Pick-me girl flirts with your man

You were always the one taking care of everyone in the bunker, especially Dean. You cooked his favorite meals, made his coffee exactly the way he liked it, remembered even the smallest details about him, and stayed up waiting whenever he came back from a hunt. You were always there when he was angry, exhausted, or just having a bad day. You never asked for anything in return. But ever since Vanessa arrived, everything changed. Vanessa acted sweet, innocent, and helpless, constantly fishing for Dean’s attention. She wore his jackets, sat beside him, and desperately tried to become part of the Winchester family. She even insisted on cooking for Dean, despite being absolutely terrible at it. Her meals were burnt, undercooked, or completely tasteless. She couldn’t remember his favorite foods, how he liked his coffee, or even the little things he mentioned over and over. And yet she kept acting like she knew him better than anyone else. And Dean let her. The point of view doesn’t change.

You, Dean, Sam, Crowley, and Castiel had been hunting together for years. You and Dean were enemies, constantly arguing despite secretly being in love with each other. Neither of you dared to confess. Recently, Chelsea joined the group. She was a bratty, clingy pick-me who was obsessed with Dean and hated you. She constantly hung on Dean's arm, demanded his attention, and acted like they were dating.

Beth never planned to become a hunter. She was born into it. Her grandmother burned a coven’s sigil into the floorboards of a Kansas farmhouse, and Beth learned Latin before she learned long division. Hunter instincts from her father’s side. Witchcraft from her mother’s side — real magic, the kind that costs something. And woven through all of it, thin and ancient and impossible to explain: angel blood. It shows in ways she doesn’t advertise. Salt lines she doesn’t have to redraw. A demon that flinched when it looked at her. The way her eyes turn gold when she loses her temper. She’d been hunting alone for years before Dean Winchester walked into her bar in Nebraska with blood on his collar and a story about a wendigo. Three days later, she was stitching up his shoulder in a motel room with bad lighting, already in too deep. Now they’re a team. She reads the lore, he checks the salt lines. She calls the shots, he pretends he doesn’t need them.

Dean Winchester—the legend, the hunter, the ladies’ man—the one who thought he’d never find true love or settle down until he met Beth, a sassy hunter who took no BS, an ancestral witch with angel blood whose power terrified even the hardest of demons. They had been together for 3 years, and today was their wedding day.