asking questions, making him look at a case from a human angle instead of just a lore angle. his least favorite version is when you overextend emotionally, taking responsibility for everyone else’s pain because your cancer sun feels it and your psychology brain wants to make sense of it. he would worry about you turning yourself into a safe place for everyone except yourself.

✧ fighting, hurting, making up

with dean, the damage comes from avoidance meeting emotional perception. you can read him too well, and he can dodge too fast. when you’re hurt, you may try to explain it, analyze it, make it manageable, but dean’s instinct is to joke, shut down, or turn protective instead of vulnerable. that could leave you feeling like you’re doing the emotional work for both of you. he causes more damage, not because he cares less, but because he struggles to stay emotionally present when things get too close to the bone.

with sam, the fights are quieter and less fiery, but they can still sting. his capricorn moon can go distant when he’s overwhelmed, while your sagittarius moon needs honesty and your cancer sun needs reassurance. the difference is that sam is more willing to sit down and actually talk through the problem once he has processed it.

emotionally, you may be more perceptive than both of them, but sam is more consistent in repair. dean makes up with intensity. sam makes up with follow-through.

ꔛ. scenario ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ silly fluff

the diner is almost empty except for the three of you crammed into one booth, fries stolen and restolen across the table for the past twenty minutes. “psychologically speaking--” you start, pointing a fry at dean, “you only flirt with waitresses that call you out because deep down you crave structure.” dean stares at you in betrayal. “see? this is what i mean. witchcraft with student loans.” you grin into your coffee. beside you, sam ducks his head, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. “i’m serious,” you insist. “it’s a compensatory behavior thing.” “oh, sweetheart, absolutely not.” “dean,” sam says calmly, reaching for the ketchup, “she’s kinda right.” “you’re dead to me.” you laugh hard enough that you accidentally bump your knee against sam’s under the table. he steadies it with his hand before pulling away just slightly too late for it to feel accidental. dean notices immediately and his eyes narrow. then he sighs dramatically and points between you both. “i knew we shouldn’t have stopped here. they don’t even have pie.”

ꔛ. overall ゛ with dean ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 8.2 / 10 with sam ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 8.7 / 10

this is close. annoyingly close.

dean has the stronger spark. your moon-to-moon connection with him is gorgeous for chemistry, humor, comfort, and that feeling of being understood without needing to explain every weird emotional impulse. he would make you feel alive, desired, and very seen.

but sam is slightly better long-term. with sam, the relationship has more stability, respect, and emotional repair. he may not match your fire as instantly as dean does, but he is less likely to leave you carrying the emotional labor alone.

dean would be the one your heart trips over. sam would be the one who actually sits beside you and helps untangle it. so the honest answer? dean is the more magnetic match, but sam is the healthier one.

it’s ugly, by the way. objectively.

dean had said it looked like something a retired sea witch would sell, which only made you buy it faster. you stood in that little seaside shop with your pink hat tipped over one eye, holding a lavender postcard in one hand and the magnet in the other, and told us, very seriously, that “americans have no respect for true coastal nonsense.”

dean said, “sweetheart, that thing’s a crime.”

you said, “then arrest me.”

i think i fell a little bit in love with you right there, which was inconvenient because i’d been trying very hard not to.

that summer was supposed to be practical. a case near the coast, two or three days of research, maybe a salt-and-burn if we were lucky. you were supposed to be the demonologist helping us translate one old french text that had no business turning up in a fishing town in maine. instead, you arrived with a suitcase too elegant for the motel carpet, a stack of books that looked heavier than you, and the expression of someone who’d been personally insulted by the entire country.

you hated being in the states. not quietly, either. you could be reserved around people you didn’t trust, careful with how much of yourself you gave away, but your irritation had excellent posture. you missed the french riviera with a passion that made every overheated motel room feel guilty for existing. you missed balance. beauty. mornings that didn’t begin with fluorescent diner coffee and dean arguing with a vending machine.

you said, more than once, that if you could throw your degree over your head and leave, you would.

then you would glance at me.

then you would look away.

i noticed more than you probably wanted me to. the way you complained about studying but still corrected my translation before i could ask. the way you said you were only helping because the manuscript was “an embarrassment to demonological accuracy,” then stayed up past midnight with your cheek in your hand, making notes in the margins. the way heat made you sharper, snarkier, a little mean around the edges, but not careless. never careless. you’d insult the motel curtains, dean’s driving, my posture, the entire concept of american bread, and then remind me to put sunscreen on because i’d been reading too long near the window.

you applied yours carefully every morning. no rushed, careless smearing. you made it a ritual, standing by the sink in a pale slip dress or a soft summer top, your little handheld fan tucked under your arm, grumbling about how ac was a sign of weakness while looking personally betrayed by august.

“zari,” i said once, “the air conditioner exists for a reason.”

“so does moral fortitude.”

“you’re sweating.”

“i am glowing with contempt.”

you were impossible. and funny. and so much smaller than the force of your personality suggested. i don’t mean that in a way you’d hate. i know you hated when people treated your height or your body as an invitation to underestimate you. you carried yourself with so much ego and attitude that most people didn’t dare. but i remember the details anyway. the tilt of your chin when someone annoyed you. the pretty severity of your hats. the lavender ribbon you tied around one book so the pages wouldn’t split. the way you took up space through certainty instead of size.

you never needed to be anything other than exactly yourself to hold a room.

i wish i had told you that sooner.

most mornings, you were awake before you wanted to be. not because you were an early riser. no, you made your feelings on that very clear. the heat dragged everyone out of sleep before sunrise, and you were at your worst and softest then, barefoot on the motel balcony with an iced coffee in your hand, still half-dreaming, hair pinned away from your neck, watching the seaside town blink awake. boats knocking gently against the docks. gulls screaming. dean sleeping through everything.

that was when i liked you best.

not because you were nicer in the mornings. you weren’t. you once looked at me over your coffee and said, “you are offensively tall.” but your guard slipped then. only a little. enough for me to see the tiredness underneath the attitude. the loneliness of being somewhere you didn’t choose, doing work you were good at but resented, surrounded by books when part of you wanted sun and sea and a life that didn’t require translating curses before noon.

i wanted to make it easier for you. not fix it. i knew better than that. you would’ve bitten my head off. cursed me in french. but i wanted to stand close enough that you didn’t have to carry all of it alone.

the road trip didn’t help my composure.

you refused to learn how to drive with such complete confidence that dean almost respected it. you slept in the passenger seat when you could steal it, one cheek pressed against your hand, hat tipped low, pretending you weren’t judging every song that came on. except you were. internally, violently, with academic precision.

once, dean put on something loud and smug and said, “don’t worry, princess, you can pick next.”

without opening your eyes, you said, “i would rather walk into the sea.”

i laughed so hard, my stomach hurt.

when the impala broke down on the edge of nowhere, you sat in the shade beneath a crooked roadside sign, fanning yourself, offering what you called emotional support while dean cursed into the engine and i tried to keep the case files from blowing into a ditch.

“you’re both doing wonderfully,” you called.

“grab a wrench,” dean snapped.

“i will not move, chéri.”

you did, though. you handed me water before i asked. you held the flashlight when the sun started to go down. you made some remark about winchester men needing adult supervision, then touched my shoulder as you passed, just briefly, and i thought about it for the next forty miles.

that was the worst part, maybe. how easy you made it look. you flirted openly and somehow didn’t seem to know you were doing it. leaning too close to read over my arm. stealing my pen and making me reach around you for it. calling me “mon grand chercheur” under your breath because you liked watching me try not to react. you’d say something sharp, something teasing, then soften your voice at the exact wrong second and leave me sitting there with my pulse making a fool of me.

mutual pining sounds almost elegant when you put it that way.

it wasn’t. it was me pretending not to watch your mouth while you argued about medieval possession rites. it was you pretending not to care when my hand settled at the small of your back while we crossed a crowded pier. it was dean announcing, loudly, that the tension in the room was interfering with his ability to enjoy his sandwich.

the outdoor cinema was your idea. technically, it was also part of the case, because the old projector booth was where the haunting centered, but you wore lavender and pink anyway, as if exorcising a spirit near a parking lot screen required style. you brought iced coffee. i brought a blanket. dean brought three hot dogs and then disappeared the second the ghost activity went quiet because, in his words, he “respected the suffering of nerds in love.”

we sat on the hood of the impala after the movie started again, the picture flickering over our faces, the sound slightly warped through the speakers. your shoulder pressed into my arm. your fan rested beside your knee. the night was still too warm, but better than the day, softer around the edges. you were quiet for a long time, which made me nervous.

then you said, “i do not want to go back yet.”

i knew you meant the motel. the degree. the states. maybe france. maybe all of it.

i said, “then don’t. not yet.”

you looked at me, and there was nothing polished about it. no snark ready. no easy flirtation. just you, tired and beautiful and a little scared of wanting something that might complicate the life you already found unbearable.

“reassuring words, sam,” you said, almost teasing, but not quite. “this is where you’re supposed to be good at them.”

so i tried. i told you that you were allowed to hate where you were and still find something worth staying for. i told you that your work mattered, even when it made you want to throw every book into the ocean. i told you that i noticed when you acted mean because you were overheated, and when you acted mean because you were protecting something softer. i told you i liked both versions. probably too much.

you kissed me beside the concession stand, which was completely ordinary until it wasn’t. there were melted ice pops in the trash can nearby. a speaker crackled behind us. someone’s kid was crying near the bathrooms. your hand curled in my shirt, and my hand found your waist carefully, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. you didn’t. you rose onto your toes instead, annoyed even in affection, and whispered against my mouth, “you are still offensively tall.”

i said, “i’ll make it work.”

after that, summer changed without making a big announcement. you still complained about the heat. dean still drove. the cases still found us. you still pretended not to care about the music while silently judging every single choice. but you leaned into my side more often. you let me kiss the top of your head in bookstores. you let me carry the heavier stack of books without accusing me of chivalric nonsense every time. sometimes, when you were tired, you’d reach for my hand first.

that felt bigger than anything.

the end of summer came, because it always does, but it didn’t take you from me. not completely. you went back to your degree, and i went back to hunting, and for a few days i thought we were going to do the noble thing and pretend that was enough.

then you called.

you said, “i found another text you translated wrong.”

i said, “that’s not possible.”

you said, “it is, unfortunately. also, i miss you.”

i still remember standing in the motel parking lot with the phone against my ear, smiling so hard dean rolled his eyes and walked away.

so this is me writing it down before time turns it too neat. you were not just a summer thing, zari. you were iced coffee at sunrise, lavender in the passenger seat, sunscreen on my shoulder, a tacky magnet on the dash, and a kiss beside a bad outdoor movie that made me forget how ordinary anything could be. you were books in the heat and a handheld fan and the sharpest mouth in any room, and somehow... you were also home.

i kept the magnet because you chose it.

i kept the summer because it brought me you.

the two of you had run into each other by accident, or something close to it, outside a liquor store with flickering fluorescent lights. he’d said your name before he could stop himself, and you’d turned around with a bottle tucked under one arm, eyes widening in a way that made the years between you feel suddenly thin. too thin.

one drink had become two. catching up had turned into your knee brushing his beneath the booth, your laugh warming over the rim of your glass, sam trying very hard not to stare at the curve of your mouth when you asked if he was still getting into trouble.

“less than before,” he had lied.

“you’ve never been good at lying to me.”

and god, that had been the problem. you still knew him. not all of him, not the parts that had been carved out and rebuilt wrong by hell and blood and angels and grief, but enough. you looked at him and saw through the careful distance he tried to keep, through the polite smile and the lowered voice and the way he held himself as if wanting anything too much might turn it rotten.

then he drove you home.

then you invited him up.

and sam, because he’s determined to be noble at the worst possible time, said no.

you had gone quiet for half a second, not hurt exactly, but close enough that he almost took it back. then you stepped closer, one hand resting against the edge of the open passenger door, your face soft under the streetlight.

“still careful, huh?”

“trying to be.”

“with me?”

he should have said yes. should have said always. instead, he just looked at you, and you seemed to understand because your expression shifted into something that made his pulse drag low in his stomach.

you kissed his cheek. slow. warm. far too close to the corner of his mouth. “goodnight, sam.”

now, he’s sitting in the car with his jaw clenched, watching your building from the curb like an idiot. like a man with no decency. the air inside the car is cool enough to fog faintly against the glass, but his skin feels too warm beneath his jacket. he tells himself he’s only making sure you get inside safely. that’s reasonable. that’s sam. that is the version of himself he can defend.

then your bedroom light flicks on. he looks up before he can stop himself.

you’re framed by the window on the second floor, your back turned as you tug your shirt over your head, and sam’s entire body locks. he should look away. he does look away, for one harsh, panicked second, staring at the dashboard while his heart slams against his ribs.

“no,” he mutters under his breath. “no, don’t—”

his phone buzzes.

the sound makes him flinch.

your name glows on the screen.

𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜?

sam stares at the message, throat dry. his thumb hovers over the keyboard, then types and deletes three different answers before he manages one.

𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢.

your reply comes almost immediately.

𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝. 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎.

sam closes his eyes.

another buzz.

𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔, 𝚜𝚊𝚖. 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚜.

the breath leaves him all at once.

when he looks up again and now you’re facing the window. not fully exposed. not careless. you stand in your bra and jeans, the dark lace cupping your breasts, hair falling a little messily from where your shirt had dragged it loose. your arms are crossed at first, almost shy, which does something worse to him than if you’d been bold from the beginning. then your gaze drops toward the street, toward the car, toward him.

you cannot really see him through the windshield. still, sam feels seen.

his phone buzzes again.

𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙.

his fingers feel clumsy.

𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘.

the pause before your answer is short enough to hurt.

𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚎.

sam’s head falls back against the seat. “fuck…” it comes out low and strained, dragged from the deepest part of him.

he looks around the quiet street once, twice, making sure no one’s close, no headlights rolling slowly past, no neighbor walking a dog at the wrong time. then his hand drops to his lap, palm pressing hard over the thick, aching line of his cock already straining painfully against his jeans.

he should still leave. he doesn’t.

the sound of his zipper is obscenely loud in the silent car. he shoves his jeans and boxer-briefs down just enough, hissing through his teeth as his cock springs free. the first rough stroke of his fist makes his hips jerk and a broken groan tear from his throat. he keeps his eyes fixed on your window, shameful and raw, filthy want twisting together so tightly he can barely breathe.

you reach behind yourself.

your bra loosens.

sam’s grip tightens, stroking himself harder now, the wet sound of his hand sliding over precum-slick skin filling the car. your straps slip down your arms, and the lace falls away, revealing the soft, weight of your breasts, nipples already tight in the cool air of your room. the sight punches the air out of his lungs. his cock throbs violently in his fist as he twists his wrist on the upstroke, thumb pressing firmly over the sensitive head, spreading the slickness.

“fuck… look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked.

you move closer to the window and lift your phone. a second later, his screen lights up.

𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏?

sam looks at the message, then back up at your bare tits, at the way your thumb brushes slowly over one nipple like you’re putting on a show just for him.

he answers with one hand, the other still furiously working his cock.

𝚢𝚎𝚜.

𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍.

the single word burns through him like gasoline. sam groans louder, fist pumping faster, the steering wheel digging into his forearm as he fucks up into his hand with short, desperate thrusts. his balls draw up tight, aching. he imagines pinning you against that window, mouth on your tits, sucking hard while he grinds his cock against your thigh. imagines dropping to his knees and burying his face between your legs until you’re shaking. imagines finally sinking into the tight, wet heat of you and fucking you until neither of you can think.

his rhythm turns sloppy, frantic. precum drips steadily over his knuckles, easing the glide. every stroke pulls filthy, wet sounds from his fist. his thighs tremble. sweat beads at his hairline.

you press your hand to the glass, head tilted, watching the dark shape of him in the driver’s seat like you can feel every desperate stroke.

sam comes brutally. his whole body seizes, hips snapping up hard as thick ropes of cum spill over his fist, splattering across his shirt and the steering wheel. a wrecked, guttural moan rips out of him—too loud for the quiet street—but he can’t stop it. he keeps stroking through it, milking every last pulse, eyes locked on you the entire time, vision whiting out at the edges from the intensity.

when it’s over, he slumps back against the seat, chest heaving, cum cooling on his fingers and stomach, shame already licking at the edges of the afterglow.

his phone buzzes.

𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢?

sam exhales shakily and types back with trembling fingers.

𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑. 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑. 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.

he looks up. you’re still standing there, bra dangling from one hand, arm loosely across your chest—not hiding, just waiting. soft. patient. wanting.

sam’s thumb hovers.

𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘.

then, after a moment—

𝚒 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘.

your posture shifts. even from the street he can see the way your breath catches.

𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎.

sam sits there with his heart still hammering and his spent cock twitching against his thigh, staring up at your window while the night presses close around the car.

he doesn’t start the engine.

you told me a lot of things that summer, actually. not all at once. not in the easy way people sometimes do when they want to be known fast. you were reserved in the beginning, almost careful with yourself, as if you had a version of mari for strangers and another version tucked away for people who had earned it. the first one was polite, observant, pretty in a way that made me nervous because it didn’t ask for attention and still got it. the second one came out somewhere between the third bad motel and the second time dean chose the music without asking.

you were loud. funny. sarcastic enough to make dean choke on his slushie. too honest in a way that should’ve scared me off and somehow did the opposite.

i think i liked you before you let me see all of that.

i know i loved you after.

that town was the kind of place people forget exists once summer ends. weather-beaten docks, tiny souvenir shops, salt stuck to every window, and roads so narrow dean kept muttering that the impala deserved better. you bought that ridiculous local t-shirt from a shop with a sun-faded plastic lobster in the window, then acted as if it was a perfectly reasonable purchase because “it has character.” dean said it had a criminal record. you wore it over your halter top the next morning anyway, with jean shorts and sandals, hair messy from the heat, sage-green nail polish chipped on one thumb, and sunscreen already in your hand.

“sit,” you told me.

“mari, i’m fine.”

“you are six feet of pale academic tragedy. sit.”

so i sat.

your hands were gentle. that’s what got me. you had this nurse’s focus, this steady way of noticing small things before they became problems. a cut on dean’s knuckle. the headache i pretended i didn’t have. the fact that i’d been rereading the same paragraph for ten minutes because i was too busy watching you pretend not to watch me back.

you noticed everything.

which was inconvenient, because i was trying very hard not to be noticed.

the case was supposed to be simple. haunted inn, old drowning, local stories. we were going to be in and out in two days. instead, the car broke down outside a bait shop with one working vending machine and a bathroom key attached to a wooden fish. dean was under the hood swearing. i was pretending i knew enough about the problem to help. and you were sitting cross-legged on the curb, googling solutions with your glasses slipping down your nose, reading instructions aloud in the most serious voice i had ever heard.

then you muttered something in spanish.

i didn’t catch all of it.

but that was the moment, i think. sunset turning the road gold, your gas-station slushie melting beside your knee, you squinting at your phone and refusing to panic because someone had to be useful. you were so pretty it was honestly rude. moles on your skin. tired eyes. that little frown you got when you were concentrating. the softness you tried to cover with sarcasm. the honesty you used when you were scared someone might miss the point.

i didn’t miss it.

i just didn’t know what to do with it yet.

you didn’t make it easy, by the way. when you liked me, you acted as if being in the same room was suddenly a complication. you’d plan the route, hand me the map, remind me about the next turn, then refuse to look at me when my fingers brushed yours. you judged every song dean played but claimed you were “very relaxed about music, actually,” which was the least convincing lie i’ve ever heard. you saved me the blue raspberry slushie even though you said it stained my tongue. you bought me a paperback from a used bookstore near the pier because you said the main character was “tall, quiet, and emotionally constipated, so obviously.”

i still have it.

there’s sand between the pages.

our first date wasn’t called a date. you were very firm about that. it was “a walk.” then it was “getting food.” then it was “checking out the beach because we’re already here, sam, don’t make it weird.” i tried not to make it weird. i failed. you wore flared jeans even though the air was warm, and a babydoll top that kept catching the sunset. i remember you holding your sandals in one hand, walking barefoot near the water, telling me about the difference between the person people first met and the person your close friends got to keep.

i wanted to be close enough to keep you.

that thought hit me so hard i almost stopped walking.

later, we went swimming after dark. also not a date, according to you. definitely not the first date, which mattered because you had rules about kissing on first dates and you informed me of them with the kind of dramatic offense that made me grin for ten minutes afterward.

“excuse you,” you said, pointing at me as we stood ankle-deep in the water. “i do not kiss on first dates.”

“i didn’t ask.”

“well, saved you the question, no?”

it was like you read my mind. i was thinking about kissing you. i was thinking about how careful you were with your own heart and how badly i wanted to be trusted with it. i was thinking about the moon on your wet shoulders, your laugh carrying over the water, the way you looked at me when you thought darkness gave you permission. i was thinking that if i stepped closer, you might step back. and if you stepped back, i would deserve it for wanting too much too soon.

so i didn’t kiss you. not that night. i just walked beside you until we were both cold, and when you shivered, i gave you my jacket without making a joke about it. you looked at me for a long second, softer than you probably meant to.

“you’re sweet,” you said, quiet enough that i would’ve pretended not to hear.

the kiss came later, because mutual pining can only survive so many sunsets before it starts getting ridiculous. we were outside the motel, sitting on the hood of the impala while dean was inside pretending not to spy through the blinds. you had that stupid t-shirt on again, your knees tucked up, your shoulder pressed against mine. i told you i liked the mole near your mouth. you went still in this tiny, startled way, as if being noticed that specifically meant more than some big confession.

then you said, “you’re not very subtle, winchester.”

i said, “neither are you, mari.”

and you kissed me first. barely. just enough to ruin me.

then you pulled back and said, “that doesn’t count as a first date kiss.”

i said, “no?”

“no. this is different.”

you were right. it was.

the summer didn’t end with a goodbye, which still feels impossible. our lives are usually built out of leaving. motel keys on counters, tire marks in gravel, people we care about becoming rearview mirror ghosts because staying gets complicated and dangerous and selfish.

i expected that. maybe you did too. maybe that’s why you kept pretending you were casual about it, folding your clothes too neatly, making little jokes, reminding everyone about the route back as if planning the road could protect you from the end of it.

but then you looked at me across the parking lot, wearing sage green and trying not to cry, and i knew i couldn’t turn you into another thing i missed. so i asked you to come with us for a while.

not forever. not in a way that trapped you. just a while. just the next town. the next case. the next sunset. the next gas-station slushie where you judged dean’s music and stole my fries and reminded me to put sunscreen on even when there wasn’t a beach for miles.

you said yes.

then you called me an idiot for looking so surprised.

i’m writing this from the passenger seat while dean drives and complains about your playlist, which means he secretly likes it. you’re asleep in the backseat, curled around my jacket, one hand tucked under your cheek. the weird t-shirt is in your bag somewhere. your glasses are in the cupholder because you forgot them there. there’s a slushie receipt stuck in my book, and your handwriting on the map, and for once, summer doesn’t feel like something we lost. it feels like something we carry with us.

so, marianna, what happened that summer can stay there if you want. but i’m really glad you didn’t.

the next four hours are *ugly—*frantic phone calls, tire tracks behind the motel, a smear of blood on the pavement that sam insists isn’t enough to mean anything while dean refuses to look at him. dean drives too fast through wet streets with one hand clamped around the wheel and the other reaching for his phone every few minutes, as if you might call if he checks hard enough. he follows bad leads until they collapse beneath him. threatens a bartender who knows less than he pretends to. punches a vampire so many times after it finally gives up the address that sam has to grab his shoulder and say his name sharply. “dean—we know where they are.”

dean looks down at the thing bleeding beneath him, chest heaving, knuckles split open. “right.”

the nest is inside an abandoned cannery at the edge of town, all rusted metal and broken windows, the air thick with damp concrete and the sweet, coppery smell of blood. dean hears voices somewhere beyond the loading bay as he and sam move through the dark, machetes drawn, boots careful against scattered glass. then he hears yours.

“you’re making a really stupid mistake,” you say, and your voice is strained but steady enough that dean’s knees nearly give out with relief. “dean’s going to kill you.”

a man laughs. “that boyfriend of yours?”

“he’s gonna be the one to end your bloodline.”

dean steps around the corner before sam can stop him. you’re tied to an old wooden chair beneath a hanging work lamp, wrists bound behind you, cheek bruised and mouth bloodied at one corner. there’s a vampire standing behind you with one hand in your hair and a knife pressed against your throat, and dean’s entire body goes cold.

“let her go,” he says.

your eyes snap toward him. relief flickers across your face so quickly it hurts to see. “dean.”

“hey, sweetheart.” his voice comes out rough, but he forces something close to a smile. “you always find the nicest places to hang out.”

the vampire tightens his grip, blade shifting against your skin. dean sees the faint line of red it leaves behind and stops breathing.

“drop the machete,” the vampire says.

sam is somewhere behind him, hidden in the dark. dean knows that. trusts it. still, lowering the weapon feels impossible when every instinct in his body is screaming at him to get between you and the knife.

“dean, don’t,” you say.

he lets the machete fall.

metal cracks against concrete.

“good boy.”

dean barely hears him. he can’t stop looking at you, cataloguing everything he should’ve noticed earlier, every bruise he’s already going to blame himself for later. your eyes stay fixed on his, wide and furious and frightened despite the stubborn set of your mouth.

“i’m sorry,” he says.

you blink. “what?”

“i’m sorry i wasn’t there.”

“dean, this is not the time—”

“yeah, well, timing’s never really been my thing.”

the vampire’s smile widens. “this is sweet.”

dean ignores him. he ignores the blade. ignores the terror scraping through his chest and the quiet movement somewhere behind the machinery as sam circles closer.

“i should’ve told you,” dean says, and your expression changes because you know him too well. you know exactly how scared he has to be before honesty starts slipping loose. “a long time ago, probably. before this. before some bloodsucking freak tied you to a chair and i had to stand here thinking about every dumb thing i never said because i figured there’d always be more time.”

“dean,” you whisper.

“i love you.”

the words land in the room bare and strange. his throat tightens, but he keeps going because he’s spent years finding reasons not to, and he can’t bear the thought of losing you with the truth still trapped inside him.

“i’m in love with you,” he says. “not in a best-friend way, not in a you’re-family way, even though you are. god, you are. i love the way you steal the blankets and complain about my music and leave your crap all over baby even though you know it drives me nuts. i love you so much it makes me stupid, and i know this is a terrible time to say it, but i need you to know. i need you to know before anything happens.”

your eyes shine. “nothing’s going to happen,” you say, voice shaking. “because you’re going to get me out of this chair, and then i’m going to yell at you for waiting until i’m being held hostage to tell me you’re in love with me.”

something breaks loose inside him. almost a laugh. almost a sob. “yeah?”

“yeah.” your mouth twists around a small, frightened smile. “and then i’m probably going to kiss you, if you don’t make it weird.”

the vampire groans. “are you two finished?”

sam moves fast. the blade disappears from your throat before dean fully registers what’s happening. sam swings from behind, clean and brutal, and the vampire’s head hits the floor with a wet thud. dean’s across the room before the body drops, cutting through the ropes at your wrists with hands that won’t stop shaking.

dean cups your face carefully, avoiding the bruise, his forehead pressing against yours as if he needs the contact to believe you’re really here. “you okay?”

“i am now.”

he closes his eyes.

you do kiss him, eventually. not while your blood is drying on your chin and sam is clearing the rest of the building. for now, dean just pulls you against him, arms tight around your body, and you hold on while his breathing slowly begins to steady.

“you meant it?” you whisper into his jacket.

his hand slides to the back of your neck. “every word.”

you nod against him, and neither of you says anything else for a while. there will be time later, you hope.

i know that sounds too small to start a letter with, but that’s exactly why i’m starting there. it was caught in the seam near an old receipt and one of dean’s empty gum wrappers, this tiny pale thing that should’ve been impossible to notice. i almost threw it away with everything else, and then i stopped because i knew it was yours. i don’t know how. maybe because you were always leaving little pieces of yourself behind without meaning to.

that summer did that too.

it left pieces everywhere.

there was the gas station outside that sleepy seaside town, where you came out with a lavender slushie, two bags of snacks, and a t-shirt that said something about the local crab festival even though none of us had seen a crab festival. dean stared at it for a full ten seconds and said, “that shirt is a cry for help.”

you held it against yourself, pastel purple hair falling over one shoulder, tattoos peeking out where your sleeve shifted, and smiled at him like you’d won something. “it has character.”

“it has trauma.”

“you’re just jealous.”

“of a crab in sunglasses? no, sweetheart, i’m good.”

you bought it anyway.

i think that was one of the first things i really liked about you. not the big obvious things... though those were hard to miss. your lavender hair, the gingham dresses you wore, the fishnet tights you pulled out on a random evening because, according to you, “the outfit needed tension.” the way you seemed soft and bright and then would surprise everyone by being completely committed to the weirdest choice in the room. you were joyful in this very active way, lilou. not loud all the time, not careless, but determined. as if making people smile was something you took seriously.

you made dean laugh even when he was trying very hard not to.

you made me feel noticed before i knew what to do with that.

there was a heatwave that week, which you treated as a personal betrayal. you were always running warm, always fanning yourself with whatever was closest, always searching for air conditioning. the motel room ac rattled so loudly that dean threatened to shoot it, but you stood in front of it with your arms out and said, “if he dies, i die.”

“it’s a machine,” dean said.

“he’s family now.”

i laughed from the table where i was pretending to read, and you glanced over at me, pleased but trying not to show it. that was your thing with me. you were open with everyone else, all smiles and little jokes and easy help, but the second anything got too close between us, you denied it so hard it became suspicious.

“you’re staring, sam.”

“i’m reading.”

“your book is upside down.”

it was not upside down. it was sideways. different problem.

i didn’t mean to stare. not in a way that made you uncomfortable. it was just that you kept becoming the center of whatever room you were in without trying. you’d sit on the motel bed with your scrapbook supplies spread around you, tongue caught between your teeth while you glued something down. you’d hum along to songs in the car and then pretend you weren’t judging when dean picked one that didn’t fit the mood. you’d help an annoyed cashier find something behind the counter and come back smiling because “she was having a hard day.” you were pretty and tattooed and soft in all these ways that weren’t fragile, and i remember thinking that anyone who mistook your sweetness for weakness was probably about to get politely destroyed.

i liked that too. i liked too much, honestly.

the music thing was funny because you acted easygoing about it for maybe five minutes. you’d say, “play whatever,” and then sit there in the backseat with your slushie, eyes narrowed in the rearview mirror whenever dean skipped something too fast.

“what?” he asked once.

“nothing.”

“you’re making a face.”

“this is my regular face.”

“your regular face looks judgy.”

you took one calm sip and said, “maybe your regular choices deserve it.”

i had to turn toward the window because i smiled too hard.

when the car broke down outside town, you didn’t panic. you also had absolutely no idea what you were doing, which somehow made your confidence better. you stood beside me while dean complained under the hood, holding a flashlight in one hand even though it was still bright out.

“am i helping?” you asked.

“technically? no.”

“emotionally?”

“yes.”

you beamed at that, and i had to look back at the engine before i did something stupid, like touch your waist just because you were standing close enough for it to feel possible.

that was the shape of us for most of the summer. possible. not spoken. always just there, sitting between us in the backseat, on the motel balcony, in the narrow space by the vending machine when we both reached for the same bag of chips. friends, because that was safe. friends, because it let you lean your shoulder against mine during late-night walks without having to explain it. friends, because it let me fix the strap of your dress when it twisted and pretend my fingers didn’t linger against your shoulder. friends, because if we called it something else, one of us would have to crack first.

you were determined it wouldn’t be you. i know that now. i wasn’t much better.

at the county fair, you wore lavender gingham and bought another slushie even though it was late enough for the air to finally cool. your hair looked softer under the fair lights, and your tattoos moved whenever you lifted your arm to point at something. you wanted silly games and snacks, so dean won you a cheap plastic bracelet at the dart booth, which he immediately called “a priceless artifact,” and you wore it next to your real jewelry as if it belonged there.

then i won you a stuffed seagull. badly. not the seagull. me. the game was rigged, and i will stand by that.

you hugged it to your chest and looked up at me with this ridiculous soft smile. “thank you, sam.”

“it’s kind of ugly.”

“he has character.”

“you say that about a lot of questionable things.”

“and yet i like you.”

you froze after you said it. not enough for dean to notice, because he was busy harassing a funnel cake stand, but enough for me. your smile stayed in place, but your eyes changed behind it, and i knew you wanted to take the words back even though they weren’t a confession. not exactly. still, they landed right in the middle of everything we weren’t saying.

i wanted to reassure you. i wanted to say i liked you too. i wanted to say i had been trying not to for days, longer, and doing a terrible job.

instead, i said, “good.”

you blinked. “good?”

“yeah. i’d hate to be less interesting than a crab t-shirt.”

you laughed, and the moment loosened. but it didn’t disappear.

later, after dean went back to the motel and pretended very badly that he wasn’t giving us space, we walked along the closed boardwalk with your stuffed seagull tucked under your arm. the shops were dark. the air was cooler. you were still warm, still complaining about it, still glowing with the kind of tired happiness people get after too much sugar and too many lights.

your shoulder brushed mine. you didn’t move away.

“you’re quiet,” you said.

“i’m thinking.”

“dangerous.”

“about you.”

that stopped you.

i could see the denial start, the little deflection forming before you even opened your mouth, so i reached for your hand. my fingers slid between yours. you looked down at them, and for once, you didn’t joke.

“sam,” you said, softer than usual.

“i know.”

“you don’t know what i’m going to say.”

“you’re going to say we’re friends.”

your mouth twitched. “we are.”

“yeah,” i said. “we are.”

i wanted to be careful with you. not because you were breakable, but because you mattered. there’s a difference. so i didn’t kiss you right away. i just held your hand while we walked, and i told you your t-shirt was awful, and you told me my hair was too pretty for a man who owned that many flannels.

then you kissed me. outside the shuttered ice cream shop, under a sign with half the letters burned out... you turned suddenly and touched my cheek before you could talk yourself out of it. your palm was warm. your rings were cool. you looked scared for half a breath, then stubborn.

“surprise,” you whispered.

i smiled because i couldn’t help it, and then your mouth was on mine.

it was sweet at first. a little nervous. then your fingers curled into my shirt, and i stepped closer, and the whole kiss changed without becoming less tender. your back touched the wooden railing. my hand settled at your waist. you made this quiet sound, half laugh and half sigh, and i remember thinking that friends was the most useless word in the world.

summer ended too soon after that.

i hate that part.

there was just a morning where the bags were packed, the t-shirt was folded, the scrapbook had one last page drying on the desk, and you were standing by the motel room ac as if you could store the cold for later.

i told you we’d see each other again.

you smiled, “yeah?”

“yeah.”

you nodded, but your eyes didn’t believe me all the way.

i still think about that.

i think about your lavender hair in the late-night wind. i think about your hand in mine and the way you tried so hard to pretend you weren’t the one cracking first. i think about the weird local t-shirt folded in my bag because you said it would look better on me, and i said absolutely not, and then packed it anyway when you weren’t looking.

i don’t know what happens after a summer like that, lilou. not cleanly. not easily. but i still have the shirt, and one of your pearl beads, and the memory of you kissing me before i was brave enough to ask, and some nights that feels almost close enough to reach.

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the way he keeps leaving before comfort can become permanent ๋࣭ ⭑ you offer him something steady, and dean keeps treating that steadiness as a trapdoor he has to outrun. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ the way neither of you knows how to bend before resentment settles in ๋࣭ ⭑ you both call it patience until one argument exposes how long you have quietly been keeping score.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the way he uses jokes to dodge every conversation you actually need to have ๋࣭ ⭑ you can keep up with the banter, but sometimes you need dean to stop performing long enough to tell you the truth. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ the way he listens to your words but sometimes misses the feeling beneath them ๋࣭ ⭑ you speak in layers; sam keeps trying to solve you as though there’s one correct answer.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the way he accepts your care but refuses to believe you deserve the same from him ๋࣭ ⭑ you can keep loving someone through their worst days, but you can’t keep being punished for noticing they have them. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ the way he goes silent when he’s hurting and leaves you to imagine the worst ๋࣭ ⭑ you feel every shift in him, but sam keeps insisting nothing’s wrong until your own anxiety starts filling in the blanks.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the way he loves your light until he starts feeling threatened by it ๋࣭ ⭑ dean adores how brightly you take up space, right up until he worries there’s no room left for his quieter pain. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ the way he retreats when you need reassurance most ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t need applause every second, but you do need to know he’s still choosing you when the room goes quiet.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the way your concern starts sounding like criticism when he already feels defective ๋࣭ ⭑ you notice what needs fixing; dean hears confirmation that he’s the broken thing in the room. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ the way you both turn love into labor until neither of you feels allowed to fall apart ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re excellent at taking care of each other and terrible at admitting when care has become exhaustion.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the way you smooth over every conflict until dean stops realizing he’s hurting you ๋࣭ ⭑ you keep choosing peace, and dean gets too comfortable mistaking your grace for forgiveness. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ the way both of you avoid the argument until the relationship starts feeling polite instead of intimate ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t want to make his life harder; sam doesn’t want to burden you. congratulations, now nobody is telling the truth.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the way you can see his worst instincts and refuse to let him disguise them as sacrifice ๋࣭ ⭑ dean wants you to believe he’s protecting everyone; you know when he’s quietly trying to punish himself. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ the way your understanding starts feeling invasive when he’s already ashamed of what you might find ๋࣭ ⭑ you know when sam is hiding something, and sam knows you know. neither of you handles that gently.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the way he loves your freedom until fear makes him try to anchor you too tightly ๋࣭ ⭑ you remind dean of everything he wants and everything he’s convinced he cannot keep. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ the way you keep looking for an exit when the relationship starts asking something permanent of you ๋࣭ ⭑ sam doesn’t want to cage you, but he can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt when you treat leaving as your first survival instinct.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the way both of you mistake endurance for intimacy ๋࣭ ⭑ you know how to survive beside each other, but neither of you knows how to stop surviving long enough to be soft. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ the way your mutual restraint turns into emotional starvation ๋࣭ ⭑ you both show love through loyalty, but eventually you need words neither of you is practiced at giving.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the way you detach when he needs proof that you still care ๋࣭ ⭑ dean acts independent until you stop chasing him, and then suddenly your distance feels unbearable. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ the way you intellectualize your feelings until he starts wondering whether he’s loved or merely understood ๋࣭ ⭑ sam appreciates your mind, but sometimes he needs something messier than analysis.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the way you keep believing in the version of him he’s afraid he can’t become ๋࣭ ⭑ your hope feels beautiful until dean starts hearing it as another standard he’s destined to fail. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ the way you absorb his pain until loving you starts making him feel guilty ๋࣭ ⭑ you want to carry some of the weight; sam’s terrified that letting you do that will ruin you too.

you should arrest him on principle. still, the laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it. “you impersonated law enforcement, obstructed an active investigation, trespassed onto private property, and dragged me into the middle of a cannibal family nightmare without so much as a safety briefing.” you tilt your head. “so no, dean. you have not been a good boy.”

his mouth curves anyway. “yeah, but i did save your ass.”

“you assisted.”

“assisted,” he repeats, offended. “wow.”

“don’t pout. it’s unbecoming.”

“i don’t pout.”

“you’re doing it right now.” that gets him. a quiet huff of laughter leaves his lips, warm and unwilling.

he shifts closer, knee brushing yours, and the air in the car thickens. his hand finds your waist, thumb pressing just under the hem of your shirt. you want to push him away for the lies, for the danger that clings to him. you want him closer. both feelings tangle so tight it’s hard to breathe.

“careful,” you murmur, and it sounds weak even to your own ears.

his thumb presses once beneath the hem of your shirt. “always am.”

“that is the least convincing thing you’ve said all night.”

he leans in slow, giving you time to stop him. that’s the annoying part. the decent part. the part that makes it harder to stay angry, because he’s arrogant, reckless, allergic to the truth, and still somehow waiting for permission with his mouth an inch from your skin. you don’t stop him.

his lips find the side of your neck, hot and open, and your fingers curl against the seat. teeth graze just under your jaw, followed by the slow drag of his tongue, and your breath comes out quieter than you mean it to. “dean—”

“shh. just sayin’ thanks.” another kiss, wetter, right below your ear.

“that’s not how that works.”

“depends who’s sayin’ it.”

you turn your head then, catching his mouth before he can make another smug comment. your fingers fist in his flannel. heat pools low in your belly. the kiss turns filthy quick. his mouth claims yours, tongue sliding deep, tasting like cheap whiskey. dean groans when your hand slides into his hair and pulls. the sound goes straight through you. his grip tightens at your waist, but you’re the one who moves first, throwing one leg over his lap in the cramped backseat, settling your weight against him with enough purpose to wipe that lazy grin off his face.

his hands go to your hips. “well, damn—”

“talk less.”

“yes, ma’am.”

the car’s cramped, windows fogging already, but it doesn’t matter. you kiss him again, rougher this time, and feel him hard beneath you through his jeans. he’s thick, already pressing up against you. not nervous. not uncertain. just want, plain and inconvenient. his hands are everywhere—under your shirt, cupping your tits, thumbs circling your nipples until they tighten into aching peaks.

“fuck, these are perfect,” he murmurs against your lips, breaking just enough to yank your shirt up. his mouth closes over one nipple, hot and greedy, sucking hard while his hand kneads the other. you arch into it, a broken sound escaping you. he hums in approval, the vibration shooting straight between your legs. “that’s it, sweetheart. let me hear you.”

you’re grinding against the thick ridge in his jeans before you realize it. he hums against your skin. smug bastard. you grind down harder, and his smugness cracks into a groan. you do it again, slower this time, watching his jaw clench as pleasure pulls the control right out of his face.

“still feeling grateful?” you tease.

his laugh comes out rough. “you have no idea.”

“then show me.”

dean groans when you reach down to palm him through the denim. “yeah? you want that?”

“shut up and fuck me.”

that does it. his wallet comes out fast. condom between his fingers. jeans shoved down just enough because the backseat gives neither of you space nor dignity, and honestly, that feels about right for him. your pants are worked down one leg, underwear following, your boot catching briefly against the seat until you curse and dean laughs under his breath.

“not a word,” you warn.

“wouldn’t dare.”

“you’re smiling.”

“i’m happy to be alive.”

“you’re happy to be getting laid.”

“also that.”

you almost laugh, but he touches you then, fingers sliding between your thighs, and the sound turns into a breath instead. his expression shifts when he feels how wet you are, the humor thinning into something heavier. he touches you once, then again, watching your face with too much focus.

“dean—”

“yeah,” he says, voice lower now. “i know.”

he rolls the condom on, then grips your hip with one hand and guides himself with the other. the head of his cock nudges against you, thick and hot, and you brace one hand on his shoulder.

“easy,” he breathes as you sink down.

you take him inch by inch, and the stretch burns deep enough to steal the next breath out of you. he’s big. no getting around it. your body has to work for every bit of him, and dean feels it too—his head falling back, throat tight, hands flexing against your hips like he’s trying very hard not to lose his mind.

you start moving. slow at first, because there is barely enough room and because rushing would be a waste. every roll of your hips drags him deep, the angle sharp enough to make your stomach tighten. dean watches you as if he’s trying to commit it to memory: your hands on his shoulders, your hair falling loose, your badge still clipped to your belt somewhere under the mess of clothing.

the whole thing is obscene. the whole thing is exactly what you choose.

“fuck, you’re tight. takin’ me so well.”

his mouth finds your chest again, kissing and sucking wherever he can reach while you ride him, but you keep the rhythm. you keep control. when his hips start to push up too eagerly, you press a hand to his chest and slow him with one look. “behave.”

his breath catches. then he grins, ruined and beautiful and irritating. “yes, officer.”

your body clenches around him before you can help it.

his grin fades. “oh,” he says, voice rough. “you liked that.”

you roll your hips harder, and the joke dies in his throat. his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with an accuracy that makes your nails dig into his shoulder. he rubs tight, steady circles, matching your pace instead of stealing it, and heat rushes through you so quickly it almost makes you angry.

“right there?” he murmurs.

you don’t answer. you ride him harder. the car rocks beneath you, windows fogged white, the night outside reduced to shadows and streetlight. dean’s free hand grips your hip, guiding only when you let him, and his mouth brushes your jaw as his breath starts to break.

he keeps talking—filthy, sweet, messy. “so wet for me… look at you, ridin’ me like you own it. fuck, you feel incredible.”

“i said talk less.”

“can’t help it,” his fingers press firmer, dragging a sharp sound from you. “you feel too good.”

your orgasm builds hot and fast, coiling low, tightening with every deep stroke of his cock and every movement of his fingers. you feel it coming and chase it without shame, hips rolling harder, breath turning uneven. you clench around him, moaning his name, thighs trembling as waves of pleasure rip through you. dean curses, hips snapping up to fuck you through it, but he keeps his hand exactly where you need it until you’re shaking above him.

“that’s it,” he rasps. “fuck, that’s it.”

you’re still pulsing around him when he loses the last of his control. his hands lock on your hips, pulling you down as he thrusts up once, twice, then buries himself deep with a broken groan against your throat. his body goes tense beneath yours, breath hot on your skin as he comes, the condom catching everything.

for a minute, neither of you moves. not because it is romantic. because the car is small, your legs are useless, and dean winchester is still inside you with his arms locked around your waist like he forgot this was supposed to end.

eventually, his hand drifts up your back. gentler than it has any right to be. you glance down at him. his eyes are half-closed, his mouth soft, the cocky mask slipped just enough to show the tired man underneath it. blood at his hairline. bruised knuckles. fake badge somewhere in the front seat.

you shouldn’t want to stay. you do anyway.

his lips brush your shoulder. “stay a little longer?”

the question lands quietly between you. you consider making a joke. you consider reminding him that you still know at least six charges you could bring against him by morning.

instead, you rest your hand against his chest, right over the steady thud of his heart. “five minutes.”

dean’s arms tighten around you. “yes, ma’am.”

and the worst part is that you know none of you will count.

your cultural catholic background and current spirituality also mean you aren’t completely dismissive when something strange begins happening around a collection of sentimental objects donated from an old family estate. each item seems harmless alone—a necklace, a rosary, a music box, a little trinket—but people who take them home begin experiencing memories that don’t belong to them. naturally, you investigate instead of leaving the haunted objects alone like a sensible person.

your cancer moon and saturn make the emotional part of the case impossible to ignore, while your virgo placements start cataloguing details until a pattern appears. you become hunter-adjacent through research, intuition, and sheer unwillingness to abandon people who are frightened. not a reckless fighter. more the person with sunglasses on indoors because the fluorescent lights are evil, a pink notebook full of useful observations, and a childhood zebra tucked into your bag during longer trips because some objects carry comfort instead of curses. important distinction.

✧ first meeting + first impression

you meet sam and dean when they arrive to investigate the objects and immediately realize you’ve already done half the research.

dean notices your aesthetic first. the sunglasses. the carefully chosen pretty things. the pink version of whatever practical item could’ve been boring but isn’t, because you have standards. your venus in libra works beautifully with his aquarius sun and mars, so he’s drawn to the balance of softness and edge in you. his first impression’s that you’re quietly pretty, suspiciously observant, and far less easy to charm than expected. he tries anyway. obviously.

sam notices your notes first. your virgo-heavy chart speaks directly to his virgo rising and taurus placements, so he immediately respects the care you put into details. he also catches the masking faster than most people do: the way you adjust yourself around strangers, smooth over discomfort, and make the interaction easier for everybody else before deciding how safe you actually feel. his first impression’s that you’re thoughtful, guarded, and much more emotionally perceptive than you advertise.

✧ the friendship dynamic

with dean, the friendship’s playful and slightly dangerous for your peace of mind because he brings out the part of you that wants to loosen up, turn the music louder, and stop planning every emotional response before it leaves your mouth. your libra venus gets along well with his charm and humor, while your scorpio rising keeps him interested because he can’t read you instantly. you tease him back more once you warm up, and he becomes weirdly delighted every time your dry humor catches him off guard. but dean can also be a lot when tension gets high. your cancer moon and mars in pisces don’t enjoy aggression or emotionally loud conflict, and his tendency to cover fear with sharpness may make you retreat before he realizes he pushed too far.

with sam, friendship grows more slowly but feels safer. your virgo sun and mercury connect naturally with his grounded way of thinking, while your cancer moon softens the more controlled side of his capricorn moon. he understands that your sentimental objects aren’t clutter, that your sunglasses are practical rather than dramatic, and that sometimes sharing space quietly is more comforting than talking. sam’s the one who notices when you’ve been masking too long and gives you an exit without embarrassing you.

dean encourages you to take up more space. sam makes it feel safe to stop performing entirely.

✧ quirks + fun things

→ dean teases you for always choosing the pink version until he starts automatically buying pink things when there’s an option, then acts offended when sam points it out.

→ sam treats your childhood zebra with complete seriousness during road trips, while dean gives her a dramatic backstory and occasionally asks for her opinion during arguments.

→ both brothers learn that music and movement can reset your mood faster than a long conversation, but dean handles the playlist while sam quietly clears enough space for you to pace, stretch, or dance badly in peace.

ꔛ. something more,

✧ are you compatible .ᐣ first steps .ᐣ

with dean, the attraction’s real. your venus in libra works beautifully with his aquarius sun and mars, creating charm, chemistry, and easy banter. your virgo mercury also pairs well with his capricorn mercury, so beneath the teasing, you communicate more effectively than people might expect. dean would initiate first. he’s the one more likely to turn a lingering look into something physical before either of you has neatly categorized the feeling.

with sam, the romantic compatibility is stronger long-term. your virgo sun and mercury blend naturally with his taurus-heavy chart, while your venus in libra connects well with his venus in gemini. there’s mental ease, steadiness, and genuine enjoyment of each other’s company. your cancer moon and his capricorn moon sit opposite each other, which can create tension, but also a strong sense of emotional gravity. you soften him. he grounds you. the shift would be gradual and mutual, though sam’s more likely to speak first once he’s certain the trust is there.

✧ the relationship dynamic

with dean, the relationship would feel fun, attractive, and occasionally overwhelming. he’d make you laugh, pull you out of your head, and encourage the part of you that wants to choose the experience instead of talking yourself out of it. your libra venus would enjoy the romance of him, the spontaneity, the music in the impala, the feeling that life’s becoming a little more cinematic than practical. but your cancer moon needs gentleness during conflict, and dean isn’t always gentle when he’s scared. if he gets sharp, withdraws, or turns something serious into a joke, you may retreat and then overcompensate on your return because keeping the peace feels easier than risking another argument.

with sam, the relationship would feel quiet, consistent, and deeply considerate. his taurus placements understand your need for steadiness, while his virgo rising appreciates the practical ways you care for people. he would remember your preferences, keep a pair of sunglasses in the glovebox for emergencies, and never make fun of the sentimental items that help you feel anchored. affection would build through routine: reading beside each other, sharing music, small gifts, long drives with comfortable silence. the challenge is that both of you can internalize too much. you may avoid conflict to preserve harmony, while sam may go quiet because he needs time to process. the difference is that he’s more likely to return ready to talk instead of pretending the tension disappeared by itself.

✧ their favorite n worst version of you

dean’s favorite version of you, lyla, is the one who forgets to monitor herself. when you’re moving to music, wearing the impractical sunglasses anyway, getting excited about something pretty, or making a dry little comment that proves you’ve been paying attention the entire time. his least favorite version is when you become too agreeable after conflict. when you smooth everything over, apologize for taking up emotional space, and act fine because tension feels worse than swallowing the hurt. dean recognizes that trick. unfortunately, he also makes it tempting.

sam’s favorite version of you is the one that feels safe enough to stop adjusting. when you’re quiet because you want to be quiet, not because you’re studying everybody else’s mood. when you let your sentimental side exist without explaining why a small object matters so much. when you choose the pink version without pretending it’s a joke. his least favorite version is when your peacekeeping instinct turns into self-erasure. sam wouldn’t want harmony purchased with your silence.

✧ fighting, hurting, making up

with dean, he causes more damage unintentionally. your mars in pisces dislikes aggressive conflict, while his aquarius mars can become detached or sharp when he feels cornered. you may leave the conversation before saying what actually hurt, then return with too much softness because you want the room to feel normal again. dean would need to learn that the absence of an argument doesn’t automatically mean the problem’s gone.

with sam, fights are quieter but healthier overall. your cancer moon and his capricorn moon process emotion differently: you feel the atmosphere immediately, while he may need more time before he can explain what’s happening internally. that can frustrate you. but sam’s more emotionally mature in terms of repair. once he understands that something hurt you, he takes responsibility and changes the pattern instead of only restoring the mood.

making up with dean feels warmer and faster. making up with sam feels slower, but more secure.

ꔛ. scenario ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pink is the new black!

“absolutely not,” dean stares at himself in the motel mirror with the expression of a man who has survived demons, vampires, and the apocalypse, only to be defeated by a pink cardigan.

“it’s salmon,” you correct.

“it’s pink.”

“salmon.”

“pink.”

from the other bed, sam looks up from his book. unlike dean, he’s accepted his fate with surprising grace. mostly because all you managed to convince him into wearing was a pastel pink hoodie you'd found while shopping. which looks ridiculously good on him.

“you look nice,” you tell him.

sam smiles, ducking his head. “thanks.”

dean points accusingly. “don’t encourage her.”

“you’re wearing a pink scrunchie on your wrist,” sam says.

dean immediately hides his arm behind his back. “that was supposed to be a secret!”

you burst out laughing.

“sweetheart,” dean says, trying and failing to sound offended, “you physically put it on me.”

“yeah, because it matches your eyes.”

there’s a dangerous pause. sam starts laughing first. dean groans.

“oh my god. don’t tell me that actually worked.”

the silence answers for itself. a minute later you're squeezed between them on the motel bed, proudly admiring your work. sam in soft pink. dean pretending to hate every second of it while still wearing the scrunchie.

“family photo?” you ask hopefully.

“no.”

“yes,” sam says at the same time.

the flash goes off before dean can escape. and secretly? neither of them ever throws the pink accessories away.

ꔛ. overall ゛ with dean ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 7.6 / 10 with sam ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 9.1 / 10

lyla, dean’s the more tempting option in the immediate sense. he brings movement, humor, flirtation, music, and the kind of chaos that makes life feel vivid. he’d adore your style, your dry humor, and the softer side you reveal slowly.

but sam is the better long-term match. your chart needs somebody who respects your sensitivity without making you feel fragile, notices when you’re masking without demanding a performance, and understands that sentimental little things aren’t silly when they help hold your memories together. sam gives you steadiness without asking you to become less interesting.

with dean, you would feel encouraged to take the risk. with sam, you would feel safe enough to decide whether the risk was actually yours to take. and honestly? sam’s the one most likely to love the real version of you before you’ve finished adjusting yourself into the version you think people want.

chloe,

or chlo... or red, which i still think you pretended to hate more than you actually did.

i found this while looking for a receipt dean swore he left on the fridge, and instead i ended up standing there with my hand on this ridiculous coral pink magnet, remembering the exact face you made when you bought it. you held it up in that gas station gift shop, red hair bright under those buzzing fluorescent lights, round glasses slipping a little down your nose, and you said, “it’s awful.”

i asked, “then why are you buying it?”

and you looked at me as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “because it’s awful.”

dean called that logic “deeply concerning.” you ignored him and added it to the pile with your energy drink, sunscreen you claimed you didn’t need because you were going to avoid the sun entirely, and a pack of gum you didn’t even like but bought because the wrapper was cute.

that was very you, by the way. pretending not to care too much while quietly caring about the tiniest details.

you noticed everything, chlo. you noticed if the ac sounded different when it kicked on. you noticed when dean skipped a song and somehow managed to look personally betrayed by it. you noticed when i went too quiet and asked (never loudly or in front of everyone) when it was just us by the ice machine, “are you okay, or are you doing that tall sad bookshelf thing again?”

i’m still not sure what a tall sad bookshelf is.

i’m also not sure why it worked.

that summer was hot in a way that felt personal. the kind of heat that made the road shimmer and made motel room curtains stick weirdly to the windows. you stepped out of the impala once, took one look at the sky, and immediately stepped back into the shade of the open door.

“absolutely not,” you said.

dean looked at you over the roof. “you scared of sunlight now?”

“yes.”

“vampire?”

“emotionally, maybe.”

i laughed, and you looked pleased for half a second before you remembered you were supposed to be awkward around me. that was one of the first things i noticed. how you could be funny and sharp and bright, and then the second the moment got too honest, you’d dodge sideways. you’d adjust your glasses, take a sip of whatever iced thing you were carrying, and pretend the conversation hadn’t just brushed against something soft.

i knew that move.

i had my own version of it.

maybe that’s why we kept circling each other, even though we were different in all the obvious ways. you were color and noise and red hair in the corner of my vision, taking over the music because your playlist was “objectively correct and should be respected!” i was in the passenger seat trying not to smile at how serious you got about transitions between songs.

“you can’t put that after this,” you told dean once, actually horrified.

“it’s a road trip, not a wedding reception,” he said.

“emotional flow matters.”

dean pointed at me. “tell her she’s insane.”

i was looking at you. your blue eyes were narrowed behind your glasses, your mouth set in this stubborn little line, and the sunlight through the windshield made your hair look even redder. i said, “i think she has a point.”

dean groaned so loudly i think the car shook.

you smiled down at your drink.

small victory. huge consequences for me.

when the car broke down, you were calm in a way i didn’t expect. not calm because you weren’t worried. calm because having something to do made you steadier. you stood in the thin strip of shade beside the impala, phone in hand, googling solutions and reading instructions aloud while dean pretended he didn’t need instructions and absolutely did.

“it says not to touch that until it cools,” you said.

dean touched it. swore.

you looked at me over your glasses. “interesting.”

i tried very hard not to laugh.

you kept reading anyway, voice careful and steady, one hand holding your drink, the other scrolling through some forum written by a man named carbking69. every now and then you’d glance at me, checking if i understood, and i liked that more than i should’ve. i liked the way you trusted me to listen. i liked the way you trusted yourself when you had facts in front of you. i liked that when dean got frustrated, you didn’t snap at him, just said, “you’re doing great, but maybe stop doing the exact opposite of the instructions.”

he called you a menace.

you said thank you.

the picnic was your idea, obviously. carefully planned, because if you were going to sit outside in the summer, it had to be at sunset, under trees, with shade, cold drinks, and a backup plan if the bugs got disrespectful. you had a blanket folded in the backseat, fruit in a container, little sandwiches, and raspberry mojitos poured into cups with lids because dean driving with open drinks was apparently “a crime waiting to happen.”

you gave me a book that night. a used paperback from a little shop near the motel, with soft corners and somebody else’s notes in the margins. you said, “i saw it and thought of you,” and then immediately looked away like you’d handed me a live grenade instead of a thoughtful gift.

i didn’t know what to say at first. i’m bad with being caught off guard by kindness. i can handle monsters. i can handle curses. i can handle dean eating my fries. but you noticing what i’d paused to look at through a shop window two days earlier and going back for it? that got me.

so i said, “thank you, chloe.”

“you’re welcome, sam.”

there was something in the way you said my name that made the whole picnic go quiet for a second. the sunset was behind you, warm along the edges of your hair, and you were sitting close enough that your knee brushed mine whenever you shifted. you kept pretending to look at the food. i kept pretending to read the back of the book.

i wanted to kiss you there.

i didn’t.

i think you expected me to. maybe you didn’t. maybe that’s just me rewriting it because i know what happened later. but i remember the way you went quiet, the way you leaned back on your hands and looked at the sky instead of me, and i remember wanting to reassure you. not with some big speech. just with something true.

so i said, “i notice too, you know.”

you blinked. “notice what?”

“you.”

that was it. one word, and somehow they felt worse than a confession.

you laughed once, soft and nervous, and said, “that’s extremely inconvenient for my avoidant tendencies.”

i smiled. “yeah, mine too.”

we didn’t kiss on the picnic blanket, even though we probably should have. we packed everything up slowly, bumping hands over containers, both of us pretending the air hadn’t changed. you took the long way back to the motel because you said the sunset looked better from the side road. i let you control the music. i would’ve let you control almost anything by then, which is a dangerous thing to admit, even now.

the kiss came later, when dean had fallen asleep with the tv on. you found me outside with that paperback open in my lap, though i hadn’t read the same paragraph in fifteen minutes. you were holding two drinks and wearing that expression you got when you were about to be brave but wanted plausible deniability.

“i made you one,” you said.

“a raspberry mojito?”

“mocktail. unless you want the other one.”

“which one is that?”

you smiled. “mine.”

there are answers a smarter man would’ve avoided.

i said, “i’ll try yours.”

you handed it over, and our fingers touched around the cup. cold condensation, warm skin. you didn’t pull away right away. neither did i. the ac from the rooms hummed behind us, the pool lights turned the water blue, and you were standing there with your red hair loose, glasses off for once, eyes clearer than i was prepared for.

“you’re staring,” you said.

“sorry.”

“i didn’t say stop.” so i didn’t.

you stepped closer first, but i was the one who set the drinks down. that feels important. you looked nervous and amused at the same time, which was such a specific you expression that it still makes my chest hurt a little. i brushed a strand of hair back from your face, and you went very still.

then i kissed you.

gently at first, because i didn’t want to scare you off. then not so gently, because you made this tiny sound against my mouth and curled your fingers into my shirt like you’d decided, all at once, to stop running from it. your back touched the warm brick wall beside the vending machine, and i remember thinking that every careful thing about me had just become useless. you smiled into the kiss. i felt it. i still think about it more than i should.

after that, leaving was supposed to be simple.

we both acted like it would be. you packed your things with your glasses perched on top of your head and that magnet already tucked in your bag. i put the paperback in mine. dean kept glancing between us and making comments under his breath because subtlety has never been his ministry.

you hugged me goodbye in the parking lot. too tight for casual. not tight enough for what it was.

“drive safe,” you said.

“you too.”

“and read the book.”

“i was planning to.”

you nodded, then looked away fast.

i got into the car. dean started driving. i made it almost three miles before i told him to turn around.

he didn’t ask why. he just sighed and said, “about damn time.”

when we pulled back into the motel lot, you were still there, standing outside your room with that coral pink magnet in your hand, like maybe you’d forgotten something on purpose.

i don’t know what summer was supposed to be before you, red. but i know i tried to leave it behind, and the whole road felt wrong without you on it.