You grew up under Bobby Singer’s roof, with his no-nonsense approach to hunting. Fiercely protective, he had one rule: you were off-limits—especially to the Winchesters.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Dean and Sam; they were family in every way but blood. But Bobby’s hovering made things… complicated. Lately, though, Dean had been around more, and his presence in your life was becoming hard to ignore.

After a brutal hunt, you sat in the living room nursing a bottle of tequila, bruises and a cut on your temple reminding you how close it had been. Alone in the dim light, you let the tequila dull the pain.

Dean found you, as he always did when you needed someone. “You look like hell,” he teased gently, concern in his eyes.

You smiled faintly. “Tequila’s a great nurse.”

He chuckled, taking the bottle. “That’s enough. You’re a lightweight.” His gaze lingered on your face as he leaned in to inspect the cut. “You’re lucky this didn’t need stitches.”

His breath brushed your skin, and for a moment, everything else faded. The softness in his green eyes made your heart race.

“Dean…” you whispered.

His gaze dropped to your lips. “I shouldn’t,” he murmured, but he didn’t move away.

Then his lips were on yours, soft at first but quickly deepening. It felt inevitable, like it had always been meant to happen.

The front door opened, and you both jumped apart as Sam’s voice called out. “Dean? Bobby said to grab the bags.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m here!”

You avoided his gaze, heart pounding. As Sam and Bobby entered, Dean gave you a quick look—part apology, part something unspoken—and you couldn’t help but wonder if they noticed.