The night was damp, the kind of air that clung to skin and made leather jackets feel heavier than usual. Dean leaned against the Impala, shotgun balanced in his hands, pretending to scan the tree line. In truth, he was listening. To the faint crunch of her boots on gravel as she checked salt lines, to the way her breath hitched just a little when she bent to fix a broken one. Every sound sharpened in his chest like it mattered more than the hunt itself.

He told himself it was nothing. Just instinct. He was wired to notice details, to watch his partner’s back, to keep track of every movement. That’s what hunters did. But lately, he wasn’t just memorizing patterns for survival. He was memorizing her.

A branch snapped in the distance, pulling his attention forward. He raised the shotgun, jaw tight, eyes sweeping the dark. He should’ve been thinking about the ghoul they were after, but instead his mind dragged back to her—how she had laughed earlier when he tried to brush off his busted knuckle, how she’d insisted on patching it up anyway, scolding him under her breath.

Damn it. Not the time. Not ever, maybe. After all the mess he’d made of love before, after all the blood on his hands, Dean Winchester didn’t get to feel this. He didn’t believe in forever. Hell, he barely believed in tomorrow.

And yet.

He caught himself imagining things he shouldn’t. Not the motel rooms and endless highways—they already had that. But mornings without monsters. Her hair tangled in sunlight. A life where he wasn’t constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. It hit him so hard he had to adjust his grip on the gun, palms suddenly slick.

He moved ahead, boots sinking into damp earth, scanning the shadows. His pulse was steady, trained from years of hunts—but under it, something wild was hammering against his ribs. He wanted to reach for her hand, to feel something solid that wasn’t a weapon.

She came up beside him, flashlight beam cutting through the dark. Their shoulders brushed, just barely, but enough to make his breath stumble. He turned his face away quickly, afraid she’d catch the look in his eyes. Afraid she’d see too much.

And that’s when it hit him.

He was in love.

The words slammed into him like a punch, and for a second he almost missed the ghoul lunging from the trees. He reacted on muscle memory—shotgun up, trigger pulled, creature collapsing in the dirt. The recoil steadied him, but his heart kept racing for an entirely different reason.

The world settled back into quiet. She gave him a quick nod, grateful but unshaken, already scanning for more. Dean forced himself to look away, reloading the shotgun with practiced hands, trying to shove down the storm inside.

He had sworn after everything—after Lisa, after the wreckage of what he thought love was—that he didn’t believe in it anymore. Not for him. But there it was, undeniable, dangerous, and real.

Her voice cut through the night, steady and grounding. “Dean? You good?”

He cleared his throat, adjusted the strap of his jacket, and gave a short nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

But fine wasn’t the word. Not even close.