You’ve known the Winchesters your whole damn life.

Pulled your first salt-and-burn with them when you were twelve. Slept in the backseat of the Impala more nights than you can count. Been stitched up by Sam, scolded by Bobby, carried out of hunts by Dean.

And somewhere along the way — maybe between a demon hunt in Nebraska and a motel shootout in Wyoming — you fell in love with him.

Dean.

The disaster of a man with flannel sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a stupid leather jacket slung over one shoulder, and that crooked smirk that made your knees weak even after all these years.

But he’s never looked at you like that. Not when there’s always some leggy blonde in his rearview mirror. Not when you’re… you — curvy, scarred, and a little louder than most girls he takes home.

He’s never said anything cruel. Never made you feel small. But he hasn’t said anything else, either. So, you keep your mouth shut. Better to hurt quietly than ruin a lifetime of history.

⸻

Tonight, the bunker’s quiet. One of those rare nights without a case, and the boys are relaxing. Sam’s buried in a lore book in the library. You’re curled on the leather couch in a worn t-shirt and leggings, blanket over your legs, pretending not to notice Dean watching you from the kitchen.

You know that look. You’ve seen it before — usually when he’s eyeing pie. But tonight, it lingers.

His beer bottle clinks against the counter. He moves toward you, stops halfway like he’s thinking too hard.

“Something on my face?” you ask, trying to laugh it off.

Dean blinks. Shrugs.

“Nah. You just…” He clears his throat. “You look comfortable.”

You raise a brow. “That a compliment?”

He smirks — but there’s something softer underneath. Almost shy.

“Yeah. It is.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know that earlier tonight, he turned down a girl from the bar with legs for days — because he couldn’t stop thinking about you, curled up on the bunker couch, stealing the last slice of pie and calling him “princess” when he pouted.

You don’t know that when he looks at you, he doesn’t see what you think he does. He sees home.