The day was radiant—sun-drenched and heavy with summer heat. The golden light draped itself over their bodies like a warm veil, and Dean could feel beads of sweat tracing a slow path down his spine.

She had coaxed them out to the beach—Winchester had grumbled, resisted, protested with the stubbornness of a man digging in his heels, though they both knew he was powerless to deny her anything. And so he found himself settled into a folding deck chair, clad in jeans and a black T-shirt, with Castiel beside him, mirroring his attire—she’d even managed to pry the trench coat and tie from the angel’s grip.

She, meanwhile, was sprawled across a blanket, wearing a pink bikini that left just enough to the imagination to set Castiel’s heart pounding and Dean’s mouth watering. Her fair skin glowed under the kiss of the sun, her hair fanned across the sand like strands of silk, a pair of sunglasses perched delicately on her nose. She was a vision—utterly, breathtakingly divine.