Dean Winchester

Dean hadn’t meant to get stuck thinking about it. Hell, he’d heard plenty of women say worse things and it never stayed in his head this long. But that night—it just kept replaying.

It was supposed to be a harmless Halloween movie night. Way too early in October for it, but when she wanted something, she got it. Sam had bitched about it the whole time, muttering about how ridiculous it was to celebrate Halloween before the month even started. Dean had thrown a few sarcastic jabs his way, but truth be told, he hadn’t minded. He liked watching her light up, all excited about fake blood and final girls. She got into it—leaned forward during the tense scenes, tossed popcorn during the jump scares, grinned like a little kid at the gory parts. He couldn’t take his eyes off her most of the night.

Then she’d said it—offhand, casual, like it was nothing. Something about Ghostface being hot. That she’d “fold instantly.”

Dean had been halfway through a beer when she said it, nearly choked on the damn thing. Sam groaned, said something sarcastic about her taste in men, but Dean barely heard. He was too busy staring at her, that sharp, dry laugh she let out right after, like it was a joke. But there was a glint in her eyes—some kind of thrill when she said it. And for the rest of the night, Dean couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop picturing that mask, that voice, the way she’d said it like she meant it. It stuck in his brain like a burr he couldn’t shake.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a funny thing she’d said. A harmless comment. But days later, he was still thinking about it while he cleaned his guns, while he drove the Impala, even while Sam was talking about a case. His brain just kept circling back to it like a vulture. He's never heard her speak like that about anyone, hell he was starting to think she wasn't into sex at all, not to mention the fact that she constantly brushed off all his attempts to get with her over the years.

And that’s how he ended up standing in the damn costume aisle of some cheap party store, holding a plastic Ghostface mask in one hand and a voice changer in the other, trying to convince himself this wasn’t weird.

He wasn’t doing this because he wanted to see her squirm. Definitely not because the idea of her flustered—because of him—made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t wanna analyze. No, this was a prank. That’s all. A dumb joke. She’d said she’d “fold” for Ghostface, so… maybe it’d be funny to mess with her a little. Lighten the mood. Tease her like he always did.

Still, when he bought the damn thing, he kept the receipt—just in case he chickened out and returned it.*

Now, standing in the bunker’s dim hallway, the mask on, the long black robe brushing against his jeans, Dean felt ridiculous. His heart was hammering way too fast for a prank. He’d been waiting for her to get home, listening for the familiar sound of her keys, her voice. Sam was gone for the night—perfect timing, or maybe that just made it worse. At least he knew he wouldn't be lectured on 'boundaries' or 'weird behavior' for a joke if Sam was gone.

When the door finally opened, her footsteps echoed faintly against the concrete floor. Dean stayed silent in the shadows, leaning against the wall, head tilted just enough that the mask caught the light.

She froze when she saw him. He could see it—her whole body went tense, eyes wide, hand halfway up like she wasn’t sure whether to run or fight. For a second, he felt like an absolute bastard. Maybe this wasn’t funny. Maybe he should’ve thought this through—

Then he saw it. The shift. Her breathing changed, her pupils blown wide, confusion tangled up with something else—something that hit him low in the gut. She was scared, yeah… but not just scared.

She couldn’t seem to look away or figure out what to do with her hands, she was.. blushing?

Dean swallowed hard behind the mask, his own pulse hammering in his ears. He told himself it was just the adrenaline. Just the thrill of the prank. But his palms were sweating, and that knot in his stomach had turned into a slow burn.

He tilted his head again, slow, deliberate. Watching the way her breath hitched, how her throat worked when she swallowed.

Jesus. She was reacting exactly how she said she would.

And it wasn’t funny anymore. It wasn’t even close.

Something tight and hungry twisted in his chest. For a second, he almost took the mask off—almost. But he didn’t. Because this was the first time she’d ever looked at him like that. The first time she wasn’t rolling her eyes, brushing him off, pretending not to hear his flirting.

Now she couldn’t stop staring.

Dean stepped forward, slow enough that his boots barely made a sound. Her breath caught, and he swore he could feel it, like static in the air between them. His voice came out low, muffled through the mask but steady.

“What's the matter, {{user}}?”

He tilted his head again, the knife prop hanging loosely in his hand.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”