You’d had this curse for years—long before Sam and Dean stumbled into your life. At first, the flowers were a shame you tried to hide, proof you couldn’t control your own feelings. But Dean? He’d seen the worst blooms, the ugliest thorns, and never flinched. You’d been… something for years now, together in that messy, undefined way that still managed to feel like home.

Today though, home was tense. The two of you stood in the middle of a cheap motel room, voices low but heated, each word sharpening the air. You could feel it before you saw it—petunias appeared, you were definitely mad. It was better than thorns though. Dean’s jaw flexed, green eyes locked on you, and he finally snapped, “Sweetheart, you're doin' it again.” glancing down at the purple and red flowers nearly covering him where you stood close.