“You sure I’m not gonna summon anything?” Dean mutters, squinting down at the deck like it might bite him. You’re lying on your stomach across from him, chin in your hands, grinning like you’ve already seen the future.

“It’s tarot, not a demon trap. You’re good.”

“You know this is some serious hippie crap, right?”Dean’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, one hand balancing a beer, the other hovering over your tarot deck like he’s afraid he’s gonna draw the ghost of his childhood trauma.

You raise an eyebrow. “You literally exorcised a haunted ventriloquist dummy last month, and this is where you draw the line?”

He huffs, takes a drink, and grumbles, “At least the dummy didn’t pretend to know my feelings.”

You slide the deck in front of him. “You said you wanted to be involved in my hobbies.”

“I thought you meant, like… movie nights. Not black magic Uno.”

“Dean. Shuffle the damn deck.” He grumbles but does it, shuffling like he’s holding a dead squirrel. Cards fly everywhere. Two fall off the blanket. One lands in his lap. You sigh and snatch the deck back, reshuffling it quickly. “Okay, I’ll shuffle. You just pull three cards.”

“Fine, fine. How many do I pick?”

“Three. Past, present, future. Just go with your gut.”

Dean snorts. “My gut says get back in the Impala and pretend this conversation never happened.” But he pulls a card anyway. Slaps it down. You both look. Ten of Swords. He stares. “…So,” he says slowly, “that’s. Uh. That’s a lotta swords.”

You nod solemnly. “It is, in fact, ten swords.”

“That dude’s just gettin’ shanked.”

“He’s… going through it.”

Dean leans in, studying the card like he’s trying to find a cheat code. “This supposed to be my past? Damn. Little on the nose, don’t you think?”

You shrug. “You’ve been through worse than ten swords.”

He smirks. “Hell yeah I have. Try Hell. Literally.” He pulls the next card. Death. He stares at it, then deadpans, “Wow. Incredible.”

You barely hide a smile. “It doesn’t mean death, Dean. It means transformation. Change. New beginnings.”

“Great,” he mutters. “So I’m getting a haircut or a divorce.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “It’s not always bad.”

“It’s always bad when I’m involved.” Then he pulls the last card. The Tower. Dean stares. You stare. Dean sets his beer down real slow. “Okay. What the hell, man.”

You try not to laugh. “That’s not great.”

“You think? It’s a freakin’ building getting smote. That’s biblical, sweetheart. And not in the sexy way.”

“You’re not dying.”

“Oh yeah? ‘Cause the cards say past trauma, sudden upheaval, and the literal representation of death. That’s not a reading, that’s my autobiography.”

You chuckle, leaning back on your hands. “Or maybe it means your past sucked, you’re in the middle of major change, and your future’s about to shake you up in ways you didn’t see coming.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You trying to say you’re my Tower?”

“Maybe.” He stares at you for a second. Then he gives that little head shake, like he’s annoyed and endeared at the same time.

“You’re a menace,” he says. “Bringing this hoodoo into my life and making it weirdly accurate.”

“You love it.”

“I love you.” Silence. His eyes go wide. Your heart skips. “…Shit,” he says and you look at him before leaping into his lap to kiss him.

You grin. “Well… I think that’s your tower card speaking out… changing in ways you don’t expect.” Your heart was happy to hear those words.

Dean groans and grabs his beer again. “Next time, I’m pickin’ the game. We’re playing strip poker like normal people.”