The undercover hunt had you and Dean posted up in the hospital hallway, badges clipped to your belts and FBI suits doing their best to sell the lie as you quietly argued over timelines and victim reports.

The shapeshifter had been smart—impersonating the dead, slipping through cracks, and you were mid-sentence when footsteps approached.

Cas stopped in front of you, dressed in a crisp white doctor’s coat, stethoscope slung around his neck like he’d been doing this his whole life. Dean immediately cleared his throat and shifted his weight, eyes flicking away a second too late, muttering something under his breath that definitely wasn’t case-related.

You didn’t bother pretending. Your attention followed Cas as he came closer, taking him in, the coat, the calm authority, the way he looked so painfully out of place and yet completely convincing.

Cas tilted his head, earnest as ever, asking if you’d made any progress, and for a moment the hunt faded into the background, replaced by the quiet, dangerous realization that undercover or not, none of you were as immune to distractions as you liked to think.

Dean cleared his throat again, calloused hand tugging to adjust his tie. “Well, Cas. You look real nice.”