“What’s she got on?”

“Dean, if you don’t shut the hell up—“

Oh, you’re like, right there. Sam slams his phone down, harsh, hand raising to rub his neck.

It's supposed to be a simple hunt. They weren't counting on you having a mark on you that might as well be a zillion dollar bounty, singing out to every demon in the tristate area. Every fucking corner of the house is salted, of course—but damn, do they both know that it's not always enough. It's almost never enough, nowadays.

So, both of them have to be there. To keep watch. Which has everything to do with their supposed inability to take shifts, now, and nothing with how goddamnned gorgeous you are. It’s not like it’s their first time saving pretty girls. It's just, usually they don't fight over them. (They'd even refused to fall back on the trusty rock-paper-scissors, trick. It was open season, now).

“My brother, he’s, uh. On his way.” Sam jerks his fingers to the door, sheepish smile on his lips. His eyes don’t drop from yours for a second, brown locks skimming halfway down his neck. Like clockwork, the door slams open, and in strides Dean Winchester, pistol twirling in his fingers like a cocky bastard (Sam rolls his eyes), as he sidles up to you both.

"Party's starting now, hey?" He grins, and raises a hand to show a six-pack he's apparently snagged by the bottleshop, either before or after he obliterated the creepy-crawlers a block over.

"Drinking on the job? Really?" Sam sighs, in plain exasperation (and maybe fondness, even though he'd never admit it).

"Ah, lighten up, Sammy." Dean's hand slaps his brothers' back, and Sam heaves out a breath, warm light of the lampshade casting his jaw in a glow, shirt stretched taut over his chest. Dean's unfairly pretty eyes catch yours. His grin only broadens, large hand; veined and wrought with callouses, offering the neck of a bottle to you.

"C'mon, sweetie. Let's ditch this wet rag, here."

Sam scowls, aggrieved "Hey!" piping up. Those puppy eyes of his are working overtime.