You sat on the edge of the bed, carefully dabbing alcohol on Sam’s arm. He hissed but didn’t pull away, his usual half-smile lingering as he watched you.

Dean, lounging in the chair by the window, nursed a beer, still a little flushed from the fight. “You know,” he said with a chuckle, “something funny happened when the shifter was wearing your face.”

Sam barely looked up. “Oh yeah?”

You glanced at Dean. “What happened?”

He hesitated, then huffed a laugh. “Ah, it’s nothing. Just, uh… it kissed me.”

The room went silent. Your hands stilled.

Sam tensed immediately. “What?”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah. Right before I shot it. Just—went for it.” His smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess I’m irresistible in any timeline.”

Your breath hitched. “So, you kissed me—or, fake me?”

Dean shifted, pressing his lips together. “Thought it was you for half a second,” he admitted, voice quieter. “Didn’t exactly push away right away, either.”

He sat up so fast you had to press a hand against his chest to stop him from making his injury worse. “Are you kidding me?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Relax, Sammy. It was a goddamn shapeshifter.”

“That’s not the point, Dean!”