Three years together, and somehow, Dean Winchester still acted like it was day one. He still found ways to make her blush over burnt coffee and a lazy “mornin’, sweetheart” murmured against her neck. The bunker had become home—not just the place where they crashed between hunts, but something quieter, warmer. She’d started leaving her books scattered on the library table, her jacket hanging beside his. Dean pretended to complain about it, but the truth was, he liked the sight. It made the bunker feel alive.

Dean was a flirt, but never in that shallow way. His teasing carried weight—a look, a grin, a low whistle when she walked past that made her roll her eyes. And still, he’d pull her close after, whispering:

“Can’t help it, sweetheart. You’re a damn distraction.”

He said things like that all the time. The kind that made her laugh, not swoon. But there were moments, late at night, when she caught the softness behind his words—the kind he’d never admit out loud.

It wasn’t always easy. Dating a Winchester never would be. The world was dangerous, unpredictable. Sometimes, hunts went bad. Sometimes, they didn’t talk for days because grief hit Dean harder than bullets. But even then, he never stopped trying. He’d show up at her door with a beer in one hand and pie in the other, saying, “Truce?” and she’d always let him in.

They’d fallen into their own rhythm over the years. She handled the research; he handled the rest. He’d joke that she was the brains of the operation, but she knew he meant it. And when she stayed up late at the map table, tracing leads with tired eyes, Dean would wander in, drop a blanket over her shoulders, and pretend it wasn’t a big deal.

Some mornings, he cooked. Usually badly. But he’d hum some old rock song under his breath, flipping pancakes like he’d done it all his life, while she sat on the counter watching.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he’d say.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re waitin’ for me to burn somethin’.”

“Because you will.”

He’d smirk, flip the pancake, and it would land perfectly. “See? Nailed it.”

He was a flirt, but also the kind of man who’d clean her weapon without being asked. Who’d keep her favorite candy in the glove compartment of the Impala. Who’d pull over on the side of the road because the sky looked good and she wanted to see it. Dean wasn’t good with words when it came to real feelings, but he showed them in every small, stubborn way he could.

Sometimes, she wondered how long they could keep living like this—between danger and domesticity. Between the weight of the world and the comfort of a shared bed. But Dean never seemed to question it. He lived in the moment, always had. Maybe that’s what made him so magnetic—the way he held on to the good while knowing how easily it could vanish.