𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖘𝖊 𝖌𝖔𝖉. dean winchester (ON HIATUS)

[ 004 ] the past and the present

𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖘𝖊 𝖌𝖔𝖉 !
...chapter four

Dean doesn't like people walking behind him; his old man taught him that one.

It's a rule ingrained from years of hunting and surviving in a world full of dangers. It makes you an easy target, vulnerable to being stabbed in the back. For Dean,

it's not just a lesson—it's a reflex, it's survival.

An instinct that kicks in every time he senses someone in his blind spot. The habit has become second nature, a subtle but constant reminder of the life he leads and the constant vigilance it requires.

So when Isabelle, not recognizing him from behind, tried to maneuver past him in the bustling film set, Dean's reaction was immediate and instinctual. The film set was alive with activity, lights flashing and the low hum of cameras rolling creating a backdrop of constant motion.

"Excuse me," she muttered, her eyes darting around, barely managing to squeeze past him through the tight corridor of the set.

The moment her shoulder brushed against him, Dean flinched. The unexpected contact startled him, causing him to jerk, and the tray of smoothies he was balancing wobbled perilously. Isabelle gasped, instinctively stepping back as the shock of the cold smoothie soaked through her shirt. She looked up, irritation flaring in her eyes, but the annoyance quickly gave way to surprise as she recognized the man in front of her.

"Dean?" she blurted out, her voice a mix of disbelief and anger. What on earth was he doing still in California, and why was he here now?

"What the hell?" she blurted out, her voice a mix of disbelief and simmering anger. The words tumbled out, almost as if she couldn't believe the coincidence—or perhaps the audacity.

Dean, equally stunned, looked down at the mess he'd inadvertently created, the pink smoothie staining the pristine white tiles of the set. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment and a tinge of guilt.

"Isabelle?" he said hastily, his voice wavering as he grabbed a handful of napkins from a nearby counter. He fumbled with them, his usually steady hands betraying him in the moment.

"I didn't mean to... baptize you in smoothie," he added with a sheepish, half-hearted grin, offering her the napkins.

But Isabelle wasn't amused. Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms defensively, the sticky shirt clinging uncomfortably to her skin. The last time they'd seen each other, Dean had left abruptly after their night together, without so much as a goodbye.

"Yeah, it's fine," she replied, though her tone suggested otherwise as she accepted the napkins. She dabbed at her shirt, more out of something to do than any hope of actually cleaning it.

"I just didn't expect to see you here. I thought you were long gone," she added, her voice edged with the unspoken accusation.

Dean scratched the back of his neck, a nervous habit that betrayed his discomfort. He hadn't meant to run into her like this, especially not after the way he'd left things.