The humid Texas night buzzed with crickets and neon signs. You stepped out of the bar beside Dean Winchester, the warmth of whiskey and laughter still lingering between you.

Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans, glancing your way with that crooked smirk you remembered from your teenage years—only now, it hit harder. He looked older. Rougher. Better. “So,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “when exactly did you grow up and become the kind of woman who turns heads without trying?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Around the same time you became charming instead of just cocky.”

He chuckled, bumping your shoulder lightly as you both headed toward the parking lot. The bar behind you buzzed with music, but the world felt quieter now. Still. Easy.

Until you froze.

Dean stopped beside you, his posture stiffening instantly when he followed your gaze.

There they were.

Your father stood next to John Winchester, arms crossed, jaw tight. Both men looked like they’d swallowed nails. It wasn’t just disapproval written on their faces—it was fury. Your dad’s glare landed on you like a weight; John’s eyes pinned Dean like a warning shot.

“I told him I was going to the library,” you muttered.

“I said county records,” Dean said grimly. “Guess we’re both full of crap.”

Your fathers once hunted together—until betrayal, pride, or maybe just too much blood on both sides tore them apart. And now? They’d rather see monsters win than work as a team again.

They hadn’t spoken in over a decade, not since a hunt went sideways and left too much blood on the ground and too many words unspoken. But they were united now, in one thing only:

Stopping whatever this was between you and Dean.

John stepped forward. “Dean. In the car. Now.”

Your father didn’t say anything. He just looked at you like you’d broken some unspoken code.