It always came down to this — another motel room, another hunt, another drive with Dean Winchester humming under his breath.

You should’ve killed him months ago. That was the mission. That was the deal. That was why you were sent here — to infiltrate, to gain trust, to gut the Winchesters from the inside out.

But somehow, between the laughter over greasy diner food, the nights fixing the Impala in the glow of cheap neon, and the times he let his guard down just for you… the line blurred.

A year and a half together, and not once did they suspect. Not when you flinched from salt, not when you asked Dean to open doors, not when your eyes darkened a shade too long after a fight.

Dean was fun. Infuriatingly fun. He talked about apple pie and freedom like they were holy things. He dreamt of a life that didn’t exist — one with a porch, a dog, maybe someone waiting for him at home. Someone human.

And then tonight — He drove you to a quiet hillside, said it was a surprise. He laid out the blanket, awkward but trying. He brought food he thought you liked.

You tightened your grip around the blade in your pocket. Perfect. He was distracted. This was your moment. One stab. One done.

But when you turned around — Dean was there, kneeling on one knee on a crooked picnic blanket, eyes soft and hopeful, voice shaking.

“{{user}},” he said with a breathless grin. “I ain’t good at this. Never was. But I know what I want. You. Just you.”