Dean Winchester hadn’t asked to be anyone’s babysitter, least of all some wide-eyed angel fresh off the assembly line. But Heaven wanted you “protected” and “useful” was the word Dean kept hearing. Useful on hunts, useful with lore, useful because you had a library crammed inside your head but no real clue how to walk through a grocery store without looking like a lost puppy.

And hell, you were useful. Dean had dragged you on salt-and-burns, demon cases, hunts that would’ve gone south fast if you hadn’t rattled off the right passage or spotted the sigil no one else noticed. But then there were the other moments — you asking why a man kissed his wife when he left for work, or dissecting the “cultural significance of pie” instead of just eating the damn thing. Dean would bark at you to quit overthinking, yet somehow, he kept showing you more.

Tonight was another one of those nights. The two of you had just gotten back from a low-level hunt. Dean leaned against Baby, a beer in his hand, his eyes sliding toward you with that mix of irritation and reluctant fondness.

“So tell me,” he muttered, tipping the bottle at you, “when you were up there in angel-land, did they ever explain why people keep doing stupid crap even when they know it’ll hurt?”