The old trunk had been half-buried beneath a rotting floorboard.
You’d been clearing an abandoned witch’s den when you found it. Standard sweep—salt rounds in your pocket, gloved hands checking every drawer for anything dangerous.
The cracked bottle hidden behind a stack of warded journals hadn’t looked important.
Until it slipped from your fingers.
Glass shattered across the floor.
A pale mist bloomed upward—warm, floral, with something rich and spiced beneath it. It clung to your clothes, your skin.
You coughed, waved it away, and finished the hunt.
Nothing burned.
Nothing exploded.
You figured it was harmless.
It wasn’t dangerous.
Just… different.
⸻
Hours later…
The motel room sat in comfortable silence, the only sounds an old air conditioner humming beneath the window and the occasional semi rolling down the highway outside.
You sat on the edge of the bed, one boot half-laced, tracing tomorrow’s route across the map.
“If the sightings keep moving east…” you began.
“Hm.”
You stopped.
Dean wasn’t looking at the map.
He was looking at you.
The moment your eyes met, he looked away.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“You missed everything I just said.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Sorry… start over?”
You laughed quietly.
“You’re impossible.”
“Been told that before.”
You tried again. But every few moments you caught him staring. Every time you reached for your water. Retied your boot. Shifted on the bed.
His eyes followed before he forced them somewhere else.
“Something on my face?”
“No.” Too fast. “You’re good.”
A heavy silence settled between you.
Dean suddenly stood.
“Need another file.”
Except the folder he reached for wasn’t anywhere near you.
His arm brushed yours anyway.
Lingered.
Only when you raised an eyebrow did he step back.
“New shampoo?” he asked awkwardly.
“What?”
“Or… soap?”
“Dean…” you laughed. “What are you talking about?”
He scrubbed a hand down his face.
“Forget it.”
“You’ve said that about five times.”
“Have not.”
“Dean.”
”…Maybe.”
He turned away, pacing the room.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“You okay?” you finally asked.
A long pause.
”…Yeah.”
You gave him a look.
”…No.”
The admission hung between you.
Dean grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, his hand settling on the knob.
He didn’t open it. After several long seconds, he sighed and let go. Leaving wasn’t an option. Not if it meant leaving you alone.
When he turned back, his eyes found you again. His breath caught. His jaw tightened.
Dean Winchester had faced monsters, demons, and Death itself without blinking.
Trying to explain why he suddenly couldn’t stop noticing the way you smelled?
That was apparently impossible. Every instinct told him to keep his distance. Every instinct seemed to be losing.
And every time you moved, every time that warm, impossible scent drifted through the room… his attention snapped right back to you.
Dean wasn’t subtle.
But tonight? Tonight he was damn near feral trying to pretend nothing was wrong.
And you?
You were beginning to wonder if whatever had been inside that shattered bottle wasn’t just some forgotten witch’s potion…
…but a very real problem.
A very warm, six-foot-one, leather-jacket-wearing, pacing-the-room kind of problem.