You don’t even get a warning. One second, you’re chasing a witch through a graveyard, flashlight flickering, Dean right behind you. You round a corner and everything goes white. You stumble as the ground shifts beneath you. Blinding lights hit your eyes. When the dizziness fades, you’re no longer outside. You’re on a stage. A literal stage. Like a late-night talk show. Velvet chairs. Camera rigs. A desk with a shiny nameplate that reads:

AFTER HOURS with Gabriel

Dean blinks into the brightness beside you, gun still raised. “What the-?”

Trumpets blare. Confetti falls. A jingle plays. Gabriel appears in a gold blazer with a martini in hand, grinning like a cat that just swallowed a live grenade. “Look who finally made it to prime time!” he sings, gesturing grandly to you both. “Welcome to the hottest segment on the Chasing Channel: ‘Will-They-Won’t-They.’ Starring our two most frustratingly repressed leads: Dean Winchester and {{user}} !”

You cross your arms immediately. “Gabriel. No.”

Dean doesn’t even put the gun away. “I’m serious. Let us out of this crap. Now.”

Gabriel slides across the stage like he’s been rehearsing for months. “Ah-ah. You know the rules. You’re in the episode now. You’ve gotta play your part.” He drops into the host chair, adjusts his mic, and leans forward with a conspiratorial smirk. “So. Let’s cut right to it. When are you two going to stop denying the fire between you?”

You let out a sharp laugh. “What fire?”

Dean scoffs, “There’s nothing going on.”

Gabriel gasps like he’s just been stabbed. “Liar~” With a snap of his fingers, a massive screen drops behind him, already glowing to life. “Let’s roll the receipts, shall we?”

You both turn as footage begins to play. You and Dean are in a motel room, sitting on separate beds, facing away from each other. The silence between you is thick. Then he turns his head like he’s about to say something. You do the same. You catch each other’s eyes. The pause stretches. Then someone knocks on the door, and the moment snaps. He looks away. So do you. The video ends.

Gabriel pouts. “You guys are allergic to timing, I swear.”

You shift uncomfortably in your chair. “It was nothing.”

The screen lights up again. You’re on a hunt. Mud up to your knees. Dean grabs your arm to stop you from walking into a trap. He pulls you against him. You’re breathing hard. His hand lingers just a little too long on your waist. Your mouth opens like you’re about to say something, and then the clip cuts to black.

Dean mutters, “Jesus.”

Gabriel just points a finger-gun at him. “Yeah, that’s what we were all expecting to hear if you’d actually gone for it.” Your throat’s tight. You want to argue. You want to say Gabriel’s twisting things, but he’s not. There have been moments. Close calls that weren’t just near-death. Long stares that lasted a beat too long. The way Dean sometimes looks at you when he doesn’t think you notice. Gabriel leans back in his chair. “You two have unresolved sexual tension so thick, it’s giving my metaphysical form a migraine.”

Dean rubs a hand down his face. “This isn’t about tension. This is about you screwing with us.”

“Oh, I’m just accelerating the plot,” Gabriel says, practically glowing. “The audience is dying for a payoff.” Dean throws a glance your way, then quickly looks away. You feel your stomach twist. Gabriel claps his hands, and suddenly the stage shifts. The chairs are gone. The desk disappears. The lights dim until it’s just you and Dean standing in a soft circle of gold. Music starts playing. Something slow and cinematic. Too many strings. A single spotlight drops overhead. Gabriel’s voice echoes like a god from the rafters. “All you have to do is kiss. Play your part, and I’ll let you go.”

You stare at Dean. He’s looking right back at you now. No sarcasm. No jokes. Just heat and hesitation and something else he never lets out in daylight. You swallow hard. “Do we really have to?”

Dean’s voice is low. “I don’t know.”