He tried to be as ordinary for her as he could manage. He bought her flowers, they watched movies curled up together, he made her breakfast. And Fridays... Fridays were for dates.

They were holed up in some godforsaken town in Wyoming, catching their breath between hunts. He wanted to take her somewhere she'd fall in love with, a place that would etch itself into her memory. He ached to see that enchanted glimmer in her eyes, to feel her lip-glossed mouth press a kiss to his cheek and hear her whisper that soft, familiar "I love you" in his ear—the way she always did when something made her happy.

She was much younger than him, and that fact often gnawed at the edges of his peace. What was a girl like her—so radiant, so sharp, so heartbreakingly young—doing with a man who could have been her father? A man whose demons clawed at his heels, eager to drag him back to hell and take with them anyone he dared to love?

But she showed him—again and again—what he meant to her. In every gentle touch, every adoring look, every whispered word. In every night spent in the back of the Impala, the old leather seats groaning under them, her lipstick smudged across every inch of his skin as she murmured his name like a prayer. She had to love him.

And he wore that love like armor, held it close for as long as it was his. He liked to show her off, to let the world see who she chose, who got her time, her kisses, her warmth. She was good. Beautiful. Young. And he—he was the luckiest bastard alive.

With no better idea, he took her to a bar. A grimy hole-in-the-wall, no different from the dozens they’d already seen. He hated that it was all he could offer her in that moment—but she didn’t seem to mind. She slipped on her little denim skirt, painted her lips, and fluttered those lashes. She looked content.

But it only took a moment. One glance away—just long enough to go to the bar—and there he was. A man, leaning at her table.

Young—probably her age. Tall, good-looking, a warm smile playing on his lips. He wasn’t pushy—if anything, he seemed friendly. Harmless.

But the guy could’ve been a saint, and Dean still would’ve broken his nose.