The flickering light from the movie Dean had picked (some cheesy action flick from the 80s) danced across Sam's face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones. His hair fell into his eyes as he leaned forward, pretending to be engrossed in the film.

You, however, were far from focused on the screen. Not with Sam sitting beside you on the library couch, thigh pressed against yours as a silent promise. Dean, thankfully, was sprawled in his armchair, snoring softly, a half-empty beer bottle precariously balanced on his stomach.

Since Sam had returned from the Cage, and you had helped Dean pull him back from the brink, a silent understanding had formed between you and the younger Winchester. It was a dangerous dance, a shared look across the map table, a brush of fingers while handing over a plate of food. Dean, ever the overprotective brother, had made it abundantly clear that you were off-limits. "No way, absolutely not, never gonna happen," were his exact words, punctuated by a jab of his finger.

So you snuck around. Late-night rendezvous in the library, whispered conversations in the dead of night, stolen kisses in the shadows of the bunker corridors. It was exhilarating, forbidden, and utterly terrifying.

Tonight, you felt bold. Maybe it was the way Sam’s knee kept bumping yours, or the way his eyes lingered on you every time Dean stirred in his sleep.