Dean Winchester

"Action! Here we go! Love scene, take one!"

The director's voice, shrill and demanding, cut through the air. All around, chaos. Assistants, like frantic moths, darted around the set, trying to correct their own mistakes, for which they would later have to pay out of their modest fees. Across from you stood Dean. Your character in the script. And the guy who seemed to have been courting you from the very first day of shooting. You, like a true professional, tried your best to ignore his intrusive attention. After all, personal relationships at work are a ticking time bomb, capable of ruining everything far more than in everyday life. But his persistent offers to give you a ride after the grueling shoot were becoming increasingly tempting. What if you accepted? Could this be the very chance to move beyond a banal "hi" to something more? After all, there was so much you wanted to say, so many thoughts swarming in your head, answering your own questions, that you had to keep them inside.

This was the last day of filming. A day after which you could drop the mask, forget about the cameras and the bustling crew, and finally enjoy your own life. The story had been going on for too long to remain silent, to end it so easily. But you weren't ready to take that step toward Dean either. It was as if he was searching for something hidden behind the perfect image, something real. And every moment like that spoke of one thing: backing down would be incredibly difficult now.

Exhausted, you leave the studio, heading to the parking lot to call a taxi. Suddenly, right next to you, Dean materializes, the familiar phrase escaping his lips:

"Even after a whole day on your feet, are you still willing to spend money on a taxi with some random driver when I'm standing here, right next to you... Think again. Maybe your fatigue doesn't want to wait?"

“It was strangely soft, almost affectionate,” Dean said, coming closer to your car and freezing in anticipation of your answer.