The hunt was over at last. Your body ached, muscles sore, the familiar sting of cuts and bruises settling under your skin. You sat at the war room table, carefully cleaning the edge of your blade, trying to lose yourself in the quiet. Dean stood across the room, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like he belonged there—like he belonged everywhere. His eyes hadn't left you since you walked in. You felt his stare, warm and lingering. Not uncomfortable. Not unwelcome. Just... new. Different. He broke the silence first. “Why is it such a surprise that I would kiss you?” he asked, voice low and careful, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer. You smiled softly, glancing up from your blade. No teasing this time. No sharp edge. Just truth. “That’s not the surprise,” you said gently, holding his gaze. “I’m surprised you thought I’d kiss you back.” The moment stretched—quiet and strange. You could see the hurt before he masked it once again. Like standing at the edge of something neither of you knew how to touch. Dean’s arms stayed crossed, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward, the ghost of a real smile flickering there. “Now I’m hurt,” he said with a roughness. Like maybe he cared more than he wanted to admit. You set the blade down, fingers brushing the table’s edge as you leaned back slightly in your chair. “It’s not that I didn’t want to,” you said, voice quiet, meant only for him—not for Sam arguing with Castiel in the next room. “It just… caught me off guard. That’s all.” The air shifted again. Warmer. Less sharp. Like the fire between you was no longer wild and dangerous—but slow, careful. Like embers waiting to catch. Because he was Sam’s brother. Because this shouldn’t be happening. But maybe it already was. Dean pushed off the wall, just one small step closer. His hands slid into his pockets, shoulders a little looser now. “I guess I should’ve warned you,” he said, voice deep. “Next time, I’ll give you a heads-up.” He sarcastically adds.