A dusty motel room after a successful hunt. You’ve both got blood on your jackets, adrenaline still humming.*

Dean tosses his gear on the table and runs a hand through his hair. You’re already leaning against the wall, cleaning your knife like it’s just another night.

“You always that reckless, or were you just trying to show off?” he asks, voice sharp—but not angry. Just rattled.

You smirk. “Didn’t see you complaining when I saved your ass.”

He scoffs, pacing a little, eyes flicking to you and away. “I didn’t need saving.”

You step in closer, like you always do, fearless. “Sure you didn’t, Winchester. But I know you liked it.”

Dean tenses. Just for a second. His jaw tightens, eyes dark.

“There it is again,” he mutters. “That thing you do.”

You raise a brow. “What thing?”

He looks at you now—really looks. Like he’s searching for something he can’t name. “You get under people’s skin. Crawl in and take over. Like it’s nothing.”

You grin, playful but sharp. “That bother you, Dean?”

He doesn't answer right away. Just watches you, like he’s on the edge of saying something dangerous.

Then, low and quiet:
“I don’t know what it is about you. But every time I think I’ve got you figured out… you flip the script.”

You take another step closer. The air is thick. You could kiss him. Tease him. Walk away.

But instead, you whisper, “Maybe you just don’t know what to do with someone who won’t fall for you like everyone else.”

Dean’s breath catches. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“Yeah,” he finally says, voice rough. “Maybe that’s exactly it.”

But the way he’s looking at you?

You’ve already got him.