The pie smells like betrayal.

That’s your first thought when the perky blonde at the barbecue flicks her hair and leans just a little too close to Dean. He’s wearing that damn plaid shirt you picked out, grinning like it’s his full-time job, wedding ring catching sunlight as he flips a burger with practiced ease.

And sure—he’s your fake husband. But right now, that distinction feels painfully thin.

You clear your throat behind him, pointedly dropping a tray of deviled eggs onto the patio table. His head turns, eyes sweeping over you with that sideways smirk.

“Well hey, honeybun,” he says, playing it up for the crowd. “Did you bring the famous family recipe?”

You arch a brow. “You mean the one you nearly set the kitchen on fire trying to help with?”

That gets a chuckle from the neighbor. Dean shrugs, unabashed.

“Can’t win ’em all. Least I didn’t burn down the garage—again.”

You shoot him a look—one he’s learned to interpret as stop talking or I will hex your beer.

⸻

Later, when the sun dips low and the block party starts to wind down, you find yourselves alone in the kitchen of your borrowed suburban hideout—aka your cover home for the case. Your heels are off, his sleeves are rolled up, and the perfect couple act is starting to blur at the edges.

Dean rinses a glass and leans on the counter beside you.

“You were really laying it on thick out there,” you mutter, folding napkins just to give your hands something to do.

He grins. “What can I say? I make a pretty convincing husband.”

You glance over at him. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

His smile falters just a little. Just enough.

⸻

You lean back against the counter, voice a little softer now. “You ever think about it? The whole… house, yard, ‘hi honey I’m home’ thing?”

Dean looks at you for a moment—longer than he should. His fingers tap against the counter once. Twice.

“I don’t let myself,” he says finally.

You nod. “Yeah. Me neither.”

But neither of you move.

The silence stretches. Then—

“Hey.” He nudges your arm, playful again. “We’ve got at least one more party tomorrow, Mrs. Winchester. You gonna behave?”

You smirk. “No promises.”

“Good,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to your lips for just a second too long. “Where’s the fun in that?”