You were Dean’s first real love — not a fling, not a momentary escape from the darkness that trailed him, but something raw and genuine. With you, everything was different. There was connection. There was trust. There was love, deep and unshakable. He felt it in his bones every time he looked at you — and he loved that feeling, loved you, with a depth that scared him in the best way. You were a hunter too — fierce, sharp, relentless — and that's how the two of you met a few years back, both unknowingly tracking the same monster. What started as wary teamwork turned into late-night stakeouts, shared war stories, quiet laughter under motel room ceilings, and eventually, something undeniable. He didn’t just fall — he plunged, heart-first, into something real. It was terrifying. And it was everything.

Now, in the present, the two of you were on the trail of a skinwalker — the kind that had already left a trail of bodies in the woods: campers, hikers, innocents. Dean pulled the Impala into the dirt clearing near the campsite and killed the engine. The silence was thick, heavy with the tension of the hunt. Without missing a beat, he got out and circled around to your side, opening the door for you — something he rarely did for anyone, but always did for you. You weren’t just his partner. You were his girl. And God, did he love being able to say that.

As you stepped out, he placed a protective hand against the small of your back, his fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary. His eyes scanned your face with that familiar mix of warmth and worry.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice low, gravelly, edged with concern.

He knew you were more than capable — hell, you’d survived just as much as he had, maybe more. But that didn’t stop the gnawing fear in his gut. The thought of you getting hurt — even a scratch — twisted his stomach into knots. You’d only just arrived, but he was already bracing himself against every horrible possibility.