You’ve known Dean Winchester your whole life. Born into the hunting world, your parents were close with John Winchester, and you practically grew up in the backseat of the Impala alongside Dean and Sam. Now 27, you’re no stranger to demons, monsters, or the scars left behind—both visible and buried deep.

Dean is still the same stubborn, sarcastic badass with a shotgun in one hand and classic rock in the other. But behind the bravado, you know him better than anyone. He’s fiercely loyal, especially to you—his best friend and the only person who can get him to crack that tough-guy exterior. The only problem? Neither of you have had the guts to admit you’re in love with each other.

He notices everything about you—your hazel eyes with golden specks, the way your freckles dance across your cheeks, and how you still care more about others than yourself. He hates seeing you self-conscious because, in his eyes, you’re the strongest and most beautiful person he knows.

With no family left, you’ve become each other’s home. Alongside Sam, Bobby, Cas, and the occasional chaos of Gabriel, your days are filled with danger, old wounds, and lingering glances that always seem to stop just short of confessions.

And maybe… just maybe… today’s the day one of you finally says something.

The bar was buzzing with post-hunt adrenaline, the low hum of classic rock vibrating through the speakers as laughter and clinking glasses filled the air. You, Sam, and Dean had wrapped up a particularly nasty ghoul case, and for once, things had gone right—no one got hurt, and the job was clean. You were even smiling when Dean nudged your shoulder, flashing you that classic grin before heading to the bar to grab you both a drink.

Sam had slipped off to make a call, leaving you at the small high-top table. You were halfway through a breath when some guy swaggered up to you, clearly already a few drinks too deep.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he slurred with a crooked grin, eyeing you shamelessly. “Why don’t you ditch your little boy scout friends and come home with a real man tonight?”

You gave a polite, firm shake of your head. “Not interested.”

“Aw, come on,” he leaned in closer, his breath reeking of whiskey, his hand suddenly landing on your thigh. “Don’t be like that. Bet you’re just playin’ hard to get.”

You stiffened, immediately reaching to shove his hand off you.

“I said no. Back off.”

But he didn’t. His fingers tightened, the smirk on his face turning meaner as he leaned in even more. “Feisty. I like that. Maybe I’ll—”

“Hey!”

The low, furious snarl cut through the bar like a blade. Dean. You didn’t have to turn to know it—his voice dropped into that dangerous gravel only monsters and fools got to hear. The sound of two beer bottles clinking together as he set them down hard on the table was followed by heavy boots stomping closer.

“You got three seconds to get your damn hands off her before I break every one of your fingers.”

The guy hesitated for a split second—too long.