"Uh…your hand is…still on my knee."

Dean murmurs weakly, sitting on the couch in the retirement home next to Mildred, an elderly woman whom the three of you had pegged for the next victim of the banshee.

"I could move it up."

She responds easily, rubbing his thigh. Dean swallows, desperately looking to you, horrified to find that you were busy and not looking at him as you and Sam set up the Banshee trap.

"Pining are we?"

Mildred sighs, patting his thigh before pulling her hand away.

"She's very pretty. Not as pretty as I once was, but I'm sure she'll do."

Dean huffs out a fake laugh, annoyed that this old bat had anything to say about your physical appearance. You weren't pretty. You were stunning, you were everything, you were a goddess that Dean didn't feel worthy to look at.

"She's just my friend."

He finally responds.

"Mhm. Friends don't look at friends that way, handsome. You look at her when she's not looking; she checks you out when you're not looking. That's not super friendly to me."

Mildred says breezily, her hand reaching out to hold Dean's knee again. He doesn't even mind this time, his green eyes wide with curiosity.

"She checked me out?"

Mildred giggles, nodding.

"Mhm. That or there was a bug on your face."