⚜️ Hunter at Heart ⚜️

The morning light filtered through the half-closed blinds of the safehouse bedroom, casting striped shadows across the rumpled sheets. You stood in the doorway for a second, heart hammering, still wearing the oversized t-shirt you’d thrown on last night after storming out. The argument had been stupid—something about him being reckless on the last mission, about you worrying he’d get himself killed just to prove he was still the strongest supe in the room. He’d yelled. You’d yelled back. Then you’d slept in the guest room like a stubborn idiot.

And he’d been right. You hated admitting it, but he had.

Ben—Soldier Boy—was already awake, propped up against the headboard with a scowl etched deep into his handsome face. Shirtless, of course, the sheet pooled low around his hips, one thick arm slung behind his head. His dark hair was messy, stubble shadowing his jaw, and those green eyes flicked toward you with pure irritation.

You stepped inside and closed the door softly. “Ben…”

He rolled his eyes so hard you almost heard it. “Save it, sweetheart. I’m not in the mood for your little apology tour.”

“I was wrong,” you said, walking closer. “You were right. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I just… I got scared.”

Another eye roll. He huffed, shifting under the sheet and tugging it higher up his chest like he was suddenly modest. “Yeah, well, too fucking late. You wanted space, you got it. Now you can keep it.”

But you didn’t miss the way the sheet tented obviously over his lap. Morning wood. Hard and insistent, straining against the thin fabric. He noticed you noticing and growled, yanking the sheet even higher with a sharp tug.

“Don’t even think about it,” he snapped. “I’m not fucking you just ‘cause you came crawling back with those big doe eyes. I’m pissed, and I’m staying pissed. Go back to your room.”

You bit your lip, fighting a smile despite everything. God, he was such a stubborn asshole when he wanted to be. It was stupidly hot.

You climbed onto the bed anyway, knees sinking into the mattress as you crawled toward him. He watched you with narrowed eyes, jaw tight.

“Baby,” you murmured, sliding a hand up his bare thigh under the sheet. His muscle jumped under your palm. “I said I was sorry.”

“Apology not accepted.” But his voice was already a little rougher.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his chest, right over his sternum, then another higher up on his collarbone. He exhaled sharply through his nose but didn’t push you away. You trailed your lips along the side of his neck, tasting salt and warm skin, and felt his pulse jump.

“You’re really gonna turn me down?” you whispered against his ear, letting your breath ghost over it. Your hand crept higher under the sheet until your fingers brushed the thick, hot length of him. He was rock hard, velvety skin stretched tight, a bead of pre-cum already slicking the tip. “Even though you’re this hard for me?”

He hissed, hips twitching once before he caught himself. “Don’t fucking start.”

You wrapped your hand around him and gave one slow, lazy stroke. His abs clenched. “I know you’re mad,” you cooed, kissing the corner of his mouth even as he turned his face away. “But I can make it up to you. Let me.”

Another huff, but his breathing was getting heavier. You stroked him again, thumb circling the head, spreading the wetness. His cock throbbed in your grip, betraying him completely.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rolling his eyes again even as his free hand fisted the sheet. “You’re a goddamn menace.”

You smiled against his neck and kept stroking, slow and teasing, until his hips started rocking up into your fist despite himself. Only then did you swing a leg over, straddling his thighs. The sheet was trapped between you, but you tugged it down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed dark, veins standing out. It slapped heavily against his stomach.

You ground down against him, letting your soaked panties drag along his length. “Please, Ben. I need you.”

He groaned, head falling back against the pillows. “Fuck… you’re really gonna make me cave, huh?”

You rocked again, harder, and leaned down to suck a mark into his neck. “Yes. I am.”

He lasted about ten more seconds of stubborn grumbling before his big hands grabbed your ass, squeezing hard. “Fine. But you’re doing all the fucking work, princess. And I’m still pissed.”

You didn’t care. You shoved your panties aside, lined him up, and sank down onto his cock in one slow, slick glide. The stretch was perfect—burning and full and so fucking good. Ben’s jaw dropped, a low, filthy moan tearing out of him as you bottomed out.

“Shit… tight little pussy,” he growled, eyes fluttering half-shut. His hands stayed on your hips but didn’t guide you yet, still clinging to that last shred of defiance.

You started riding him, rolling your hips deep and steady, hands braced on his broad chest. Every time you sank down, his cock dragged against that sweet spot inside you, making you whimper. His morning wood was even thicker than usual, pulsing hot and heavy.

Ben’s head tipped back, eyes rolling again—but this time in pleasure. “Fuck, that’s it… just like that. Goddamn it, baby.”

You leaned forward, kissing him properly now. He resisted for half a second before he opened his mouth and kissed you back, hungry and angry and desperate all at once. His tongue slid against yours as you rode him faster, the wet sound of skin slapping skin filling the room.

He finally broke, gripping your hips hard and thrusting up to meet you, fucking you from below with short, powerful snaps that made your toes curl.

“Say it again,” he grunted between thrusts. “Tell me I was right.”“You were right,” you gasped, clenching around him. “You’re always right, Ben. Fuck—please—”

“That’s my good girl.” His voice was wrecked. One hand slid up to grip the back of your neck, holding you close as he pounded into you. “Now come on my cock like you mean it.”

You did—shattering around him with a cry, pussy fluttering and squeezing so tight he cursed loudly. He followed right after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with hot, thick pulses, groaning your name against your mouth like he hated how much he needed you.

Afterward you collapsed onto his chest, both of you breathing hard. His arms finally came around you, one big hand stroking down your back.

“Apology accepted,” he muttered gruffly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But next time you sleep in another room, I’m dragging your ass back here and fucking the attitude out of you. Got it?”

You smiled against his skin. “Yes, sir.”

He huffed, but you felt him twitch inside you again already.

Stubborn asshole…

The aftershocks were still rippling through you when Ben’s arms locked around your back, pulling you down flush against his chest with a heavy, satisfied groan. His cock was still buried deep inside you, twitching with the last pulses of his release, warm and thick and full.

"Easy, baby… easy,” he murmured, voice low and rough but suddenly softer than you’d ever heard it. One big hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair as he pressed slow, lazy kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “That’s it. Just breathe for me.”

You whimpered softly, boneless and trembling on top of him. Ben shushed you tenderly, the same man who’d been rolling his eyes and huffing at you twenty minutes ago now cradling you like you were made of glass.

“You did such a good job, sweetheart,” he whispered against your hair, stroking down your spine in long, soothing passes. “Such a good fucking girl for me. Took all of me like you were made for it. Look at you… still fluttering around my cock. That’s my baby.”

He stayed inside you for a long minute, just holding you close, letting you hide your face in the crook of his neck while he rubbed slow circles over your lower back. When he finally eased out, you whined at the loss, and he chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Shh, I’ve got you.” He rolled you gently onto your back and reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand. “Here, sweet girl. Small sips.”

He cradled your head with one hand and brought the bottle to your lips, watching with soft green eyes as you drank. A little water dribbled down your chin; he wiped it away with his thumb and kissed the spot.

“Good girl. Drink it all for me. You worked so hard riding me like that… my perfect fucking princess. You were such a good girl saying I was right, too. Took every inch and came so pretty on my cock. I’m so proud of you, baby.”

Your cheeks burned, but the praise melted you even more. Ben set the water aside and grabbed a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom (he must’ve gotten it while you were still floating). He cleaned you up with careful, reverent strokes between your thighs, murmuring the whole time.

“Look how messy you are… all full of me. That’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of it. You just lie there and be my pretty girl.” He kissed the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then gently over your sensitive clit, making you twitch. “So good for me. You did such a good job letting me fuck all that attitude out. My sweet, stubborn baby.”

When he was done, he tossed the cloth away and pulled you straight back into his arms, tucking you against his chest so your head rested over his heart. One thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand stroking your hair, your cheek, your shoulder—constant, gentle touches like he couldn’t bear to stop.

“You’re shaking, honey,” he cooed, voice all soft and low. “C’mere. Let Daddy hold you.” He tugged the sheet up over both of you and curled around your smaller frame, cocooning you completely. “That’s it. Just relax. You were such a good girl coming back to apologize… such a good girl taking my cock and milking me dry. I’ve never been prouder of you, baby. Never.”

You nuzzled into his warm skin, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers kept petting through your hair.

“I love you,” he whispered, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “My good girl. My best girl. Rest now, alright? I’ve got you. Gonna keep you right here all morning, spoil you rotten. You earned it.”

He kept murmuring soft praises against your hair until your breathing evened out—endless little “good girl” and “you did so good for me, sweetheart”—his big hand never stopping its gentle strokes down your back.

You glance sideways at Jensen, who's already settling into his chair with that easygoing grin, but you catch the flicker in his eyes—the one only you recognize after months of stolen moments. Jared plops down next to you, his massive frame making the chair creak, and Misha slides in on Jensen's other side, adjusting his mic with a dramatic flourish. The four of you wave to the sea of faces, phones flashing like stars, but the air feels thicker than usual. Whispers ripple through the audience; you can practically feel the shift.

The moderator—some enthusiastic con host—kicks things off with the usual pleasantries, but you tune it out, your mind replaying the video in your head. It was from last night, after a late shoot: you and Jensen in the hotel hallway, thinking you were alone, his hands on your waist, your lips crashing into his with that desperate hunger built from weeks of secrecy. Someone must have been lurking with a camera. And now? It's everywhere online, blowing up Twitter feeds just as the panel starts.

First question comes from a fan in the front row, a girl with a Winchester tattoo peeking from her sleeve. "This is for Jared and you," she says, pointing between you two. "Roxy and Sam have such amazing chemistry on screen—those romantic scenes are fire! Is there any chance that spills over into real life? You two seem so close off-set."

The crowd erupts in cheers, whoops, and a few "Jaroxy!" chants—your ship name with Jared that's been trending since Roxy's first kiss with Sam aired. Jared laughs, that booming, genuine sound, leaning into his mic. "Oh man, where do I start? She's incredible to work with. We hang out all the time—poker nights, pranks on set. But real life? Nah, we're just buds. Right?" He nudges you playfully, oblivious for a split second.

You force a smile, nodding. "Totally. Jared's like the big brother I never wanted." The audience laughs, but you feel Jensen's gaze burning into you from across the panel. Misha raises an eyebrow, sensing something off, but he stays quiet.

Another fan steps up, this one bolder, holding her phone like a weapon. "Okay, I have to ask about the elephant in the room. That video that just dropped—like, five minutes ago. You and Jensen... in the hallway? What the hell?!"

The hall falls silent. Not the excited hush before a reveal, but a thick, awkward tension that presses down like fog. You hear chairs creak as people lean forward, breaths held. Jared's smile freezes, his eyes darting between you and Jensen. Misha's mouth opens slightly, then closes, his usual chaos replaced by wide-eyed surprise.

Jensen shifts in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck—a telltale sign he's buying time. You meet his eyes, and for a heartbeat, it's just the two of you, remembering the feel of his stubble against your skin, the way he whispered "I love you" in that hallway before pulling you closer. But now? The secret's shattered.

"Uh," Jensen starts, his voice steady but laced with that Texas drawl that always calms you. "Look, we're all friends here. That video... it's private. But yeah, it's real." He pauses, the silence stretching, fans exchanging shocked glances. No one claps. No one cheers. Just the hum of the AC and a few muffled gasps.

Jared recovers first, leaning back with a forced chuckle that doesn't reach his eyes. "Wait, seriously? You two? Since when?" His tone is light, but there's an edge—betrayal? Amusement? You can't tell. The crowd murmurs now, a low buzz building.

Misha jumps in, ever the wildcard. "Well, this explains why Jensen's been so chipper lately. And here I thought it was the craft services coffee." He winks at the audience, trying to diffuse, but the tension lingers, heavy and unspoken. Fans whisper, phones out, no doubt live-tweeting every awkward beat.

You clear your throat, gripping the mic tighter. "It started a few months ago. We kept it quiet because... well, this." You gesture vaguely at the room, the weight of a thousand eyes. "We didn't want it to overshadow the show or mess with the dynamics. Jared, Misha—you guys are family. Nothing changes that."

Jared nods slowly, but his smile is tight, the silence after your words dragging on too long. A fan in the back shouts, "But what about Jaroxy? We shipped you two so hard!"

Laughter bubbles up, nervous and scattered, but it dies quick. Jensen reaches over, his hand brushing yours under the table—just a fleeting touch, grounding you. "Ships are fun," he says into the mic, "but real life? It's messier. And better." His eyes lock on yours again, a promise in the chaos.

The next question pivots to safer ground—Misha's latest charity run—but the air never fully clears. Every pause feels loaded, every glance between the four of you amplified. Jared cracks a joke about Sam needing a new love interest now, but it lands flat, the silence swallowing the punchline. Misha overcompensates with wild gestures, recounting a set prank, yet even he falters, the usual rhythm off-kilter.

As the panel wraps, fans applaud, but it's subdued, the shock still fresh. Backstage, away from the lights, Jensen pulls you into a quick hug. "We got this," he murmurs. Jared claps him on the back, awkward but sincere. "Dude, congrats? I think?" Misha grins. "Finally, some real drama off-screen."

But you know the internet's exploding, the secret out. And somehow, in the midst of the tension, it feels like freedom.

Break

The backstage area feels like a war zone the second the panel ends—curtains drawn, security ushering fans out, but the echo of their murmurs lingers like smoke. You slip off stage with Jensen's hand grazing your lower back, a subtle anchor in the storm, but Jared and Misha trail behind, their footsteps heavier than usual. No one's talking. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant hum of the convention center and the frantic buzz of phones in pockets.

Your publicist, Sarah—a no-nonsense woman with a clipboard perpetually glued to her hand—meets you in a makeshift green room, her face pinched like she's swallowed something sour. Jensen's manager, Tom, is already there, pacing with his phone pressed to his ear, and your manager, Lisa, hovers by the door, scrolling through alerts. Jensen's publicist rounds out the group, bursting in last with a laptop under her arm, slamming it down on the table.

"Alright, damage control," Sarah starts, her voice clipped, no preamble. The room falls into that awkward hush again, everyone exchanging glances—yours landing on Jensen, who leans against the wall, arms crossed, jaw set. Jared sinks into a chair, rubbing his temples, while Misha perches on the armrest, uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes flicking between you all like he's piecing together a puzzle.

Tom jumps in first. "The video's everywhere—TMZ picked it up, E! News is running with it. Views are skyrocketing. Fans are split: half thrilled, half pissed about the 'Jaroxy' betrayal." He shoots a look at Jared, who just nods, the silence thickening as Lisa pulls up screenshots—tweets, forums, the works.

Your heart pounds. "How bad is it?" you ask, voice steadier than you feel.

Sarah sighs, long and heavy. "Bad enough that sponsors are calling. The show's family-friendly image? This throws a wrench. Secret dating on set—people will speculate about favoritism, drama bleeding into work." She pauses, the room so quiet you hear the clock ticking. Jensen shifts, his eyes meeting yours, a silent apology in them.

Lisa chimes in. "We spin it positive. Joint statement: 'We're happy, supportive of the show, no impact on production.' Keep it vague on timelines—don't confirm when it started. And for god's sake, no more hallway makeouts." She glares at you both, but there's a hint of a smile, breaking the tension just a fraction.

Jensen finally speaks, his voice low. "What about the cast? Jared, Misha—you guys okay?" Another beat of silence, awkward and loaded. Jared exhales, leaning forward. "Man, I'm happy for you. Just... shocked. Wish I'd known." Misha nods, adding lightly, "Yeah, next time, loop us in before the internet does." But the words hang, the air still heavy with unspoken what-ifs.

They hash it out for another hour—statements drafted, social media strategies outlined. You and Jensen agree to a low-key approach: own it, but don't feed the frenzy. By the end, Sarah claps her hands. "We handle the press. You two? Act normal on set. The show's the priority." As everyone files out, Jensen pulls you aside, his forehead against yours in the dim light. "We got through the panel. We'll get through this."

But the internet doesn't wait. By evening, as you scroll from your hotel room—Jensen asleep beside you, his arm draped over your waist—Tumblr explodes. You stumble onto a random Supernatural fan community, "SPNFamilyForever," where a masterpost titled "JENSEN AND ROXY ACTOR: THE SIGNS WERE THERE ALL ALONG!!!" is gaining traction, reblogged hundreds of times in hours.

The OP starts with caps-lock frenzy: "OKAY GUYS, THAT VIDEO? MIND BLOWN. But let's rewind—Jensen's been heart-eyes for her since she joined. Proof below!"

They link clips from past interviews: That 2011 Comic-Con panel where you teased Jensen about Dean's leather jacket, and he laughed a little too long, his gaze lingering as you spoke. "See how he watches her? Not like with Jared or Misha. That's LOVE."

Then behind-the-scenes footage from season 7: A gag reel where you flub a line, tripping over a prop, and Jensen catches you, holding on a second longer than necessary, his grin soft, not the usual prankster smirk. "He's always positioning himself next to her in group shots. Coincidence? I THINK NOT."

More: A PaleyFest interview where a fan asks about on-set crushes, and Jensen deflects with a joke, but his eyes flick to you off-camera, a subtle tell the fans now dissect frame by frame. "And remember that BTS photo from the vampire ep? Jensen's arm around her shoulders, looking at her like she's the only one in the room. We've been blind!"

Comments flood in: "Holy crap, you're right! Rewatching now—every con, he's stealing glances." "Jaroxy was cute, but JenRox? ENDGAME." "How did we miss this? He's been smitten FOREVER."

You chuckle softly, the tension from earlier easing as you read. Jensen stirs, peeking at your screen. "Fans figuring us out?" You nod, showing him. He smirks, pulling you closer. "Let 'em. They were gonna anyway." The silence between you now is comfortable, the world's chaos fading as you drift off, the pieces finally falling into place for everyone.

Break

The days following the leaked video feel like living inside a snow globe someone keeps shaking. Every channel, every website, every radio segment wants a piece of the story. You and Jensen hole up in the Vancouver hotel suite between shoots, curtains drawn against paparazzi lenses, phones on silent. But the world outside refuses to quiet down.

Monday morning, December 2012. You wake to the television already on—Jensen must have fallen asleep with the remote in his hand. CNN’s entertainment ticker scrolls across the bottom of the screen: “Supernatural Stars Jensen Ackles & Co-Star Confirm Real-Life Romance After Viral Video.” The anchor, a polished brunette, tilts her head with practiced sympathy.

“In a story that has the internet in an absolute frenzy, a grainy hotel hallway video surfaced over the weekend showing Supernatural heartthrob Jensen Ackles in a passionate embrace with his newer co-star, the actress who plays fan-favorite hunter Roxy. The twist? On the hit CW series, Roxy is currently in a heated romance with Sam Winchester, portrayed by Jared Padalecki, sparking one of the fandom’s most beloved ships, affectionately dubbed ‘Jaroxy.’”

Cut to file footage: you and Jared in a season-seven promo, arms wrapped around each other, laughing as fake blood drips down your faces. Then the hallway clip—blurred for network TV, but unmistakable. The anchor continues, “Sources tell us the couple had been dating secretly for months. At a convention panel on Saturday, Ackles confirmed the relationship when directly confronted by a fan, saying simply, ‘Yeah, it’s real.’ The room fell silent for several long seconds—an eternity in live television.”

They roll the convention footage. There it is: the fan’s question, Jared’s frozen half-smile, Misha’s wide eyes, your own hand tightening around the microphone. The silence is deafening even in replay. The anchor raises an eyebrow. “Awkward doesn’t begin to cover it. But in the hours since, the fandom has begun to pivot. While many are mourning the apparent end of ‘Jaroxy’ hopes, a new ship is rising fast: ‘JenRox.’”

The segment ends with a split-screen of old Jared/you photos and newly resurfaced Jensen/you candids—him steadying you on an icy Vancouver sidewalk last winter, you handing him a coffee on set with a private smile. The chyron reads: “From Co-Stars to Couple: The Signs Were There All Along?”

You mute the TV and bury your face in the pillow. Jensen stirs beside you, voice gravelly with sleep. “They’re never gonna let this die, are they?” You shake your head against the cotton. He pulls you closer, lips brushing your temple. “Good thing I don’t want them to.”

By noon, every major entertainment outlet has run some version of the story.

Terrence: “Let’s be honest—this is the kind of drama we live for. Secret on-set romance, leaked video, live convention reveal. It’s like a script the writers couldn’t even dream up.”

E! News devotes a full ten-minute block. Giuliana Rancic and Terrence Jenkins sit on the white couch, a montage of Supernatural clips playing behind them.

Giuliana: “And the fandom reaction is fascinating. Initially, there was heartbreak. ‘Jaroxy’ has been trending globally since Roxy’s first appearance. Fans invested years in Sam and Roxy’s slow-burn. But now? Tumblr, Twitter, Reddit—they’re digging through archives like detectives. And what they’re finding is convincing a lot of them that Jensen has been quietly in love with her since day one.”

They cut to a graphic titled “The Evidence Timeline.”

- March 2011: Your first table read. A fan-captured photo shows Jensen watching you read Roxy’s introduction scene, chin propped on his hand, expression unreadable but intense.

- July 2011: Comic-Con. In the press line, Jensen steps aside so you can go first, his hand hovering at the small of your back without quite touching.

- October 2011: Behind-the-scenes video. You trip over a cable; Jensen catches you instinctively, holds a beat too long before letting go, cheeks pink.

- February 2012: PaleyFest panel. When asked who has the best chemistry on set, Jensen jokes, “Well, I’m biased,” and glances at you with a grin that lingers.

Giuliana: “Fans are calling it ‘the longest slow-burn in history.’ And the more they rewatch, the more converts they make.”

Terrence holds up his phone. “Hashtag JenRox is now out-trending Jaroxy for the first time ever. And the fan art? Next level.”

The screen fills with digital drawings: you and Jensen as Dean and Roxy stargazing on the Impala’s hood; soft watercolor portraits; even some cheeky hallway re-creations with heart filters.

Over on TMZ Live, the tone is predictably chaotic. Harvey Levin leans into camera, surrounded by his barking staff.

Harvey: “Forget the sweet stuff—this is juicy. We’re talking betrayal vibes for Jaroxy shippers. Jared Padalecki’s married in real life, so no love triangle drama there, but on-screen? Roxy and Sam are endgame—or were. Now writers have to figure out how to handle the real-life couple playing… not a couple.”

A staffer yells, “We got sources saying Jensen and her started flirting almost immediately after she joined. Quiet dinners, late-night script runs. Crew knew, but nobody talked.”

Harvey: “And that panel silence? Gold. Jared looked like someone told him Santa wasn’t real. But give the guy credit—he’s already tweeting support. Quote: ‘Happy for my brother and my friend. Family sticks together.’ Class act.”

They flash Jared’s tweet, timestamped late last night, already at 80k likes.

Access Hollywood takes the high road. Nancy O’Dell and Billy Bush host a roundtable with two entertainment reporters.

Nancy: “What’s remarkable is how quickly the narrative shifted from scandal to celebration. Yes, there was initial shock, but the deeper fans dig, the more they embrace it.”

One reporter: “It helps that there’s no villain here. Jared’s happily married with kids. No cheating rumors. Just two single co-stars who fell for each other while playing other people in love. It’s almost poetic.”

Billy: “And the chemistry was always there—just misdirected. Fans thought the sparks between her and Jared were real because the writing was strong. But watching old interviews now, Jensen’s reactions are… telling.”

They play a compilation titled “Jensen Being Whipped: A Thread.”

- You telling a story at a con; Jensen laughing harder than anyone, eyes crinkling.

- You singing along to music between takes; Jensen filming you on his phone with the softest smile.

- You shivering on location; Jensen wordlessly draping his jacket over your shoulders and leaving it there for hours.

Nancy: “It’s hard to stay mad when the evidence is this cute.”

Even late-night shows can’t resist. Jimmy Fallon opens his monologue with it.

Jimmy: “Big news in TV land, folks. Jensen Ackles from Supernatural is dating his co-star—the one who plays Roxy. Now, on the show, Roxy dates Sam, Jensen’s on-screen brother. So basically, Jensen pulled the ultimate ‘I saw her first’ move. Sorry, Jared.”

Audience laughs. Jimmy continues, “Fans are calling it JenRox, and they’re making compilations proving Jensen’s been in love since 2011. That’s longer than most of my relationships.”

Cut to a fake “evidence” clip Fallon’s team edited: every time Jensen looks at you in old panels, a cartoon heart pops up.

Meanwhile, the fandom itself is undergoing a full renaissance.

On Tumblr, the blog spnarchaeology posts a 5,000-word essay titled “How JenRox Rewrites Seven Seasons of Subtext.” It gets reblogged 40,000 times in two days. Key points:

- Dean’s protectiveness toward Roxy always read slightly different than toward other hunters—more personal, less big-brother.

- Every time Roxy flirted with Sam, Dean’s micro-expressions showed… something. Fans previously read it as jealousy over Sam’s happiness. Now they see romantic jealousy.

- The season-seven episode where Dean teaches Roxy to shoot? The lingering close-ups on Jensen’s hands adjusting your grip? “We thought it was Dean/Roxy tension the writers were teasing. Turns out it was just Jensen unable to hide it.”

Comments pour in:

user1: “I’m still Jaroxy forever in my heart, but I can’t deny JenRox is real and beautiful.”

user2: “Multishipping is the way. Let me have my Sam/Roxy fanfic AND real-life JenRox happiness.”

user3: “The hallway video is hot, but the quiet moments—him looking at her like she hung the moon—are what sold me.”

Reddit’s r/Supernatural has multiple megathreads stickied.

One titled “Official JenRox Appreciation Thread – All Evidence Welcome” hits 10k comments. Users upload slowed-down gifs, color-enhanced stills, audio isolates of Jensen’s voice softening when he says your name in interviews.

Another thread: “Jaroxy Isn’t Dead – It’s Just Fiction Now (And That’s Okay).” Moderators pin it to calm the grieving shippers. Top comment, 15k upvotes: “Ships don’t have to be real to be valid. I’ll keep writing Jaroxy epics till the day I die, but I’m genuinely happy for Jensen and her.”

Fanfiction.net and AO3 see an explosion. Jaroxy fics still update daily—many authors add notes: “Canon-compliant through 7x12, then AU because real life happened.” JenRox RPF (real-person fic) skyrockets, but tastefully—most focus on soft domestic moments, convention shenanigans, first kisses that mirror the leaked hallway scene.

One wildly popular 50k-word fic, “Visible Only in Flashbulbs,” imagines the entire secret relationship from your first table read to the leak. It updates twice a week and has a cult following.

Twitter trends cycle hourly: #JenRox, #ProtectJaroxy, #SPNFamily, #MultishippersUnite. Misha tweets a photo of the four of you at dinner post-panel—Jared’s arm around Jensen, your head on Jensen’s shoulder, everyone laughing. Caption: “Family dinner. No demons invited.” It gets 200k likes and calms a lot of worried fans.

Jared posts an Instagram of him and Jensen on set, fake-fighting with prop knives, caption: “Still my brother. Always.” The comments flood with heart emojis.

Back in the hotel that night, you and Jensen order room service and binge-watch the coverage on mute, subtitles on. You laugh at the over-the-top graphics, cringe at the slowed-down hallway kiss replayed for the hundredth time. But mostly you feel… relieved.

The initial wave of shock has crested. The awkward silence from the panel is now meme legend, but it’s affectionate meme legend. Fans have taken the broken pieces of their expectations and built something new—something that holds space for both Jaroxy’s fictional fire and JenRox’s quiet realness.

Jensen sets his fork down, pulls you into his lap. “Think we survived it?”

You trace the line of his jaw, the one you’ve memorized in secret for months. “We didn’t just survive. They rewrote the story with us.”

He smiles—that soft, private one he saves just for you, the one fans are now dissecting frame by frame. “Good. Because I’m not done writing it yet.”

Outside, the snow starts to fall over Vancouver, blanketing the city in hush. Inside, the world keeps spinning, talking, shipping, celebrating. But here, in this room, it’s just the two of you—no secrets left, no silence except the comfortable kind.

However, what people didn't know was that you were related to a freshman, specifically - a boy named Dustin Henderson. Like I mentioned, because you were in the middle, not many people knew. You were friends with Nancy, and some girl named Tracy in your algebra class and a girl named Jackie from your humanities studies you'd skip class with and sneak out of the hates to go get fast food. This year was different somehow, you'd recently gotten stuck with Steve Harrington as a class partner for a chemistry project because he was failing and your teacher, Mr. Clarke thought you were "a perfect student" in his words...you weren't. After that, funnily enough, Steve-the-hair-Harrington started to notice you, not in the all of a sudden way, but in the gradual way. The kind of way that made him show up earlier to class because it annoyed you when he way late, the kind of way that made him actually pull his weight because he didn't want to disappoint you, the kind of way where he fell deeper into this hole of slowly falling for you and revelling in your smile when he cracked jokes. Slowly over time he developed a kind of thing for you, and he was oblivious to it all. Months later, after "adopting" Dustin and his friends as his "kids", he was driving them around constantly, he went to go sneak into Dustin's window because he was sent a radio about some cool new project, however, he miscalculated and knocked on your window instead. Startled, you'd grabbed a aluminium bat you had just in case, bringing it to the window and pulling open the curtains before allowing yourself to have a heartattack when you realised it was Steve, then Steve had one when he thought he'd gotten the wrong house and just woken you up for no reason. You'd slowly unlocked the window before opening it, checking to see if anyone was following behind him, then very quickly pulling him into your room and quietly shutting it closed.

"What the fuck are you doing here?!" You gave me a heart attack!" You whisper-yelled at him, eyes bugging out of your head.

"Uh...is this not Dustin's House?.." he looked so confused, the poor guy freaking out.

"Well, no, the house doesn't belong to him but he does live here. What the fuck are you even trying to see my brother at...1:37 in the morning?" You whispered, looking over to the alarm clock in the corner of your room.

"He, uh...had some new project to show me..." He admitted sheepishly

"Sound like him, but you're a little off... explains why you were talking before I'm math." You snipped, clearly tired and grumpy. "His room is down the hall to the right, you can't miss it, he decorated his door."

Steve nodded, grateful, moving hallway down the hallway before freezing, the mental does connecting in his head, the little hearts spinning, soon realising...holy shit...the girl he's in love with is literally his best friend's sister... he's so dead if or when Dustin finds out.

He ran up Dustin's room, quickly shutting the door and hiding against it. "You didn't tell me you had a sister! Especially not her!" He frantically whisper yelled

"What do you mean?" Dustin asked, looking up from a new project.

He looked at Dustin like he was acting stupid on purpose before repeating your name to him and looking at him incredulously.

"Oh, yeah, she's my sister, what about it?"

He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the inevitable. "You remember that girl I told you about? The one I was crushing on and you said that I was dumping for and kept giving me shit about it?...well, as it turns out, it is your sister." Quickly panicking and frantically adding. "But I really didn't mean to, I didn't know you guys were related- I swear on the life of my hair."

"Like I said, simping- wait what!" Dusting exclaimed, his eye twitching like crazy, almost bugging out of his head.

"keep your voice down! Don't get us caught!" He murmured to Dustin, quickly easing his hands in a placating gesture to calm him down.

"How the hell am I meant to calm down?! You want to get with my goddamn sister!" He sharply hissed back.

"I'm sorry, how can I control who I crush on?!" Steve sarcastically muttered back.

"Gee, I dunno, maybe ask for a last name? Ask your crush if they have siblings? The usual thing?- whatever, just have a look at this then go." He uttered quietly under his breath.

Steve left half an hour later, utterly confused at the so called 'nerd-speak' Dustin used. It was about 7am, chilling in your cosy room, talking to Tracy through your phone, the cord connecting it was just long enough to sit lay down in the opposite side of your bed and face away from the receiver and still have more cord to wrap around your fingers. At that point is when Dustin barged in, mumbled something about breakfast before leaving for school on his bike with his friends. Thinking it was weird, you hang up the phone, got dressed, stole some toast, then headed out to school in your sweet, sweet, 1967 Chevy impala passed down to you, hearing that engine roar to life before soaring past the street, totally not ignoring the speed limit. You were friends with Dustin, who was friends with Eleven, so he let you off most days as long as you did volunteer work every so often. Soon you bright the car you a stop, shutting off the engine, locking up the car and heading into the school. You walked through the halls, and you got so many stares, not knowing what for, you thought you were going insane until you went up to Nancy and practically begged her to share any knowledge she had.

"It's because Steve likes you, as soon as Steve thinks a girl is hot, or has the hots for a girl, so do all of the guys and all of the girls get jealous."

"...what?" You said, looking at her like she'd grown two heads.

"No...did you seriously not know?" Nancy gave gave you a sympathetic gaze. "Poor thing, Steve's been giving you heart eyes for months, have you not noticed?"

You were about to reply but the school bell ringing out cut you off, announcing your first period class was going to start, which had Nancy rushing off and your feet reluctantly dragging you towards your class. You'd gotten to the science door at the same time as Steve, accidentally brushing hands, something that's normally fine, sent an electric which through your body, feeling like fire in your veins, you felt it, and your sure he felt it too. You both tried to awkwardly get through the door before he finally pushed it open and you awkwardly stumbled inside, sitting down in your seats.

"So, uh...I finished my work? I, uh- did it on time too..." He offered, turning award so you couldn't see the blush running across his face.

"Yeah, uh...cool." You curtly replied before going back to doing your work, and Steve kind of visibly deflated from that.

"So, you- Dustin- you're-...yeah..." He tried to fill in the silence, instead tripping over his words. "You guys are siblings?"

"Mhm." You grunted, giving a nod as you solved an equasion in your textbook.

"That's...something- how does nobody know you're related?"

"He's a freshman, it's not really new, why were you there anyways? I know you told me why, but why are you friends with a 13 year old?"

"It's a whole thing, will went missing in the upside down, will knew Mike, Mike's sister is Nancy, I got myself involved in the supernatural at that time, then she involved me with Mike who knows Dustin, and it's a whole thing, I know I sound like a teenage girl rambling."

"Whaaaa?~ that's crazy you definitely don't." You say with obvious sarcasm.

"You try being friends with children." He retorts at you.

You scoffed right back at him. "One of those teenagers is my brother?"

His brain shirt-circuit for a minute, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water until a board eraser soared past his head, making him duck, with the teacher glaring at him.

Mr. Clarke was staring him down. "Mr. Harrington! You're here to learn! Not to flirt with your girlfriend and slack off!"

Steve went bright read, and we're talking as red as a tomato, coughing and spluttering in shock. "Sir- that's not- we're not- this isn't-"

Nr. Clarke sharply cut him off. "I don't want any of your excuses, I want results, get up here and solve the question or you're off to detention for a week."

The whole class snickered a little as he dragged himself out from his seat and to the chalkboard, sadly staring to solve the dreaded word problem.

As lunchtime rooms around he sprints to the band room, not caring about the onlookers as he sorts through people to find his best friend.

"ROBIN! ROBIN!"

"Jesus! Over here, calm the hell down!" She arrives as the ribs her ear dramatically.

He quickly rushed over to her spot grabbing her by the shoulders and explaining everything, making her eyes bug or of her heart because he's rambling so fast she can only pick up every other word.

"Wait, wait, wait, so, correct me if I'm wrong, but you sick into her room thinking it was her brother which you found out that night because she was the girl you a had a crush on and the mystery girl you kept the name of from her brother, you told Dustin, then when you had your first class together after the incident, you got an eraser thrown at your head but it missed, the teacher called her your girlfriend, told you two to stop flirting, and made you solve a problem on the board after making you pick up the eraser?"

Suddenly Steve wished the the ground would swallow him whole, his voice came out in a small squeal. "... When you put it like that I sound pathetic..."

Robin burst out laughing, grabbing Steve's shoulder to stable herself as the other clutched her stomach because she laughed so hard her stomach started aching.

"Rob- seriously, c'mon, you're meant to help me out right now."

"I'm - oh god...I'm sorry, that's just hilarious."

"Screw you, I didn't even need your help anyways." He frustratingly grumbled, turning to walk away as Robin grabbed his arm.

"Wait, no, stay, I'm sorry, please come back." She asked, giving him her best puppy dog eyes and he caged instantly.

"Fine then, if you want me to stay, what should I do? Hmm?" He snipped at her.

"You should 'accidentally' knock on her window again."

"What?- Rob, why the hell would I do that?" He gave her a look of judgement and put confusion.

"Because, you did that once, she didn't scream or cry, she just calmly pointed you to Dustin's room, who in their right mind would do that if they weren't good friends with you or had a teensy weensy crush? No one, that's who. So you are going to sneak past Dustin's window, tap on hers, when she invited you in, you play the 'wrong window' card again and as you go to leave you keep stalling and checking out her room, distracting her and flirting with her, and you might even get to confess your feelings~" She added with a suggestive wink when the absolute most he could get was a peck on the cheek.

He rolled his eyes in frustration, ruining a hand over his face and through his hair, somehow the hair didn't get messed up, he managed to live up to his name. He started walking back to the cafeteria feeling slightly defeated.

"Screw you, Harrington." Robin said, playfully rolling her eyes, grinning.

"Back to last names?...I'm wounded." He uttered while putting a hand over his heart and feigning offence

"Get off your high horse, and stop calling me those ridiculous names."

"Why? It's so fun, sweetheart."

"Whatever, you suck." She admitted

Later that night, Steve was getting ready, putting in maximum effort. Using a new and fancy smelling cologne, styling his hair perfectly, brushing his teeth about 7 times before he finally got in the car and started driving to your house with some flowers. His heart was racing, pounding so hard he could hear the blood running and feel the pulse in his ears. His hands were sweating so badly every few second he had to wipe them on his jeans. Finally, he put the car in park, shutting off the engine, grabbing the flowers and sneaking up to your house. He made sure to crouch low and admire your car for a second before he got moving to your bedroom, sneaking up to Dustin's room to ask him a final question, pushing through the open window.

"Hey Dustin, you good? Doesn't matter. Okay, do I look too much?" He asked, gesturing with his hands to his entire outfit

Dustin, who got scared nearly jumped out of his seat. "Jesus! What the hell man?!" He exlaimed

"Dude, just answer the question." Steve insisted

"I dunno? I guess? What are the flowers f- wait, are you going to ask my sister out?! Dude! Major bro code violation!" He started freaking out

"Dustin, calm the hell down, it's not that serious." He raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"The hell it's not! Get out of my sight, and I better not here you guys smooching through the walls."

Steve looked absolutely mortified, going silent before touching up his hair in a mirror and jumping back out of his room, sneaking up to yours and tapping on your window, yet again. You walked over to unlatch it and open it up.

"Steve, man, you gotta stop doing this, by now you would've though the the great Steve Harrington was able to get the right window, but alas." You said cheekily as he climbed in.

"Actually, I'm not here for Dustin. I'm here for you, and so are these flowers." He held out the bouquet to you, which you accepted.

"What's all this about? Hmm? You trying to flirt with me-"

He cut you off with a smirk. "Maybe I am, is that going to be a problem?"

You went quiet, blush rising to your face before he started walking towards you, and you started walking backwards until eventually you were backed against a wall, you flowers fallen and forgotten on the floor, one hand bracing the wall beside your head as he looked down at you.

"Steve..." You whispered, your voice embarrassingly vulnerable.

"I like you, I have for months now, and I need to know if you do too."

"But, Steve-" he sharply cut you off again.

"I don't care about Dustin, or my reputation, or if fucking Tommy C and Carol decide to give me shit about it-"

"Steve." You tried interrupting him, but he wouldn't listen

"I don't care, I care about you and I need to know if-"

"Steve!" You shouted, finally stopping his rambling.

"Yeah? What's wrong?" He asked, looking genuinely concerned.

"You're such a fucking idiot." You murmured, inching closer to his face, standing on your on your tippy toes before leaning in to kiss him.

He just smiled into the kiss with that lop-sided grin that would make anyone swoon, closing the space between you. The kiss was soft in the beginning, tender and warm, his hands slid to cup your face, fingers stroking your cheeks as you curled one hand around the hairs at the nape of his neck while the other curled into his short, gripping it and pulling him closer. He let out a breathy groan that sent shivers down your spine and pressed you harder against the wall. He stepped in fast, crowding you until your shoulders hit the wall with a thud, eliciting a gasp from you. A flip switched, not a nasty lustful desire, but a desire to be closer to you. He kissed you hard, mouth clashing against yours, nipping at your bottom lip before sitting it over with his tongue and sliding that very tongue into your mouth whenever you faked it came up for air. Steve kissed you until he turned your knees into Jell-O. He pressed his entire body against yours, pinning you under his weight. You could feel each soft puff of his breath between kisses, feel his heartbeat racing through the thin clothing. He walked both of you backwards until the back of his knees hit your mattress and sat down, pulling you onto his lap. You couldn't get enough of him, the smell of his cologne, that's of his mouth, the way his kisses made you dizzy, and he couldn't get enough of you either. The kiss got deeper, heavier, slower. Every single thought in his mind went out the window and was solely focusing on you now because time felt like it had frozen - felt like it could last forever; but that was short lived. Then you heard it, a creak in the floorboard from Dustin's room, you froze. Steve read your stiffness as something totally different, most likely thinking he found the one spot on your neck that felt the best, but he was way off.

"Steve!" You harshly whispered at him, pawing at his shoulder.

"I know it feels good, baby." He purred, continuing to kiss your neck, missing the creek of Dustin's door opening.

"No, Steve!" You exclaimed, pushing him back so he was sitting on his knees. you held a finger up to your lips, telling him to be quiet and listen in for noises.

Then you hear it, small footsteps coming towards your door, footsteps like your little brother's. His faced paled, you jumped out of you bed, throwing his shoes at him, which he caught and put on. You silently ran around collecting his stuff, jacket, watch, whatever he had, balling it up and chucking out the window before helping him out. He looked torn between leaving and staying before cheekily stealing one last forehead kiss while grabbing his stuff and running back to his car, winking before driving off into the night. You shut your window just in time and sprinted to your bed, diving under the covers and pretending to be asleep. As he drives off into the night, he realises that he's in deep.

Dustin hit the brakes too hard and skidded slightly as he rolled into the bike racks, metal clanging loud in the morning air. Mike groaned something about ‘death wish’ behind him, Lucas laughed, and Max shot past them like she was late on purpose.

Normally, Dustin would’ve been talking. Loudly. About literally anything.

Instead, his brain was stuck at 1:37 a.m.

He locked his bike, slower than usual, fingers tightening around the handlebars as his mind replayed it again. The sound. Not footsteps exactly — lighter. Careful. The faint thud near the house. The whispering that stopped too fast when he shifted in bed.

You don’t just accidentally hear whispering at one in the morning.

“Okay,” Dustin said suddenly, spinning around to face them, backpack sliding down one shoulder. “Hypothetically.”

Mike sighed. “Oh no.”

“Hypothetically,” Dustin repeated, ignoring him, “if you hear noises in your house at night that definitely aren’t pipes, and definitely aren’t the TV, and definitely aren’t your sister getting a glass of water—”

Max’s eyebrows shot up. “Your sister had a boy over.”

“What? No,” Dustin snapped instantly. Too fast. “That’s not what I said.”

Lucas tilted his head. “You didn’t have to.”

Dustin crossed his arms, jaw tight, already regretting opening his mouth as they started walking toward the building. “I’m just saying something was weird. That’s all. Weird doesn’t automatically mean boy.”

Max grinned. “It always means boy.”

Dustin hated that she was probably right — and hated even more that one specific name kept trying to surface in his head.

He shoved it down.

Hard.

Eleven, all too curious for her own good had to speak up. "Hasn't your sister been really close to Steve lately?

Dustin's eye twitched, jaw clenched, turning to Eleven a little too fast. "What about him?" He asks, trying to act indifferent but they all spotted it.

"So it does have something to do with Steve?" Max spoke up, being a shit-stirer.

"I mean, he was talking with me about her but i don't quite remember everything. I kind of blacked out because he scared the shit out of me." Dustin begrudgingly admitted.

Lucas had the bright idea to add his 2 cents. "So, you forgot what happened because you got scared? Wuss."

"Hey! I am not a wuss!" He quipped back.

"Are too! He shouted.

They kept bickering back and forth so much they completely missed Steve's car pulling into the parking lot. Max tried to get their attention but there was no use. It wasn't until Mike pushed them and turned them to face Steve got out of his car. He had the smuggest look on his face by the way you were walking towards him. The kids were watching in confusion, which was short lived as it slowly turned into horror as Steve pulled you in by the hips, pushed you against the car and started making out with you.

Dustin didn’t blink. He couldn’t.

His brain refused to process what his eyes were seeing — Steve Harrington’s hands on your hips like they belonged there, the way you didn’t shove him off, the way you leaned in. The car door thunked shut behind Steve as if punctuating the moment, and suddenly there was no room for doubt, no technicality to hide behind. This wasn’t a misunderstanding. This wasn’t a coincidence.

This was real.

Everything from the night before slammed together at once. The footsteps. The whispering. The window. The way you’d acted that morning — too awake, too upbeat, humming under your breath like nothing in the world was wrong. His stomach dropped so hard it felt like he might actually be sick.

“Oh,” Dustin breathed, the word slipping out before he could stop it.

Mike followed his gaze, his expression shifting instantly. Lucas went rigid. Max’s eyes widened in a way that said called it even as her mouth fell open. Eleven tilted her head, studying the scene with quiet intensity, already understanding more than Dustin wanted her to.

Steve pulled back just enough to say something to you — something that made you smile — and that was it. That tiny, casual intimacy snapped whatever thread of restraint Dustin had left.

“Nope,” he said sharply, stepping forward. “Absolutely not.”

The others turned to him as one.

“That is my sister,” Dustin continued, voice rising despite himself, finger jabbing in Steve’s direction. “And that is Steve Harrington.”

No one spoke.

Dustin was already moving, heart hammering, anger buzzing through his veins as one thought drowned out all the rest:

Oh, he is so dead.

Steve doesn’t even remember leaning in.

One second he’s talking, smiling, feeling that stupid warm buzz he gets when you look at him like that, and the next the rest of the school just… drops away. Skateboarders, voices, the bell echoing through the school — gone. It’s just you, close enough that he can smell your shampoo, close enough that his brain stops working like it always does around you.

He’s dimly aware that this is a bad idea. He’s much more aware that he doesn’t care.

Your mouths meet and it’s quick at first, instinctive, like muscle memory he didn’t know he had. His hand comes up without thinking, fingers brushing your jaw, grounding himself there like if he lets go he might actually float off the floor. He forgets about Dustin. About consequences. About literally everything except the fact that you’re kissing him back.

Then—

“STEVE.”

It cuts through everything.

He doesn’t even have time to pull away before something slams into his shoulder. Hard. Steve stumbles back a step, boots scraping against the tile, hands flying up on reflex more than defence.

“What the—?”

Dustin is suddenly there. In front of you. Between you.

Steve blinks, stunned, trying to recalibrate his brain as the parking lot rushes back into existence — the noise, the people, the watching. Dustin shoves him again, smaller but furious, all elbows and betrayal, pushing Steve farther away like he’s physically trying to erase him from the situation.

“Are you kidding me?!” Dustin is yelling, words tumbling over each other too fast to fully catch. “What is wrong with you?!”

Steve opens his mouth to respond and immediately realises that nothing he could possibly say would help. Not an apology. Not an explanation. Not even a joke. Dustin’s eyes are wild, face flushed, hands clenched like he’s barely stopping himself from swinging again.

“Dustin, hey—” Steve starts, holding his palms out, backing off a half-step. “Okay. Okay. Calm down.”

That does not help.

Dustin fires back with more accusations, more volume, more raw, panicked anger. Steve only catches pieces — my sister, my house, my friend — and with every word, the guilt sinks deeper. Not regret. Not really. Just the understanding that this was inevitable.

Steve shifts his stance slightly, angling his body so Dustin’s attention stays on him, not you. He keeps his voice low, even, doing what he always does with the kids when things spiral.

“Hey,” he says again. “I’m not trying to start anything. I promise.”

Dustin looks like he might explode anyway.

And that’s when it hits Steve.

The absurdity of it. The image — Dustin Henderson, thirteen years old, trying to square up to him in the middle of the school hallway like some furious guard dog. The fact that less than twenty-four hours ago he was sneaking out a window like a criminal. The way every single one of his life choices has somehow led here.

The tension snaps.

A laugh bursts out of him before he can stop it — loud, sharp, totally inappropriate.

You lean against the craft services table, stealing a handful of Jared’s trail mix—the one he pretends to guard with his life—while he towers over you, pretending to be annoyed. Season 11 is in full swing, Vancouver is cold and wet as usual, and the two of you have basically turned the Supernatural set into your own personal bubble. The rain patters relentlessly against the soundstage roof, a constant white noise that blends with the hum of generators and the chatter of crew members hustling between takes. You've got your favorite oversized hoodie on, the one that's practically swallowed you whole, and your boots are caked with mud from trudging across the lot earlier. Jared, on the other hand, looks like he stepped out of a catalog—flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, jeans that hug his long legs just right, and that perpetual five-o'clock shadow that makes your heart skip every time he smiles.

“Stop eating my M&Ms,” he grumbles, but there’s zero heat in it. He just bends down (way down, because even in your heeled boots he’s got a solid foot on you) and presses a quick kiss to the top of your head like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand lingers on your shoulder for a second, thumb brushing your collarbone through the fabric, and you feel that familiar warmth spread through you. It's these little moments that make the long hours bearable—the stolen touches amid the chaos of filming.

Because it is natural. You've been together almost three years now, and it feels like you've known each other forever. It started back in season 7, when you first joined the show as Riley Hawthorne, the rogue hunter with a sharp tongue and a backstory tangled in demon deals and lost family. You were supposed to be a one-off guest star, but the chemistry with Jared's Sam Winchester was electric from the first read-through. The writers noticed, the fans noticed, and before you knew it, Riley was recurring—popping in for monster-of-the-week episodes, bantering with the Winchesters, and slowly building that unspoken tension with Sam.

Off-screen, though, things moved faster. You and Jared clicked immediately. Late-night script sessions turned into coffee runs, which turned into hikes in the Vancouver mountains where he'd tease you about your "tiny legs" struggling to keep up with his strides. He was fresh off a tough breakup back then, and you were nursing your own wounds from a string of bad auditions and worse dates. But with him, it was easy. No games, no pretenses. Just two people who got each other on a level that felt rare in this industry.

The fans clocked it somewhere around season 9 when the paparazzi caught the two of you holding hands outside a diner in Austin at 2 a.m. You remember that night vividly—the greasy burgers, the endless refills of coffee, talking about everything from childhood pets to the meaning of life until the sun started creeping up. You'd reached across the table for his hand without thinking, and he'd laced his fingers through yours like they'd always belonged there. The photo hit the internet the next day, and boom—#JaredsGirl started trending. (They never quite settled on a consistent ship name; some went with #PadaleckiPair, others stuck with variations like #SamAndRileyRealLife, but the sentiment was the same.) Conventions exploded with questions, fan art flooded Tumblr, and someone even made a thirty-minute compilation of every time Jared looked at you like you hung the moon during convention panels. It has twelve million views now, and you've watched it more times than you'd admit—mostly because Jared's puppy-dog eyes in those clips still make your stomach flip.

Jensen pretends to gag every time Jared reaches down to lace his fingers through yours between takes, but he’s the one who started calling you “Short Stack” in interviews just to watch Jared’s face go soft. It's become a running joke on set. Misha joins in sometimes, dramatically clutching his chest and declaring, "The height difference! It's too adorable! I can't handle it!" But underneath the teasing, everyone knows how real it is. The cast and crew have seen you two weather everything—grueling 18-hour shoots, convention exhaustion, the occasional tabloid rumor that tries to stir drama but fizzles out because there's nothing to stir. You're best friends first, lovers second, and that foundation makes everything else unbreakable.

Today you’re filming the episode where your character, Riley Hawthorne, finally, officially, joins the Winchesters full-time. The writers have been teasing the slow-burn best-friends-to-lovers arc between you and Sam for years, and the irony is not lost on anyone that real life beat the show to it by a mile. In the script, Riley's been dancing around her feelings for Sam since her introduction—helping on hunts, patching up wounds, sharing quiet moments in the bunker library over lore books. Fans have dissected every glance, every lingering touch in fan theories that span thousands of words on Reddit. But off-camera, you and Jared have been living it. You've got inside jokes about Sam's "emo hair" phase, and Jared's got a playlist of songs that remind him of you, blasting it in his trailer during downtime.

The set for this episode is a dingy warehouse replica, all flickering fluorescent lights and fake blood splatters on the concrete floor. The air smells like fog machine haze and rubber from the stunt mats. You've already done the fight sequence twice—kicking demon ass in your leather jacket and boots, wielding a prop angel blade like it's an extension of your arm. Your muscles ache from the choreography, but the adrenaline buzz keeps you going.

“Places!” Bob Singer calls from his director's chair, his voice cutting through the murmur of the crew.

Jared squeezes your hand once before letting go. You head to your mark, a chalk outline on the floor where Riley's supposed to collapse after the demon ambush. He lopes off to his (those stupid long legs eating up the distance in half the steps it takes you), positioning himself at the warehouse entrance. Jensen's already there, Dean's leather jacket slung over his shoulders, smirking as he adjusts his prop gun.

The scene is simple: Sam and Dean burst in to find Riley bleeding out after a demon fight gone wrong. Dean covers while Sam rushes to her side, scoops her up, and carries her out. In the script, it’s written as a fireman’s carry—practical, no-nonsense. But when the cameras roll and Jared reaches you, he doesn't sling you over his shoulder. Instead, he scoops you up bridal-style, one arm under your knees, the other around your back, pulling you flush against his chest. You fit perfectly there, your head tucking into the crook of his neck, and nobody says a word. Not Bob, not the script supervisor, not even Jensen, who's supposed to quip something snarky in character but just raises an eyebrow instead.

You bury your face in his neck so the camera can’t see you grinning like an idiot. He smells like fake blood, coffee, and the same cedar-and-citrus cologne he’s worn since you met—earthy, warm, grounding. His heart is hammering; you can feel it under your palm where your hand rests on his chest. It's not just from the scene; you know him well enough to recognize the real emotion bleeding through. Sam's desperation mirrors Jared's protectiveness, the way he's always been your shield—whether it's from pushy fans at cons or the exhaustion of back-to-back episodes.

"Riley," he breathes in character, voice rough with worry. "Hold on. I've got you."

The line hits different when it's him saying it to you. You let out a scripted gasp of pain, clutching at his shirt, but your fingers linger a second too long, tracing the familiar lines of his collarbone.

Dean—Jensen—fires off a few shots at imaginary demons, yelling, "Sammy, let's go!" And Jared carries you out, his strides steady despite your weight, his arms never faltering.

“Cut! Reset for coverage,” Bob calls, sounding pleased. The lights brighten, and the crew starts buzzing again—adjusting cameras, wiping down props.

Jared doesn’t put you down right away. He walks you off set still cradled in his arms, ignoring Jensen’s fake retching noises behind you. "Get a room, you two," Jensen calls, but there's laughter in his voice. You flip him off over Jared's shoulder, and he just chuckles, shaking his head.

“You’re gonna throw your back out one of these days,” you tease, poking his chest. It's an old joke, born from the first time he carried you like this—off a muddy trail during a hike when you'd twisted your ankle.

“Never,” he says, low and serious, the same way he always does when you make that joke. “Not as long as it’s you.” His eyes meet yours, that hazel swirl of green and gold that still makes your breath catch. He sets you down gently by the craft services table again, but his hands stay on your waist, thumbs brushing your sides.

You stretch up on your toes to kiss him—quick, because you're still on set, but enough to taste the coffee on his lips. "Sap," you murmur against his mouth.

"Guilty," he replies, grinning that dimpled smile that crinkles his eyes.

The reset takes about twenty minutes—time for makeup to touch up your "blood" stains, for lighting to adjust. You spend it chatting with the stunt coordinator, going over the next beat where Riley wakes up in the Impala, bandaged and bantering with Sam about how she's not some damsel. Jared's across the set, huddled with Jensen, probably plotting some prank. It's tradition; last week, they filled Misha's trailer with balloons. You eye them suspiciously, but Jared catches your gaze and winks, all innocence.

When filming resumes, it's from a different angle—close-ups on your face as Jared carries you. This time, you let the emotion play out more: Riley's vulnerability, the way she clings to Sam not just from pain but from the unspoken fear of losing him. It's easy to draw from real life. You've had those moments with Jared—late nights after tough scenes where he'd hold you through the emotional hangover, whispering that you're okay, that he's there.

By the time Bob calls wrap on the scene, you're both wiped. Your "wound" makeup is sticky, and Jared's shirt is smeared with corn syrup blood. You head to wardrobe together, shedding the character layers. He helps unzip your jacket, fingers grazing your skin, and you swat his hand away with a laugh. "Behave. We're not alone."

"Yet," he says, eyebrow arched.

In the makeup trailer, the artists wipe away the grime while you scroll through your phone. Social media is already buzzing—someone from the crew must have leaked a behind-the-scenes photo. There's a shot of Jared carrying you, captioned "Sam and Riley finally making it official? #SupernaturalSeason11." The comments are a flood: "They're so cute together!" "The height difference kills me every time." "Jared looks at her like she's his whole world."

You show Jared, and he snorts. "They have no idea."

Later, in his trailer between scenes, you’re curled up on the couch with your legs thrown over his lap, script pages scattered everywhere. The trailer's cozy—string lights draped along the walls, a blanket you knitted (badly) during downtime last season thrown over the armrest. Jared's got his feet propped on the coffee table, one hand rubbing absent circles on your ankle, the other scrolling through Twitter on his phone. The rain's picked up outside, drumming a steady rhythm that makes you want to nap.

“Listen to this,” he says, voice warm with amusement. He reads a tweet aloud: “‘I need what Sam Winchester and Riley Hawthorne have in real life. The way he looks at her like she’s the only person in the room. I’m not okay.’”

He glances down at you, hazel eyes soft. “They’re not wrong.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat. “You’re cheesy.”

“Only for you.” He leans down (folding himself practically in half) to kiss you slow and lazy, the kind of kiss that still feels like the first time even after years. His hand slides up your calf, squeezing gently, and you melt into it, the world narrowing to just him—the taste of trail mix on his tongue, the scratch of his beard against your skin. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. “Love you,” he murmurs. “So much it’s stupid.”

You reach up, fingers threading through his hair (still too long, still perfect for tugging when he kisses you breathless). “Love you more, gigantor.”

He laughs, that big, bright sound that makes the whole trailer feel warmer. Outside, someone knocks (probably Jensen with some dumb excuse to interrupt), but neither of you move. "Ignore it," Jared whispers, nuzzling your neck.

The knock comes again, louder. "Padalecki! You in there? We need you for the bunker scene!"

Jared groans, dropping his head to your shoulder. "Duty calls."

You push him up with a grin. "Go be Sam Winchester. I'll be here."

He steals one more kiss before heading out, leaving you with the script and a fluttering heart.

The afternoon drags into evening—more scenes in the bunker set, where Riley officially moves in. The dialogue is sharp, full of that trademark Supernatural wit: Riley teasing Sam about his healthy eating habits while Dean stuffs his face with pie. Off-camera, it's much the same. Between takes, Jensen sneaks you a slice of actual pie from craft services, winking. "Don't tell Health Nut over there."

Jared catches you mid-bite and feigns betrayal. "Traitor!"

You lick frosting off your finger. "What? It's research."

By wrap time, it's past midnight. The set's emptying out, crew packing up lights and cables. You and Jared walk to his car together, his arm slung over your shoulders, yours around his waist. The height difference means you fit perfectly under his arm, like a puzzle piece. Vancouver's streets are slick with rain, streetlights reflecting in puddles as you drive back to the apartment you share during filming season.

It's a cozy two-bedroom in a quiet neighborhood—bookshelves crammed with scripts and novels, a kitchen where Jared experiments with smoothies (and you counter with takeout). Tonight, you order pizza, too tired to cook. You eat it cross-legged on the living room floor, backs against the couch, watching reruns of some old sitcom.

Jared's head lolls onto your shoulder. "Today was good."

"Yeah," you agree, running fingers through his hair. "Riley's finally home."

He looks up, eyes serious. "You're my home."

Cheesy, but true. You kiss him, tasting pepperoni and contentment.

The next day brings a convention—Vancouver Con, a smaller one but packed with die-hard fans. You, Jared, and Jensen are panel mainstays. The green room's chaotic: Misha practicing card tricks, Rob Benedict strumming a guitar. Jared's got you perched on his knee while he signs autographs for the staff.

On stage, the energy's electric. Fans scream as you walk out, signs waving: "Marry Me Jared!" (he points at you with a grin), "Riley + Sam Forever!" The moderator dives right in: "So, season 11—Riley's joining the team. How's that feel?"

You lean into the mic. "Amazing. Riley's been through hell—literally—and finding a place with the Winchesters... it's like coming home."

Jared nods, arm draped casually over the back of your chair. "Sam's thrilled. He's got his best friend by his side." His fingers brush your shoulder, subtle but there.

A fan asks about the height difference: "How do you film kisses? Does Jared have to kneel?"

You laugh. "Lifts in my boots. Or he picks me up. It's a workout."

Jared flexes dramatically. "Worth it."

The panel ends with photo ops—fans hugging you, gushing about how "real" you and Jared are. One girl hands you a drawing of Sam carrying Riley, bridal-style. "This scene killed me!"

You show Jared later, and he frames it in the trailer.

Weeks blend: filming hunts, motel scenes where Riley and Sam share a bed "platonically" (fans riot online). Off-set, you hike, cook, binge-watch. Jared's your rock—holding you after emotional scenes, celebrating milestones.

One night, after a rough day (Riley's backstory flashback, tears for hours), he draws a bath, lights candles. You sink in together, your back to his chest, his legs bracketing yours.

"Better?" he asks, massaging your shoulders.

"Always with you."

He kisses your temple. "Ride or die."