ִ ࣪𖤐

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

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

“yeah, well—i’m planning ahead.”

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

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

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

“it was a good shirt.”

“i’m pretty sure it had holes in it.”

“ventilation.”

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

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

“high standards.”

“i’m classy now.”

“you have mustard on your jacket.”

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

“you’re still mean,” he says.

“you liked me mean.”

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

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

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

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

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

“what would be an abnormal amount?”

“guess we’ll find out.”

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

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

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

sam lowers the shotgun slowly. “you okay?”

dean looks at him.

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

“shut up.”

“you smell terrible.”

“yeah, no kidding, sam.”

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

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

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

not enough.

dean opens sam’s toiletry bag.

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

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

“because i know how hygiene works.”

“this one says eau de toilette.”

“put it down.”

“what the hell does that even mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you raise a very questionable brow at him.

“there was an incident.”

“an incident.”

“monster goo.”

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

“glad my suffering’s funny to you.”

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

“i smelled worse before.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yours looked better.”

“they’re the same fries.”

he pushes his plate slightly closer to the middle anyway.

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

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

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

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

“she never hated you.”

“she threatened me with a carving knife.”

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

“comforting.”

“she asked whether you were still handsome.”

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

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

“wow.”

“tragic, really.”

“and yet here you are.”

“free burger.”

“right.”

his smile lingers afterward. yours does too.

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

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

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

“so,” you say.

“so.”

“this was nice.”

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

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

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

you blink. “eight-thirty.”

“i could drive you.”

your eyebrows lift. “dean—”

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

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

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

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

“coffee,” you say. “before work.”

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

“yeah.”

“i’ll pick you up.”

“seven-thirty.”

“on the dot.”

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

“been busy.”

“with sewer monsters?”

“amongst other things.”

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

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

you nod. “tomorrow.”

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

“dean?”

“yeah?”

“you’ll show, right?”

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

“i wouldn’t miss it.”

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

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

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

“you wrote three paragraphs beside one sentence.”

“i’m taking notes.”

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

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

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

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

“because we have a job.”

“and because you wanted the chair.”

“well, two things can be true.”

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

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

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

“sorry,” he murmurs.

“no, it’s okay.”

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

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

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

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

“romantic,” dean grumbles.

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

“i contain multitudes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

you’re supposed to go back to normal afterward.

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

you’ve been with them ever since.

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

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

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

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

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

the camp looks harmless in daylight.

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

dean notices you taking a picture of the sign.

“seriously?”

“what?”

“you making a scrapbook?”

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

“make sure you get my good side.”

“that would require extensive editing.”

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

“you’re a bad influence.”

“you’re welcome.”

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

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

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

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

“begged is a strong word.”

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

“he was!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you didn’t have to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the conversation closes around those two words.

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

“lock’s busted,” dean says.

“something left in a hurry,” sam murmurs.

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

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

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

the silver bullet catches the werewolf high in the shoulder.

it howls, twisting toward him.

“dean!” sam shouts.

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

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

“everyone good?” dean asks.

sam turns immediately. “audrynne?”

“i’m fine.”

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

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

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

you nod. “yeah.”

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

your stomach drops. “guys—”

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

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

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

somebody shouts your name.

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

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

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

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

you make a sound you do not mean to make.

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

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

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

sam sees it too. “go.”

dean’s eyes snap toward him. “sam—”

“i’ve got her. go.”

“she needs—”

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

dean looks at you.

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

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

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

“sam—”

“don’t talk yet.”

he lifts you into his arms.

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

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

“stay with me,” he says.

“i’m here.”

“keep looking at me.”

you try.

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

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

sam’s expression hardens. “no.”

“i should’ve seen it.”

“you did see it.”

“too late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“it’s perfect,” you murmur.

sam goes still. “what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i just wanted you to know.”

“you can tell me later.”

“sam—”

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

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

“i don’t hate your books.”

“dean says they’re everywhere.”

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

a laugh catches painfully in your ribs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the second thing you notice is pain.

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

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

your camera rests safely on the table across the room.

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

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

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

the relief on his face is immediate.

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

“hey,” you whisper.

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

“a little terrible.”

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

“where’s dean?”

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

you look down toward your side.

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

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

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

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

“he was worried.”

“you were worried.”

sam looks down at your joined hands.

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

“sam,” you say.

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

“i think i do.”

his fingers tighten around yours.

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

“for what?”

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

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

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

“maybe.”

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

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

“i know,” he says.

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

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

you watch him quietly.

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

your breath catches.

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

the honesty of it lands softly and hurts anyway.

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

he’s been afraid of crossing it too.

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

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

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

“i wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“you did.”

“i’m sorry.”

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

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

“i love you,” he says softly.

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

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

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

you nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“sam,” you say gently. “i’m here.”

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

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

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

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

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

✧ first meeting + first impression

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

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

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

✧ the friendship dynamic

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

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

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

✧ quirks + fun things

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

ꔛ. something more,

✧ are you compatible .ᐣ first steps .ᐣ

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

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

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

✧ the relationship dynamic

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

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

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

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

✧ their favorite n worst version of you

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

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

✧ fighting, hurting, making up

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

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

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

ꔛ. overall ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 7.5 / 10

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

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

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

you rise from the edge of the bed so fast that the open lore book in your lap slides onto the carpet. “where is he?”

sam closes the door carefully. his eyes find yours and then move away again, fixing on the ugly motel wallpaper over your shoulder as if the answer might be easier to say if he doesn’t have to watch it reach you.

“sam.”

“his heart was damaged.” his voice sounds thin, worn down to something you barely recognize. “the shock messed with it. the doctors said there’s not much they can do.”

you stare at him.

the heater rattles beneath the window. rain taps against the glass in an uneven rhythm, and somewhere in the room, the television keeps playing an infomercial on mute. some man smiles too brightly while holding up a kitchen knife that can apparently cut through a soda can. normal, stupid things still happening while your best friend is lying in a hospital bed with a failing heart.

“what does that mean?” you ask, even though you already know. you need sam to say something else. you need him to correct himself.

his mouth tightens. “he has a few weeks. maybe less.”

you shake your head before he finishes. “no.”

“i know.”

“no, sam.”

“i know.”

your chest hurts so suddenly that you press a hand against it, an instinctive, useless motion. dean’s heart is failing. yours is fine. yours is beating hard enough to make you dizzy, furious with the unfairness of it.

you look down at the scattered books across the carpet and the half-empty coffee cups crowding the table. “then we find something.”

sam nods immediately.

that’s how the next two days disappear.

you call every hunter who owes you a favor and a few who absolutely do not. sam turns the room into a mess of medical articles, folklore texts, and handwritten notes, his laptop glowing against his face through the night. you track down rumors about healers, witches, crossroads demons, anything that might carry even the slightest possibility of keeping dean alive, and every dead end lands harder than the last.

you barely sleep. barely eat. when sam finally drops half a sandwich beside your elbow, you leave it untouched.

dean calls twice from the hospital.

the first time, he complains about the food and asks whether you’re touching his tapes without permission. the second time, he catches the strain in your voice and goes quiet for half a second too long.

“hey,” he says, softer. “i’m not dead yet.”

“don’t say that.”

“what? it’s technically good news.”

“dean.”

he clears his throat. “get some sleep, sweetheart.”

you almost tell him you love him then. the words rise quickly, terrifyingly easy after years of swallowing them down whenever he leans his shoulder into yours during a late-night movie or hands you the first cup of coffee without asking how you take it. you think of saying it and immediately picture the silence afterward. the weight it would place in his hands when he’s already carrying too much. so you don’t.

“you first,” you say.

when the motel door opens on the second evening, you’re bent over a book with your cheek pressed into one fist, reading the same paragraph for the fifth time and understanding none of it.

then someone stumbles against the doorframe.

“i’m not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren’t even hot.”

you stop breathing.

dean stands there, pale beneath the freckles, one hand braced against the frame while the other grips a paper bag of vending-machine snacks like he went out for groceries instead of escaping medical supervision with a heart that could give out at any moment. his smile is crooked and exhausted, but it’s there.

you cross the room before you decide to.

“are you out of your mind?” you snap, hitting his arm with the flat of your hand.

dean winces. the sound is small. almost nothing.

it guts you. your anger collapses fast, and your hand hovers over the place you struck, useless and horrified. “oh my god. i’m sorry. dean, i’m—”

“easy,” he murmurs.

you touch him then, carefully, both hands sliding around him as if he might break beneath the pressure. he doesn’t hesitate a second before folding into you, heavy and warm and real, his chin settling near your temple. you want to cradle him against your chest. you want to hold him so tightly that death cannot find the space to get between you. instead, you keep your arms gentle and bury your face against his hoodie, breathing in cold air, hospital smell, and the faint familiar trace of his aftershave.

“you idiot,” you whisper, voice breaking. “you absolute idiot.”

“yeah,” he says, but his arms tighten around you.

behind him, sam is still standing by the door, staring at his brother with red-rimmed eyes and an expression so tired it hurts to look at. dean glances over his shoulder and gives him a small nod, almost apologetic. sam swallows hard and turns back toward the books.

you stay where you are.

dean’s heartbeat is there beneath your ear. unsteady, too fast, but there. each one feels borrowed. each one feels like something you should thank him for even though none of this is his fault.

“you scared me,” you admit quietly.

his hand moves once over your back, rough palm dragging between your shoulder blades. “i know.”

there are a hundred things sitting behind your teeth. don’t leave me. i don’t know how to do this without you. i have loved you for so long that it has started to feel like a bad habit i don’t know how to quit.

you say none of them. dean doesn’t either. he just holds you in the middle of the wrecked motel room while the rain keeps falling outside, his heart beating badly against your cheek, and you try not to count how many he still has left.

then nothing.

and suddenly… air.

you wake up on your side with a blanket over your shoulders and your cheek pressed to a clean pillow. your whole body aches. your mouth tastes awful. there’s a glass of water on the nightstand and sam sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, hands folded like he’s been there awhile.

he looks exhausted.

“am i dead?” you rasp.

his face changes immediately, relief cracking through the careful calm. “no. you’re not dead.”

“that’s a good start,” you whisper.

his mouth twitches, but his eyes stay sad. you try to sit up too fast and pain flashes through your ribs, hot and ugly, and you make this small, embarrassing sound before you can stop yourself.

sam is on his feet in a second. “hey, easy,” he says, one hand hovering near your shoulder but not touching. “you’re safe. just breathe.”

safe. the word doesn’t fit yet.

you look down at your wrists. the rope marks are cleaned, bandaged with more care than you know what to do with. “did i hurt anyone?” you ask.

sam’s expression softens in a way that makes your throat close. “no.”

“don’t lie.”

“i’m not.” he sits back down slowly, keeping his voice low. “you scared the hell out of me, but no. you didn’t hurt anyone.”

you laugh once, sharp and wet. “great. only emotionally devastating.”

“yeah,” he says, and somehow it’s gentle. “hunting has a lot of that.”

you don’t know why that does it. maybe because he doesn’t say you’re fine. maybe because he doesn’t make it smaller. maybe because he looks at you like you’re not ruined, just hurt.

your face crumples before you can stop it. “i don’t know what to do,” you say, too honest, too young-sounding. “i don’t know how to go home after this.”

sam’s jaw tightens. “then don’t decide tonight.” he clears his throat, glancing away like the offer costs him something. “there’s a place. a bunker. it’s safe. you can stay until you’re ready. learn what’s out there, learn how to protect yourself, or just… sleep without worrying about something crawling back in.”

you should say no. you barely know him. but he says it so simply, with this tired steadiness that makes the room feel less tilted, and you want to believe him so badly it scares you.

“you do this a lot?” you whisper. “take in random possessed people?”

“not random,” he says.

you look at him.

“you,” he adds, awkward and earnest. “i mean you’re not random.”

stupidly, that makes you cry harder.

sam doesn’t crowd you. he just passes you the water, then the tissues, then sits close enough that you’re not alone and far enough that you can still choose the space between you.

weeks later, at the bunker, he teaches you how to salt windows. how to read lore without panicking. how to make coffee the way dean likes it, which is apparently wrong and aggressively strong. he checks your bandages. reminds you to eat. never laughs when you sleep with the light on.

one night, you fall asleep at the library table and wake with his jacket over your shoulders. sam is across from you, pretending not to notice. you tuck your chin into the collar and let yourself keep it. just for a little while. and when he says, “you’re okay,” you don’t fully believe him yet, but you believe that he’ll stay until you do.

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you refuse to leave because “the job isn’t done” ๋࣭ ⭑ dean is trying to drag you out of a house that is actively collapsing, and you’re standing there stubborn as hell because the ghost’s bones are still in the basement. he’s yelling, you’re yelling, the ceiling is falling in, and somehow you’re right. annoying. heroic. terrible for his blood pressure. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you touch the cursed object because it “felt important” ๋࣭ ⭑ you know better. sam knows you know better. and yet there you are, holding the antique locket with both hands because your instincts told you it mattered. yes, it wakes the spirit. yes, sam looks betrayed. but also yes, it gives him the missing piece of the case, so now he has to be mad and grateful. tragic for him.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you start talking to the monster ๋࣭ ⭑ dean tells you to stay quiet, and you immediately begin psychological warfare with whatever is crawling out of the dark. somehow, you insult it, distract it, confuse it, and make dean miss his shot because he’s too busy staring at you like, “are you flirting with it?” maybe. a little. but it works. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you improvise a fake identity no one asked for ๋࣭ ⭑ sam has a clean cover story. you ruin it with one sentence. now you’re apparently newlyweds, cult survivors, and part-time antique appraisers, depending on who asks. it nearly blows the case wide open, but your chaotic lying gets the witness to overshare everything. sam hates that it worked. hates it deeply.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you go back for the victim ๋࣭ ⭑ dean tells you the building isn’t safe, and you look at him with those soft, devastating eyes before running back inside anyway because someone is still crying for help. he’s furious in that very specific way that means terrified. you almost get trapped, but you save the kid, and dean can’t even yell properly afterward because his hands are shaking. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you trust your gut over the lore ๋࣭ ⭑ the books say one thing, your heart says another, and sam is visibly suffering because he wants evidence, not vibes. unfortunately, your vibes are correct. you follow the emotional pattern of the haunting before the facts catch up, and it almost gets messy, but you find the truth first. sam apologizes.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make yourself the distraction ๋࣭ ⭑ you step into the middle of the room and basically dare the monster to look at anyone else. dean is horrified and turned on, which is a deeply inconvenient combination in a life-or-death situation. you almost get thrown through a wall, but you keep every eye on you long enough for him to finish the job. afterward, he calls you insane. lovingly. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you perform under pressure a little too well ๋࣭ ⭑ sam needs a distraction, and you give him a whole dramatic production. loud voice, confident smile, full commitment. it’s effective, yes, but also wildly risky because now the entire room is watching you, including the thing with teeth. sam saves you at the last second and then gives you the most exhausted, fond look in human history.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you notice the clue and immediately follow it alone ๋࣭ ⭑ dean turns around for three seconds and you’re gone because you found dust patterns, weird symbols, or a suspicious draft no one else clocked. he is pissed. deeply. but then your “little theory” turns out to be the entire case, and now he has to admit you’re brilliant while still yelling about you wandering off. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you correct the ritual mid-crisis ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is chanting, everything is shaking, dean is yelling somewhere, and you have the audacity to go, “wrong pronunciation”. he looks at you like this is the worst possible time for notes, but you’re right. obviously. you nearly get both of you thrown across the room, but the corrected ritual works, and sam is never emotionally recovering from your competence.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you charm the wrong person beautifully ๋࣭ ⭑ dean says, “don’t flirt with the suspect,” and you hear, “be unforgettable.” now the vampire is smiling at you, dean is clenching his jaw, and the situation is spiraling in a very pretty direction. you almost become dinner, but you get the confession, the address, and dean acting jealous while claiming he is “just focused on the case”... sure. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you try to negotiate with something evil ๋࣭ ⭑ sam says it won’t listen. you say everyone listens if you say the right thing. horrible logic. weirdly effective. you talk long enough to delay the attack, but also long enough for the demon to get interested in you personally, which is less ideal. sam pulls you out of it, furious and impressed in equal measure.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you follow the danger because you know it’s hiding something ๋࣭ ⭑ dean tells you not to go down the hallway, and you give him that look that says you already know the hallway is important. he hates that look. you almost get ambushed because you absolutely walked into a trap on purpose, but you also expose the real threat before it can reach him. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you let the monster think it has you ๋࣭ ⭑ sam hates your plans because they always involve getting too close to the edge and smiling while you do it. you let the thing corner you, let it talk, let it reveal too much. it works, but sam looks ten years older by the time he gets you out. he doesn’t yell. worse. he goes quiet. devastating.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you press the cursed button ๋࣭ ⭑ there is always a button. a lever. a door. a weird little box with ominous carvings. dean says, “don’t touch that,” and baby, your hand is already moving. does it unleash something horrible? yes. does it also reveal the hidden chamber with the bones? also yes. dean is so mad he could kiss you or throw you in the trunk. undecided. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you take the “shortcut” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam has a map. you have confidence. this is where the problem begins. your shortcut leads straight into danger, but it also gets you to the victim before the monster can finish the job. sam is panting, glaring, and muttering your name like a prayer and a complaint.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make the hard call before he can ๋࣭ ⭑ dean wants to protect everyone, including you, including people who don’t deserve it, including himself least of all. you see the ugly choice first and take it. it nearly gets you killed because you don’t ask permission, but it saves the hunt from going worse. dean hates how cold it looked. hates more that he understands. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you ignore the emotional risk and go tactical ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is still weighing the moral consequences, and you’re already moving because the window is closing. you almost get hurt making the efficient choice, but you stop the monster before it reaches anyone else. sam argues with you afterward because he has feelings about methods. you argue back because you have results. delicious tension.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ your plan makes no sense until it saves everyone ๋࣭ ⭑ dean asks what you’re doing, and you say, “trust me,” which is his least favorite sentence in any language. your plan is weird, risky, and not explained until after the explosion. yes, he almost dies of stress. yes, it works perfectly. he spends the ride home calling you a menace while absolutely respecting the hell out of you. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you solve it sideways ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is looking at the lore. you’re looking at the pattern no one else noticed. then you do something wildly unconventional and nearly get dragged into another dimension, casually, because apparently that’s how your brain works. sam is horrified. fascinated. furious that he didn’t think of it first.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you follow the crying ghost ๋࣭ ⭑ dean says it’s bait. you say it sounds sad. he stares at you like you are the reason hunters should have insurance. you follow it anyway, and yes, it almost gets ugly, but your softness leads you to the truth of the haunting faster than violence would have. dean still yells. gently, though. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you try to save what might not be saveable ๋࣭ ⭑ sam knows that look on your face. the one that says you’re about to choose compassion over safety. he tries to stop you, but you’re already reaching for the lost soul, the cursed kid, the monster that used to be human. it nearly destroys you. but sometimes, somehow, you’re right to try. and sam remembers why he loves that about you.

dean clocks it before you even reach the motel.

“couples,” he says, leaning over the hood of the impala while the mechanic pokes around under it with the world’s fakest concerned face. “all the missing people were couples. newlyweds, honeymooners, road-trippers. car trouble. small-town hospitality. then poof.”

you glance toward the garage office, where the mechanic’s wife is watching you through the blinds with a coffee mug held near her mouth and not a single sip taken. “so they’re sabotaging cars.”

“yep.”

“and feeding people to whatever’s in the orchard.”

“probably.”

“great. very rural.”

dean’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay sharp. “which means we need bait.”

you already know what he’s going to say before he says it. worse, he knows that you know. the grin spreads slow and smug across his face, all dangerous charm and bad ideas, and you hate that your stomach reacts before your brain can file a complaint.

“no,” you say.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“your face did.”

“my face is handsome and innocent.”

“your face is about to suggest we pretend to be a couple.”

he points at you, delighted. “see? this is why we work.”

you stare at him.

he leans closer, lowering his voice just enough that the mechanic can still see the shape of intimacy without hearing the words. “come on. little hand-holding, little sweet-talking, maybe you call me honey if the mood strikes—”

“i’m not calling you honey.”

“baby?”

“absolutely not.”

“snookums?”

you almost smile. “i will leave you here to get sacrificed.”

“hot. committed to the role already.”

the mechanic comes back wiping his hands on a rag that looks cleaner than any rag should coming from a garage. “looks like you folks might be stuck here overnight.”

dean’s expression changes instantly. warmer. easier. he slides an arm around your shoulders, as if the weight of him tucked close to your side is something your body has always known how to make room for.

“that so?” he asks, disappointed in a way that is almost convincing. “well, damn. guess that ruins the anniversary plans.”

you blink. anniversary.

right. you turn into him because if he wants a show, you can give him one. your hand lands on his chest, fingers spreading over the worn softness of his shirt, and you feel him inhale under your palm. almost nothing. but there.

“it’s okay,” you say, looking up at him with your sweetest, deadliest smile. “we’ll make our own fun.”

dean’s eyes flick down to yours.

the mechanic clears his throat.

you win.

by sundown, the entire town thinks you and dean are married, or engaged, or disgustingly in love depending on who you ask—because dean keeps changing the story just to annoy you. at the diner, he tells the waitress you met during a bar fight. at the motel, he says you proposed after saving him from drugs, which earns him a kick under the check-in counter hard enough to make his smile twitch. later, walking down the quiet road toward the orchard, he holds your hand because people are still watching from their porches, and you tell yourself that is all it is.

his palm is warm and rough against yours, fingers lacing too easily. every few steps, his thumb brushes over your knuckle, casual in a way that makes you want to accuse him of doing it on purpose. the worst part is he isn’t even talking that much now. the case has settled over him, sharpening the edges of his attention, but the fake closeness stays. shoulder bumping yours. hand firm around yours. his body angling slightly ahead when the road darkens.

“you’re quiet,” you comment.

he hums, “thinking.”

“dangerous.”

“about us.”

your heart trips.

then he adds, “our fake marriage. i think we need a dog.”

you exhale through your nose, trying not to laugh. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet, you married me.”

“fake married.”

“vows are vows.”

the orchard rises ahead, black against the fading sky, rows of trees scratching at the air. the sweetness of rotting apples thickens with every step, and beneath it there’s something older—wet earth and old blood. your grip tightens around dean’s before you can stop it.

his teasing drops immediately. “hey,” he murmurs. “you good?”

he says it softly, and that’s a problem, because there’s no audience, no performance… just dean, close enough that his breath warms your temple, looking at you like your answer matters more than the thing waiting between the trees.

“yeah,” you say. “i’m good.”

he nods once, but he doesn’t let go.

the town makes its move near the scarecrow post, of course. three men come out with shotguns, the mechanic among them, all apologetic smiles and dead eyes, saying things about tradition and harvest and how you seem like such a nice couple.

dean keeps himself between you and the guns, mouth running because fear and fury both turn into sarcasm on his tongue.

“hate to break it to you,” he says, backing up with you toward the field, “but our relationship is actually in a really fragile place right now. sacrificing us would be super insensitive.”

you elbow him. “dean.”

“what? communication is important.”

then the scarecrow moves. not creaks. not falls. it moves—wooden limbs snapping loose, burlap head twisting toward you, black pits where eyes should be. the townies scatter fast, cowards underneath all that civic pride, and dean shoves you behind him for half a second before you shove back because you are not decorative bait, thank you very much.

“dude,” dean blurts, staring up at the thing as it lurches out of the dirt, “you’re fugly”.

“focus,” you snap, grabbing the kerosene from his bag.

“i am focused. on how ugly he is.”

the fight is messy and fast. you duck under a swinging arm that smashes into an apple tree hard enough to split bark. dean fires salt rounds that barely slow it down, and somewhere between the shouting and the panic, he grabs your wrist and yanks you out of reach with such hard, automatic terror that it punches through all the fake feelings.

you burn the scarecrow together.

flame catches straw, then burlap, then whatever old evil is stitched into the thing. it screams in a voice made of dry leaves and bone, collapsing into the dirt while the orchard glows orange around you. dean stands beside you, breathing hard, soot on his cheek, hand still wrapped around yours.

the town is quiet now.

you look down at your joined hands. so does he.

“guess we can get a divorce now,” you say, because if you don’t make a joke, you might say something honest and ruin both your lives.

dean’s smile comes slow, but it doesn’t reach all the way. “nah,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “we survived a sacrifice. pretty sure that’s legally binding.”

you laugh, soft and breathless, and the sound shakes more than you want it to. his thumb brushes your knuckle again, not for the town, not for the case, not for anyone hiding behind curtains.

you should pull away. you don’t. and when you finally walk back toward the impala, your hand still in his, the pretend part feels a little too far behind you to reach.

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make the fake relationship feel steady, domestic, and way too believable for his comfort. ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t overperform. that’s what gets him. you lean into him calmly, fix his collar without thinking, remember the fake backstory, and somehow make it feel lived-in instead of staged. dean jokes because he has to survive somehow, but he keeps looking at you when you’re not watching, caught off guard by how easy it feels. the fake dating ends, technically. his brain does not receive the memo. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam settles into the act too easily, then panics because easy has never been safe for him. ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re warm, grounded, and practical about the whole thing, which should make the case simpler. instead, sam starts noticing stupid things. the way you touch his sleeve to get his attention. the way you answer questions about your “relationship” with quiet confidence. the way it doesn’t feel ridiculous when someone calls you two a sweet couple. he tells himself it’s just good cover. poor man. lying to himself.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the cover story keeps changing because you’re both committed to the bit, not necessarily the truth. ๋࣭ ⭑ dean starts with a simple fake backstory and you immediately add unnecessary details. now you met at a gas station during a thunderstorm. now he proposed with a onion ring. now you have a dog named meatball. dean should be annoyed, but he’s laughing too hard under his breath. the chemistry is quick, messy, and very obvious, and half the witnesses probably think you’re either deeply in love or about to commit insurance fraud together. both are believable. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam thinks he’s prepared until you start improvising and his brain decides flirting is research. ๋࣭ ⭑ you keep him sharp. every question from a witness becomes a chance for you to add another layer to the fake relationship, and sam keeps up beautifully, even while internally screaming. he corrects your fake anniversary date without missing a beat. you call him “honey” just to see his jaw twitch. by the time the case is over, your fake relationship has lore, tension, and unresolved emotional consequences. as god intended.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make the fake affection feel real, and dean starts malfunctioning quietly. ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t flirt aggressively. you just care too naturally. you brush dust off his jacket, ask if he’s eaten, touch his arm when he gets tense, and suddenly dean is fighting for his life in a public place. to everyone else, you look like a couple with history. to him, it feels dangerous because he can’t tell where the act ends. worse, he doesn’t really want it to end. classic dean disaster. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you make sam look loved, and honestly, that is almost rude of you. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is good at pretending when he has to be, but with you, it doesn’t feel like pretending enough. you soften around him in public, and he softens back before he can stop himself. when someone asks how long you’ve been together, he answers smoothly, but there’s something in his face that gets too real. you notice. he notices you noticing. nobody is normal for the rest of the case.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you look too good on his arm, and dean immediately starts acting territorial while pretending it’s for the cover. ๋࣭ ⭑ this is dangerous because both of you know how to sell a scene. you walk in confident, glowing, leaning into the role with just enough drama to make people look twice. dean loves it. hates it. loves it again. the problem starts when someone flirts with you and he reacts a little too fast, a little too sharp, hand sliding to your waist like the claim is automatic. later, he says it was strategy. sure, dean. strategy with heart eyes. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you make the fake dating look effortless, and sam spends the whole case pretending he is not affected by your sparkle. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam knows you’re playing a role. he does. he is intelligent. allegedly. but when you smile at him across a room, call him handsome, and tug him closer for the cover, his careful little wall starts cracking. he admires how easily you command attention, but what really gets him is when that attention turns gentle with him. suddenly, the performance has a pulse.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you have the cover story memorized, the details organized, and dean hates how hot competence looks on you. ๋࣭ ⭑ you treat fake dating like a case file with emotional accessories. dates, jobs, backstory, reason for being there—you have it all ready. dean makes fun of you until your preparation saves his ass three separate times. then he starts enjoying it. the best part is how you correct him mid-conversation with a sweet smile and a hand on his chest, fully in character, absolutely lethal. he may survive the monster. you are the real problem. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you and sam are so prepared that people assume you’ve been married for years, which is inconvenient for everyone’s feelings. ๋࣭ ⭑ you two are a fake-dating machine. coordinated, thoughtful, detail-oriented, almost scary. sam appreciates how seriously you take the cover, but the intimacy sneaks in through the practical stuff: fixing his tie, passing him information without speaking, remembering the exact lie he told ten minutes ago. it becomes less “pretending to be close” and more “revealing how close you already are.” rude.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make the fake romance pretty, easy, and socially lethal, which means dean is doomed. ๋࣭ ⭑ you know exactly how to play a room. dean knows how to flirt, but you know how to make people believe in the love story. you laugh at his jokes, touch his arm at the perfect moments, look at him with warm little glances that make even him forget this is fake. he keeps trying to stay cocky, but you are making him look adored in public, and unfortunately that hits somewhere deep. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam relaxes into your charm until he realizes he has stopped pretending to enjoy your company. ๋࣭ ⭑ with you, the fake dating is elegant. soft smiles, quiet teamwork, easy conversation. sam doesn’t have to force much because you naturally smooth over the awkward edges. witnesses trust you. strangers compliment you. someone says you two make a beautiful couple and sam laughs politely, but later he is haunted by the fact that he didn’t hate hearing it.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ the fake dating is all eye contact, tension, and dean pretending he isn’t one comment away from losing composure. ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t need to be loud. that is the problem. you stand close, speak low, look at him like you know exactly what he’s hiding, and dean gets defensive in that very specific way that means he is affected. the cover works because everyone can feel the tension from across the room. unfortunately, so can the two of you. by the end, the case is solved and the fake relationship has created several real problems. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam tries to keep distance, but you make pretending feel too much like confession. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is cautious with you because fake intimacy does not stay fake for long. not with the way you notice every shift in his face, every hesitation, every lie he tells smoothly to everyone except you. you play the role beautifully, but there’s always an edge underneath it, something private and intense. sam starts the case guarded. he ends it wondering when exactly you became someone he doesn’t know how to step away from.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you turn fake dating into an adventure, and dean is having the time of his life while pretending you’re a liability. ๋࣭ ⭑ your cover story is barely stable because you keep adding ridiculous details just to make him react. dean complains, but he’s grinning. the whole thing feels fast and messy: fake arguing in public, fake making up five minutes later, stealing food from each other’s plates, flirting with danger and also with each other. he says you’re impossible. he says it fondly. there’s the problem. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you drag sam into the performance until he accidentally enjoys not being so controlled for once. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam tries to keep the fake relationship believable. you make it memorable. you take his hand, pull him into a dance, invent a wild vacation story, and make him laugh when he absolutely should be focused. he gets nervous because you’re unpredictable, but there’s relief in it too. with you, he gets to be someone lighter for a night. that kind of thing sticks.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you both act like this is strictly tactical, which would be more convincing if the tension wasn’t wearing a suit. ๋࣭ ⭑ you and dean fake date like people entering a negotiation. clean, controlled, mildly hostile, extremely watchable. the chemistry is not fluffy—it’s sharp. you correct his approach, he needles your seriousness, and somehow everyone buys you as a couple because apparently bickering with mutual respect is a love language. dean says you’re bossy. you say he’s reckless. both of you are correct and turned on by the argument. unfortunate. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam respects your control so much that the fake dating becomes a slow-burn workplace hazard. ๋࣭ ⭑ you and sam are careful. maybe too careful. no unnecessary touching, no sloppy improvising, no messy emotional leakage. which, naturally, makes every small gesture feel enormous. his hand at your back. your fingers fixing his sleeve. the shared look when someone asks if you’re serious about each other. you both answer the case question perfectly. neither of you answers the actual question.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you refuse to fake-date in the expected way, and dean is attracted to the chaos against his will. ๋࣭ ⭑ dean expects flirtation. you give him weird couple lore, emotional distance, and a fake backstory so specific it sounds real. he spends half the case trying to figure out if you’re messing with him, flirting with him, or conducting a social experiment. probably all three. he acts annoyed, but the truth is, you keep him on his toes, and dean’s stupid heart loves a challenge even when his mouth complains. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam gets your rhythm faster than most people, which makes the fake relationship feel oddly comfortable. ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t do conventional romance well, even fake. sam doesn’t mind as much as expected. he follows your logic, adds to your weird little cover story, and somehow the two of you become the most believable couple in the room because there’s no performance pressure. just quiet understanding, dry comments, and a shared braincell doing something suspiciously intimate.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make the fake romance feel tender, and dean immediately starts using jokes as emotional self-defense. ๋࣭ ⭑ you lean into the role with sweetness, and dean does not know what to do with that. he can handle flirting. he can handle teasing. he cannot handle you looking at him like he matters while calling him your boyfriend for a cover. the case works because people believe you adore him. the problem is, by the end, dean is starting to believe it too, and that terrifies him more than the monster. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam tries to keep it fake, but you bring out the tenderness he usually keeps locked away. ๋࣭ ⭑ with you, fake dating turns soft almost immediately. lingering looks, quiet check-ins, hands held a second longer than necessary. sam knows it’s for the case, but you have a way of making pretend feelings feel safe enough to touch. by the time it’s over, he’s gentle in a way that gives him away. he thanks you for the help, then looks at you like the fake part was the thing he liked least.