Dinner and a "movie"

The second the door opens, she barely has time to say, “Hey babe—” before I lift her clean off the ground, her body pressing against mine like it's the most natural thing in the world. I kiss her, deep and full, and she gasps against my mouth before she melts into it, her hands sliding behind my neck, pulling me closer. For one perfect second, she’s weightless in my arms and the world stops moving. It's just us—breath, touch, lips parted, hearts pounding in sync. The scent of her, the feel of her, it's intoxicating, and I never want to let her go.

When I lower her back onto her feet, her knees almost buckle. Her lips are still slightly parted, cheeks flushed, her eyes fluttering open. “That was…” she whispers, her voice husky, “…a hell of a greeting.”

“I missed you,” I say simply, my voice low and sincere.

She kisses me again, softly this time, a slow press that lingers. Her hands slide down my chest, tracing the soft fabric of the shirt she loves on me, and she inhales deeply—eyes fluttering closed again, a soft smile playing on her lips. “You cleaned,” she says, turning her head slightly as she takes it all in—the gleam of the kitchen counters, the neatly folded blankets, the candles flickering softly, the plates already set on the dining table.

And then she catches it—my scent, the cologne she bought me, mingling with the aroma of the food I've prepared. “Ohhh,” she teases, biting her bottom lip, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Someone’s looking to get ravaged tonight.” She says it through her teeth, her voice a low, seductive purr.

That’s when she sees it: the pan on the stove, still warm but off the heat. The pasta glossy, golden, flecked with crispy guanciale like caramelized jewels. On the table: her favorite wooden salad bowl brimming with color, the romaine, the glistening olives, the ham, mozzarella, all laid out like a fucking masterpiece. Two plates set. Forks aligned. Red wine breathing in tall glasses, the liquid a deep, inviting ruby.

She stares at it for a long second, her eyes wide with surprise and delight.

“You made this for me?” Her voice cracks just a little, emotion threatening to spill over.

I nod, stepping behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist, pulling her close. I kiss her temple softly, inhaling the scent of her hair. “It’s all for you,” I whisper into her ear. “I do everything for you.”

She turns in my arms and searches my eyes, the way she always does when her heart’s too full to keep quiet. “I love you, you know.”

I grin, a familiar, comfortable smile spreading across my face. “I know.” The Han Solo joke never gets old—our shared thing. She punches my chest lightly, and we both laugh, easy, natural, like we’ve been doing this forever, like we were made for each other.

I guide her to the table, pulling out her chair for her. I pour her the wine, the liquid sloshing gently against the glass. She sinks into her seat, eyes locked on the pasta like it’s a fucking treasure, her expression one of pure awe and happiness.

I twirl some pasta onto her plate, the strands glistening and inviting. She moans the second she takes the first bite, her eyes rolling back slightly in pleasure. “Oh my God, baby. This is unreal.” She chews slowly, savoring every flavor, and points at the pan with her fork. “And the guanciale? Divine!”

“Only the best for you,” I say, watching her enjoy the meal I prepared just for her.

She lifts a bite of salad next and grins around her fork, her eyes sparkling with joy. “The dressing. You made it from scratch again.”

I nod, taking a sip of my own wine. “Garlic, Dijon, vinegar—just the way you like it.”

She sips her wine and sets the glass down gently, her movements graceful and deliberate. “I couldn’t be happier right now,” she says softly, her voice filled with contentment.

I tell her about the last few days—the shoot, the cast, the director’s chair with my name embroidered on the back, the offer to reprise the tattoo artist role. How I named the character after my grandmother. She rests her cheek on her hand as she listens, her eyes shining with pride and love.

“God, Joe,” she murmurs, her voice filled with emotion. “It’s all happening, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I say, a sense of pride and accomplishment swelling within me. “It really is.”

Dinner fades into laughter, stolen glances, and her hand resting on my thigh under the table, her fingertips tracing lazy circles while we talk. The atmosphere is electric, charged with our connection, our love for each other palpable. Once the plates are cleared, I take her hand and lead her to the living room, my heart pounding with anticipation.

“There's another thing I haven’t shown you yet,” I say, my voice low and mysterious.

She sinks into the couch, already grinning, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Is it another surprise?”

“Sort of,” I say, grabbing the remote and gesturing at the TV, the sleek new soundbar humming softly beneath it. “This was a gift. From Eric and Kathryn.”

Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “What, seriously?”

I nod, a smug smile playing on my lips. “They called it a thank-you for bringing the teaser to life.” I hit play, and the screen flickers to black. The Supernatural logo burns in like an old scar, the music swelling dramatically. The trailer starts, and we sit there—her curled into me, her head on my chest, my arm wrapped around her protectively—as the world we built together unfolds in full cinematic glory.

The lights in the living room are now low, casting a soft glow that makes the screen the focal point. Emily is nestled against me, her head on my shoulder, the faint scent of wine on her breath mingling with the remnants of our dinner. I reach for the remote and press play, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves.

There’s no music, just a sound—sharp, clean, deliberate. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. It’s the hum of a tattoo needle, mechanical and alive, intimate. You can almost feel it vibrating under your skin. Emily straightens slightly beside me, her brow furrowing in curiosity. “Is that a...?” she starts to ask, but the screen already answers her question.

Light blooms on the screen, soft and deliberate. The blackness gives way to a close-up: skin, pale and flushed with blood just beneath the surface. A tattoo needle dances just above the dip of a collarbone, piercing the flesh in rhythmic, precise jabs. The anti-possession symbol emerges in black ink—crisp lines within a circle, each stroke sacred and deliberate. It’s Claire Novak’s collarbone, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her face not shown but her presence palpable.

Emily exhales softly, “Oh my…” she whispers, her eyes wide with awe and recognition. She looks up at me, excited and proud, “That’s you with Claire Novak!”

I grin, feeling a surge of pride. The camera cuts to my face, focused eyes, steady hands with the tattoo gun, and the sigil growing darker with every pass of the needle. The scene is intense, the silence broken only by the hum of the needle and the subtle shifts in Claire’s breathing.

Then—fade to black.

COMING SOON TO HBO MAX

The words appear like a cold whisper, silent but thunderous, sending a shiver down my spine. The image fades in again, this time revealing the parlor—a dimly lit, grimy space with graffiti-covered walls and shadows that seem to breathe with a life of their own. A single bare bulb flickers above, casting eerie shadows that dance macabrely on the walls. The air is thick with the scent of rust, old blood, and **** barely contained.

Jody Mills is slouched in a chair, a needle in her hand, sewing a long, wet gash along her side with a grimace but no scream. Her shirt is pulled up, and blood seeps into her denim, creating a dark stain that spreads like a macabre flower. Donna Hanscum is in the back, scrubbing her hands raw at a cracked sink, the porcelain running red, then pink, as she cleans the blood from her skin. Her reflection in the mirror shows a woman made of steel, her eyes hard and determined.

At the center of the room, three younger women surround a battered table:

Kaia chants low and slow, her voice like an ancient incantation passed down through generations, each word heavy with power and mystery.

Alex draws symbols—my symbols—glowing under salt over an open atlas, the pages yellowed and worn with time. The symbols pulse with an otherworldly energy, their meaning etched into the very fabric of the universe.

Patience swings a glowing pendant above the table, the air buzzing with latent energy, the pendant casting an eerie glow that seems to warp the very fabric of reality.

The camera drifts through the scene like a ghost, never lingering too long on any single image, capturing the essence of the moment like a dream worn thin by blood and time. Emily’s hand tightens around mine, her grip fierce, her breath coming in short, excited gasps.

Then—another fade to black. And the names, each one hitting like a punch to the gut, chiseled into headstones:

KATHRYN NEWTON. KIM RHODES. BRIANA BUCKMASTER. YADIRA GUEVARA-PRIP. KATHERINE RAMDEEN. CLARK BACKO.

Emily’s whisper is reverent, her voice barely above a breath, “They brought them all back…”

Silence fills the room, the weight of the moment pressing down on us like a physical ****. Then—a voice. Soft. Wistful. Etched in celestial ache.

“Hello, Claire.”

Emily’s mouth falls open, her eyes wide with shock and awe. “Oh. My. God.”

Over the black screen, the final name appears:

AND MISHA COLLINS AS CASTIEL

When the screen returns, it’s dusk. A two-lane road cuts through an endless stretch of nowhere, the Impala—my Impala—long, black, and gleaming, rests in front of an old farmhouse. Jody’s house. The porch is weathered by time, the wood gray and worn, the steps creaking with the weight of history. And there they are—the Wayward Sisters—standing shoulder to shoulder in the twilight, their silhouettes stark against the fading light. Guardians of a legacy, their faces set with determination and a quiet strength that speaks volumes.

And at the base of the driveway—

Castiel. Trench coat fluttering in the wind, stubble dusting his jawline, those eyes like blue ice reflecting a holy war. He stands tall and proud, a beacon of hope and power in the face of the encroaching darkness.

“Sam’s on a hunting trip,” he says, his voice low and grave, carrying the weight of eons. “And he hasn't been home for a few days.”

A beat of silence passes, the implication of his words hanging heavy in the air.

Then—black.

SUPERNATURAL LEGACY: WAYWARD SISTERS

The title glows like a brand seared into flesh, ancient and inevitable. It doesn’t rush; it lingers, heavy with memory and full of promise. The ash drifts across the screen as the letters dissolve, a stark reminder of the sacrifices made and the battles yet to come.

One line remains:

NEXT YEAR.

The screen fades to black, leaving us in silence. Emily’s hand never left mine, her grip tight and reassuring. She turns to me, her eyes misty with unshed tears, a tremble in her breath.

“…that was perfect,” she whispers, her voice choked with emotion.

I nod, unable to find the words to express the maelstrom of feelings inside me. I’m still in it, still there with them, feeling the weight of their journey and the promise of ours.

She kisses me then, long and deep, her lips pressing against mine with a fervor that leaves me breathless. No rush, just a slow, deliberate exploration of our connection, a seal on the promise we’ve just witnessed.

Then her lips brush my ear, her breath hot and inviting. “Next year, huh?” she whispers, a teasing lilt to her voice.

And I smile, a slow, confident smile that mirrors the one on her face. “Yeah,” I whisper back, my voice filled with determination and love. “We’ll be there.”