The bar buzzed with post-hunt energy as Dean, Sam, and you settled into a corner booth. After a tough battle, they deserved a drink or two—or five. The jukebox in the corner hummed with a mix of country and rock, and Dean nursed a glass of whiskey, the familiar burn a welcome comfort.

As Chris Stapleton’s “Tennessee Whiskey” began to play, you caught his eye. “Dance with me?” you asked, your voice just loud enough for him to hear.

Dean glanced at Sam, who gave him an encouraging nod. Normally, slow dancing in a bar wasn’t his thing, but something about you request made it hard to refuse. Taking your hand, Dean let you guide him to the small dance floor, where a few couples swayed to the music.

Your arms slid around his neck, and he pulled you closer, the scent of your hair mingling with the faint smell of whiskey on his breath. The warmth of your touch and the comfort of your presence brought a sense of peace that Dean rarely allowed himself to feel.

As the song continued, Dean realized that maybe you were more than just a hunting partner. You were the one who kept him grounded, who brought him back when he felt too far gone.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

You looked up at him, a soft smile playing on your lips. “For what?”

“For this,” he said simply, letting the warmth of your smile and the echo of the song linger, like the taste of Tennessee whiskey on his tongue.