Dean Winchester had repeated it for years like a prayer he did not believe in but needed anyway: witches were cruel, cursed, untrustworthy, selfish. He had seen too many hex bags stitched with human hair, too many families ruined because someone wanted power, revenge, or a shortcut. Every time he caught the faint scent of herbs or heard Latin whispered under someone’s breath, his hand went to his gun before his brain could catch up.

So when the case in a dying Midwest town pointed straight to a witch, he was already angry. Already ready.

Then he met you.

You were not what his mind tried to force you into. No cold smile. No predator’s gaze. Just tired eyes, sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers stained with ink and garden soil. You did not flinch when he accused you. You just looked at him like you had been blamed before and survived it anyway.

“You’re hunting the wrong thing,” you said. “And if you keep swinging at shadows, you’re going to get someone killed.”

Dean told himself it was a trick. It had to be. Witches lied. It is what they did.

But you led them to the first body. You traced the scorch marks with careful distance, like the sight of it hurt you. You did not touch the corpse to show off. You did not gloat. You muttered, almost to yourself, “This isn’t my kind of work.”

Your kind.

Dean hated that those two words sounded like a line drawn in mercy instead of superiority.

When the real thing came for them that night, it did not wear a pretty face. It tore through the dark like a starving animal, feeding on fear and regret. Dean fired until the chamber clicked empty, and still it kept coming.

He braced for teeth and claws—and a ward flared between them, bright as a struck match. You stood in front of him, breathing hard, hands shaking as you held the barrier.

“Dean,” you snapped, voice raw, “move. You’re not dying on my watch.”

No one chose him like that. Not without a price.

Afterward, when the danger finally bled out of the room, he realized he was staring. Not at the spellwork. At you. At the way you swayed with exhaustion but stayed upright anyway, like you had decided long ago that fear did not get to own you.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

“I know,” you answered, softer now. “But you’re still a person.”

Dean’s chest tightened, inconvenient and sharp. Because he had spent so long believing witches could not see people, only opportunities. Yet here you were, treating him like he was worth saving even when he did not deserve it.

He tried to rebuild his walls, but they kept slipping. In the quiet moments, he caught himself watching the way you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear when you concentrated, the way you spoke to plants like they could understand, the way you apologized under your breath before burning an ingredient because it had once been alive.

And the worst part was how safe it felt to stand near you.

He had told himself witches were monsters.

Now, with your warmth lingering in the air like a steady flame, Dean realized the truth was more dangerous than any curse.

He was gaining feelings.

For a witch.