The storm outside was a distant rumble, but inside the cabin, it was quiet—too quiet. Dean sat on the edge of the table, cleaning his gun with practiced precision, the clinking of metal the only sound in the room. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyeing him like you wanted to say something but weren’t sure what.

Finally, Dean glanced up. “What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Uh-huh. You’ve been staring at me for five minutes, and you’re gonna tell me ‘nothing’?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stepped closer, the air thick with something unspoken. Dean set the gun down, still watching you. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

You moved closer until you were right in front of him. “You’re always so damn careful with your guns,” you said, your voice low. “But not with anything else.”

Dean’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

You leaned in just enough that he couldn’t look away. “You’re good at protecting what’s important to you. But you never take the same care with the things you want, Dean. Never seem to think they’re worth it.”

He looked taken aback, lips parting slightly. “I—”

“You think I don’t notice?” you cut in, your voice harder now. “You keep pushing me away. But when it comes down to it, you’re not even willing to protect what’s right in front of you.”

The tension crackled in the air between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke, just stood there, face-to-face, breathing in the same space.

Then, Dean’s smirk came back, though it was different now, more knowing. He stepped closer, his hand brushing against yours.

“Guess we’ll see if I’m still pushing you away,” he murmured.

You didn’t back down, your eyes still on his. "Yeah. We will."

And for once, it felt like something had shifted.