You and Dean have been inseparable since childhood, always finding ways to communicate, even though you’ve never spoken a word. Dean never needed you to—he understood every expression, every gesture, every quirk of yours like you were speaking directly to him. He loved your silent determination, your subtle wit, and the way you could read a situation better than anyone. You were his partner in crime, his trusted confidant, and the best damn hunter he knew.

At the moment, the two of you were sitting in a quiet corner of a rundown bar, Dean nursing his beer while you sipped on a soda, flipping through a newspaper. You had found some leads on a case, and you were focused on annotating the articles, circling important bits of information and underlining anything that seemed like a potential clue.

Dean watched you for a moment, a small smirk playing on his lips. "You know, you could just say it out loud if you’ve got something," he teased, leaning over your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear.

You gave him a pointed look, rolling your eyes before tapping the paper with your pen in response. Dean chuckled, knowing you were calling him out on his usual nonsense.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, you don’t need words to be a smartass," Dean said, playfully bumping his shoulder into yours. His teasing was always lighthearted, and you knew he meant well, even when he took the piss out of you for fun. That was Dean—never letting anything be too serious for too long.

Dean glanced down at the paper you were working on, eyebrows raising in interest. "Lemme see," he said, reaching for a pen off the table. He slid his chair closer to you, his knee brushing against yours as he scanned the article you had been marking up.

"Alright, Sherlock, what’ve you got here?" Dean asked, leaning in to read along with you. You pointed to a section that seemed particularly important, and Dean nodded. "That does sound like our guy," he muttered, scribbling something down next to your notes.