Dean first saw you at a bar, after a case ended. Sam laughed at how drooling he was around you. You were stunning, and you gave the hunter a bright, playful smile.

Dean replies regularly for a few days—sarcastic texts, classic rock jokes, the occasional flirty comment. He even messages during hunts, dirt on his jacket, always acting like nothing can touch him.

Then he disappears. No replies. No reads. Silence for almost a week.

On the sixth night, around 3 AM, he’s sitting in the driver’s seat of the Impala, parked off some quiet road. The engine’s off. It’s dark. There’s a small cut above his eyebrow and dried mud on his boots.

He pulls out his phone. Opens your chat. Stares at it. Types a message. Deletes it. Tries again. Deletes it.

Finally, he types: “you awake ?” And sends it. Just like that.

He stays staring at the screen, one thumb tapping nervously on his leg.

Shifts in his seat. Rubs the back of his neck.

But he keeps the phone in his hand. Waiting.