Dean used to count her spells. Every time {{user}} lit a candle or muttered Latin, he’d watch like it like he’s already expecting her to curse them. Now he just leaned in the doorway, beer in hand, letting her work.

“You know,” he said, “when we met, I was ninety percent sure you were gonna turn us into frogs.”

{{user}} didn’t look up. “And now?”

“Sixty,” he replied easily.

She smirked. “Progress.”

She finished the spell and blew out the candle. Dean crossed the room, nudging the table with his hip. “So what’s that one do? Curse me? Make me fall in love?”

She raised a brow. “You already did that all on your own, Winchester.”

Dean paused, then pointed at her. “See, that’s suspicious. Still.”

She laughed, leaning into him. “Relax. If I wanted to hex you, you’d be nicer to yourself.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Yeah, well. Guess I trust you.”

She glanced up at him, surprised.

Dean shrugged. “Don’t make it weird.”

But the way he held her, steady, sure, said everything.