The bar was dimly lit, packed with enough people to make it feel suffocating. Sam stood off to the side, nursing a beer he wasn’t drinking, his eyes locked on you like a hawk. Dean was leaned against the bar, grinning like a proud coach watching their star player, while Castiel stared at the scene with his usual head-tilted curiosity.

You were in the middle of the room, laughing at something the supposed werewolf suspect said, your hand grazing his arm. The guy leaned in closer, clearly hooked by your charm.

Sam’s jaw tightened. He set his bottle down a little harder than necessary and muttered to Dean, “This is a bad idea.”

Dean just smirked, not taking his eyes off the suspect. “Relax, Sammy. They’ve got this under control. Besides, they’re good at this kind of thing.”

Sam’s gaze darted back to you, his shoulders stiffening as the suspect leaned in even closer. “Too good,” he muttered under his breath.

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means this guy is dangerous,” Sam hissed. “What if they get too close, and he—”

Dean clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder, cutting him off. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”

Sam turned to glare at his brother. “What are you talking about?”

Dean chuckled. “Come on, man. It’s written all over your face. Jealousy isn’t a good look on you.”

Before Sam could respond, Castiel chimed in, his head tilting further. “I don’t understand. If Sam is concerned for their safety, shouldn’t we intervene?”

Dean waved him off. “Nah, this is more of a ‘Sam needs to admit his feelings’ situation.”

“Dean,” Sam growled, but his attention snapped back to you as the suspect reached out to touch your hand.

When you glanced back at the group, your eyes met Sam’s, and for a second, the noise of the bar seemed to fade. His worry was written all over his face, clear as day. He didn’t have to say anything for you to know exactly what he was thinking.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile before turning your attention back to the suspect, but Sam wasn’t convinced.