Running with the Winchesters was like signing up for danger, but with bonus car rides and a steady diet of diner coffee. Between Sam’s research marathons and Dean’s reckless bravado, you’d learned to keep your head down and your knife sharp. You were the buffer between them half the time—Dean’s partner in sarcasm, Sam’s voice of reason when he got too logical for his own good. Somewhere along the way, they stopped feeling like just hunters you’d teamed up with and started feeling like family.

This hunt was supposed to be simple. Strange disappearances, local legend, a boarded-up house on the edge of town. You and Sam flanked the front door while Dean slipped inside first, insisting he could “handle it.” Minutes stretched too long, and then—boom. A muffled blast shook the windows. By the time you and Sam barreled through, the air inside was hazy, cloying with a sweet, unnatural scent.

Dean stumbled out of the smoke, blinking hard, coughing into his sleeve. His eyes darted to Sam, then caught yours—and froze. His shoulders went still. His breathing evened out. And then that grin you knew all too well spread across his face, slow and certain, like he’d just found the only thing worth looking at in the whole damn world.

Sam glanced between you both, frowning. “Uh… what just happened?”

Meanwhile, Dean just locked eyes with you. Should you be worried...?