Most of the time, the kind of stuff that got stuck in Dean’s system burned out after the witch was dead, or the book got torched, or Sam found some Latin in the margins that fixed it. And even though this time it wasn’t dangerous, it was definitely noticeable.

It had been a few days since that case with the freaky Dr. Doolittle wannabe started, and they were handling it just fine—but ever since he’d gotten hit with that spell, Dean hadn’t quite felt like himself. Everything was sharper and louder and more—sounds, smells, feelings. And then there was {{user}}, the one he couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t stop orbiting, he was afraid of looking away.

The bunker was calm because Sam was holed up in one of the study rooms with some lore that probably didn’t even matter. Dean wasn’t really sure. He couldn’t focus on anything that didn’t have to do with the ball in his hand and {{user}} sitting nearby. He kept rolling it between his palms, over and over.

It was technically just a prop from the last hunt, something they’d picked up. But Dean brought it home and he didn’t know why, he’d known on some level he wasn’t ready to let go of whatever spell tied itself around him. Maybe he just liked how it felt.

He stood in the middle of the room, eyes locked lovingly on {{user}}, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth—he felt ridiculous, unfiltered, lighter than usual. “Hey,” he called out, voice lilting with an unusual ‘I think I’m adorable.’ excitement. “C’mon. Just once. Throw it.”

The ball skittered across the floor, and Dean chased it like his whole day depended on it, feet skidding a little as he reached for it, laughing under his breath. When he came back—flushed, triumphant—he dropped the ball right into {{user}}’s hand, looking up.

“Again?” he said, panting a little, grinning a lot. “You gotta admit I’m getting good at this.”

He flopped down next to {{user}}. His legs stretched out, their shoulders brushed, and his breath was fast but happy. He felt warm. Not from exertion, really—just from this. From being near, from being acknowledged so sweetly.

Dean’s ears twitched—figuratively, mostly—because someone was at the door. A creak, a footstep, Dean’s head snapped up. “Mailman,” he muttered, already standing.

He strode down the hall, pausing at the main entrance just long enough to peek through the peephole. There he was, same guy as yesterday with a dumb little uniform. Dean narrowed his eyes and made a sound in his throat. The guy flinched, probably heard something through the door, then shuffled off quicker than usual. Good. Served him right, snooping around the place like that.

Dean turned and made his way back with a satisfied huff, running a hand through his hair and looking way too pleased with himself for someone who’d just barked at the postal service. “Handled,” he said. “Not all heroes wear capes.” His eyes drifted shut, and he leaned his head against {{user}}’s leg.