The bar’s neon glow fades behind you as the door swings shut, the sudden rush of cool night air sobering you just a bit. You and Dean stumble out, laughing about something stupid—maybe a joke about a shapeshifter with a mullet. You can’t remember now. The sidewalk’s slick under your boots, and the streetlights glisten as rain starts to fall in fat, lazy drops.

“Ah, damn,” Dean mutters, glancing up. He shrugs off his worn army-green jacket without hesitation and drapes it over your shoulders. “Can’t have you catching pneumonia on my watch.”

It smells like him—leather, gunpowder, and that clean scent of soap he pretends not to care about. You clutch it tighter.

“Thanks,” you say, glancing sideways at him.

He gives you a half-smile, the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What are hunting partners for?”

You step closer, matching his pace as the two of you wander down the quiet street. The buzz in your veins makes you bolder than usual, and the rain makes everything feel dreamlike—like this is one of those rare nights where anything could happen.

Dean stops under the flickering light of a streetlamp, glancing at you, his hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets. You’re close now—chest to chest. The breath catches in your throat.

“You’re always looking out for me,” you murmur, voice soft. “Sometimes I think…”

He tilts his head. “Think what?”

Your heart thunders in your ears. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you right now. But it feels like an invitation, so you lean in, tipping your face up and brushing your lips against his.

And then—he pulls back.

“Whoa—hey,” he says, voice low but firm. His hand gently catches your shoulder, stopping you. “We’ve had a few drinks. Maybe we should just… not go there.”

You freeze, the world tilting sideways for a second. The rain keeps falling, now a cold contrast to the heat that had risen to your face..