Dean leans against the Impala, arms crossed, his green eyes fixed on you with that classic mix of skepticism and charm.

“A protection spell, huh?” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smirk. “Listen, I get the whole witchy safety net thing, but Sam and I… we’ve been managing just fine without one. Plus, last time we dealt with a spell, I ended up singing karaoke in my boxers. Not exactly my finest moment.”

You roll your eyes, stepping closer with your spell ingredients in hand. “Dean, this isn’t about karaoke or your pride. It’s about keeping you two alive. Do you have any idea how dangerous things are getting out there? One bad hunt, one wrong move—”

“I get it, okay? I just…” He shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flicking to your hands, then back to your face. There’s something softer in his expression now. “I don’t like the idea of you getting all… drained or whatever just to save our sorry asses. We’ve been in worse spots.”

“That’s the thing, Dean. You haven’t been in worse spots. And I can handle myself. You don’t have to play the hero all the time.”

His smirk fades as he runs a hand through his hair, clearly conflicted. “Yeah, well, old habits die hard.”

As you begin to explain the spell, Dean’s attention starts to wander. He’s staring at you, but not in the way that says he’s listening. His eyes trace the curve of your smile, the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Dean? Are you even listening?” you ask, hands on your hips.

“Huh?” He blinks, caught red-handed. “Yeah, totally. Something about… uh, salt? Or was it candles?”