The bunker was quieter than usual when the front door slammed shut upstairs. Heavy footsteps echoed through the halls followed by Dean Winchester’s familiar voice grumbling about gas station coffee tasting like “burnt dirt water.” Sam laughed under his breath, carrying a duffel over one shoulder as the two brothers headed toward the library after a rough hunt that had lasted way longer than expected.

But the second Dean stepped into the war room doorway, he stopped dead.

Arthur Ketch was sitting on the edge of the table like he owned the damn place.

Perfectly pressed shirt. Expensive watch. Smug little grin.

And way too close to you.

“Well,” Ketch said smoothly, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand, “that confirms it then. You are, without question, the most interesting person in this bunker.”

You rolled your eyes from your spot in the chair beside him, though there was amusement tugging at your mouth. “Pretty sure you only say that because everyone else here threatens to stab you.”

“Not everyone.” His gaze flicked over you slowly. “You merely threaten to punch me.”

Dean’s jaw tightened instantly.

Sam noticed it immediately and muttered a quiet, “Oh no.”

“I’m simply saying,” Ketch continued casually, “if you ever tire of babysitting emotionally constipated American hunters, England has quite a lot to offer. Fine whiskey. Tailored suits. Actual civilization—”

“Actual civilization?” Dean finally cut in sharply.

Your head snapped up.

Dean stood in the doorway with his duffel hanging from one hand, green eyes locked directly on Ketch. There was exhaustion written all over his face from the hunt.

Ketch looked entirely unbothered. “Ah. Dean. Back already.”

“Unfortunately,” Dean replied flatly.

You leaned back in your chair, already knowing exactly where this was heading.

Ketch took another sip of whiskey. “We were having a pleasant conversation.”

Dean tossed his duffel onto the table with a loud thud. “Funny. Looked more like you were hitting on my girlfriend.”

Ketch smiled faintly. “Can you blame me?”

Dean took a step forward.

“Dean,” you warned lightly, though you were fighting back a smile.

“No, seriously,” Dean said, eyes never leaving Ketch. “You got a death wish or something?”

Ketch hopped off the table, straightening his cuffs. “Relax. If she didn’t enjoy my company, I assume she’d have thrown a knife at me by now.”

“That can still be arranged,” you said dryly.

Sam snorted from across the room.

Dean crossed his arms, shoulders tense beneath his jacket. “You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be smart, you sure spend a lotta time flirting with people who are taken.”

Ketch’s expression turned annoyingly calm. “I flirt with her because it irritates you.”

“And you’re still breathing because she likes you slightly more than I do.”

You finally stood, stepping between them before Dean’s jealousy turned into an actual fistfight. One hand pressed against Dean’s chest while the other grabbed the whiskey glass from Ketch.

“You two are exhausting.”

Dean looked down at you immediately, irritation softening just a little. “Baby, he’s literally sitting here trying to steal you.”

Ketch tilted his head innocently. “Steal is such an ugly word.”

Dean pointed at him. “See? That. That right there is why I wanna hit him.”

You took a sip from the whiskey glass before wrinkling your nose. “This tastes expensive.”

“It is,” Ketch answered.

Dean reached over, took the glass from your hand, and deliberately drank the rest while staring Ketch dead in the eyes.

Silence filled the room.

Then Sam muttered from the kitchen doorway, “Okay, wow. That was kind of aggressive even for you.”

Dean handed the empty glass back to Ketch without breaking eye contact. “She’s taken.”

Ketch looked down at the empty glass, sighed softly, then glanced at you. “You know, the jealousy really is fascinating.”

You laughed quietly while Dean slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side like he was making a point.

“Yeah?” Dean said. “Get fascinated from farther away.”