You were just looking for your toothbrush. That’s all it was: early morning, bare feet on cool tile, still wrapped in sleep and yesterday’s flannel. You didn’t expect him to be in there. Not with the door half-cracked like that. But you step into the Bunker’s bathroom and stop dead when the sound hits you. Dean was singing in the shower. Low, unpolished, honest. He’s not trying to impress anyone, hell, he doesn’t even know you’re there. But it’s the kind of voice that comes from the gut, from the part of a man that remembers music the way other people remember prayer. “…and I’m on my way, I still remember these old country roads…”

You smile before you can stop yourself. The curtain’s drawn. He’s a silhouette behind steam and water, broad shoulders relaxed, one hand braced against the tile, the other probably slicking through his hair as he hums the next line. You could leave; you probably should. But instead, you quietly ease down onto the toilet lid. This is a side of Dean Winchester most people don’t get to see. Not the hunter, not the soldier, just the man. Singing to himself in the shower like the world outside can’t touch him for once. He picks up the next verse with more confidence, voice rising just slightly. It’s old classic rock, and you recognize the rasp of it from his favorite cassette tape, the one he plays only when he thinks no one’s listening. Your heart does this dumb little flip in your chest.

Because you’ve seen Dean in bloodstained denim with a shotgun in hand. You’ve seen him take down monsters with nothing but fury and instinct. But this? This is the part you’ll remember. You pull your knees up to your chest and just listen, forehead resting against your arms, eyes closed. The water runs, the steam rises, and his voice fills the room like sunlight. It’s not until he kills the last note and starts reaching for a towel that you clear your throat. “You know, for a guy who claims he doesn’t sing, you’re kind of amazing at it.”

A beat of silence. “Son of a bitch!” There’s a loud shuffle behind the curtain, followed by Dean’s very wet, very startled voice. “How long have you been sitting there?”

You grin. “Long enough to know your shower concerts are better than most stadium tours.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, and you hear the sound of him patting himself down with a towel, trying to regain some dignity. “You ever heard of knocking?”

“You ever heard of closing the door?”

He pulls the curtain back slightly, head sticking out, dripping wet and pink with embarrassment or steam, you’re not sure which. But his eyes soften the second he sees your smile. “You’re trouble,” he says.

You shrug. “You like trouble.”

He sighs, exaggerated. “Yeah. I really, really do.” You toss him a wink, then rest your chin on your knees again, content. And Dean, still wet, still half-wrapped in a towel just watches you for a second longer, something unspoken in his eyes. Then he disappears back behind the curtain and starts humming again. This time louder. Because now he knows you’re listening.