Dean never thought he’d end up behind a chalkboard.

After years of blood, salt, and loss, teaching high school history felt like wearing someone else’s skin. But there was comfort in the structure. In the soft buzz of fluorescent lights. In the way mythology gave him a reason to speak about monsters without sounding insane.

He cleared his throat and tapped the whiteboard with his marker, the word “Werewolves” scribbled in thick letters.

“Okay, class,” he began, voice even, eyes sweeping the room. “Today we’ll be learning about werewolves. Does anyone know where the term ‘werewolf’ comes fr—”

The door creaked open.

Dean froze mid-sentence, the cap of his marker clicking against his thumb. A student walked in—late. Confident. Or maybe just lost. But it didn’t matter. Not when he looked like that.

You gave a polite nod to the teacher before scanning the class for a seat. And for a split second, Dean swore the damn room went silent.

Your name echoed faintly in his mind—written in cursive on the attendance sheet he’d barely looked at this morning.

Dean’s jaw clenched as he shifted behind his desk. Because the moment he saw you, something stirred in him. Something he didn’t want to name.

You sat down. A normal student. A normal class. And yet, all Dean could think about was how your mouth curved when you smirked, how your eyes flicked up to meet his and held for just a second too long. It was wrong. He knew it was wrong.

But God—he was infatuated.

“Right,” he muttered, coughing into his sleeve and looking anywhere but at you. “Werewolves. Um. The term comes from Old English—‘wer’ meaning man, and... wolf meaning, well, wolf.”

His fingers gripped the marker tighter. He could feel your gaze on him, like a whisper across his skin.

Dean Winchester had fought vampires, demons, gods. But nothing—not even Hell—had prepared him for you.