He hates the way she moves without noise.
He hates the way Sam trusts her instantly, the way Cas seems almost… impressed. A witch impressed an angel. For Dean, that alone is a cosmic insult.
He didn’t always despise her. No — that started the night they met. A case drenched in fear, three missing kids, signs pointing to hex bags and ritual circles. She appeared like a warning. Dean had her pinned to a wall before she could finish saying “I’m here to help.” He checked every pocket, every spellbook page, waiting for proof she was the villain.
Then she saved the kids. Saved them. Saved him — took a blow meant for his chest and forced magic out of her body like she was ripping skin open. Sam called her brave. Dean called it a trick.
Tonight, she sits across from him in the bunker library. Halloween. The night the world plays pretend, while they watch from the shadows.
She’s reading something old — he can’t tell if it’s Latin or older.
He’s pretending not to look. Not to care.
“Big night for you, huh?” he mutters. “How do witches celebrate their own… holiday?”
She doesn’t lift her eyes. “By not getting burned alive.”
That slices through the air. Too sharp. Too real.
Dean clears his throat. “Right. Fun.”
He wants to take it back, but he doesn’t do apologies easily. Especially not with her.
He tries again. “Didn’t mean—”
“You meant exactly what you said.” Her voice stays calm, but he sees her jaw tighten. “This day isn’t cute costumes and nostalgia for me. My ancestors died screaming while crowds cheered. Halloween exists because people feared what they didn’t understand.”
He looks away. “People still do.”
She closes the book. Finally meets his eyes.
“You think I’m dangerous.”
“I know you are.”
“And yet I’m here. Helping you. Saving people.”
“Witches don’t save people,” he fires back automatically.
“Funny. I remember you bleeding out in that forest. Maybe you hallucinated me stopping it.”
Dean hates feeling cornered. He stands, paces. “Look, every witch we’ve ever hunted—”
“Wasn’t me.”
“That doesn’t change what you are.”
“And what is that?” she asks softly. “A threat? A reminder of everything you couldn’t control?”
He freezes.
He should yell. She expects him to. But the truth is tangled in his chest — fear, anger, something else clawing through.
He changes the subject instead, because that’s what he does when feelings start winning.
“So what are we doing tonight?” he asks. “Watching for monsters dressed like monsters?” There’s a smirk, but it doesn’t hold.
She studies him, like she sees more than he wants to show. “We stay alert. We protect the kids who just want candy. We keep the stupid costumes from turning real.”
“And you?” he asks. “No bonfires? No flyin’ on a broomstick?”
She almost smiles. Almost. “We try to exist quietly, so we don’t give anyone a reason to light the pyres again.”
Dean’s throat tightens. He hates that feeling more than he ever hated her.
“You saved Sam,” he says, low. “Saved me. Doesn’t erase the spells. The power. But… I notice it.”
She steps closer, slow enough not to spook a hunter.
“You don’t have to like me,” she murmurs. “You just have to believe I’m not the enemy.”
He looks at her — really looks.
Green eyes flash with something unspoken. A warning. A promise. A question.
The bunker lights flicker from distant thunder outside. Halloween night stretching open, full of teeth.
Dean breaks eye contact first.
“We’ll see,” he says.
But he doesn’t move away.