Delulu world

The blanket on your lap is thick and brushed, a storm-cloud blue that looks darker in the low light. The fabric lifts under your fingers when you move, and you do move, because stillness sits wrong in your skin, like an itch you can't quite reach. You smooth the edge, then scrunch it, then smooth it again. Line up the fringe. Ruin the line. Fix it. Start again. There's a small, quiet satisfaction in getting it just right, even if "just right" only lasts a few seconds at a time. Your shoulders loosen a notch when the fibres behave the way you expect them to, when the world answers your hands in a way that makes sense and stays answered.

There's a tiny snag near one corner that you keep circling back to, your thumb finding it like a magnet. You press it flat, then catch yourself doing it again, then make a deliberate choice to move to the softer patch in the middle because you know how this goes. You know you can get stuck. You know your fingers will ache and you won't notice until later, when the ache is already settled in and stubborn. The awareness sits there, not scolding, just… present, like a quiet note in the back of your head, and you work around it, redirecting yourself the way you've learned to do.

Aaron's arm is around you, easy and careful, the weight of it a quiet anchor. His fingers trace slow, absent shapes on your arm, not ticklish, not demanding, just there. Sometimes it's a circle, sometimes a line, sometimes nothing you can name, and you find yourself counting the passes without meaning to, the way you count steps on stairs or tiles on floors or the number of times a kettle clicks before it boils. You lean into him because leaning is easier than holding yourself up all on your own tonight, and because he's warm in that steady way that doesn't ask anything back, doesn't shift unless you do first.

He's watching you, not in the way people sometimes do, like they're trying to solve you or waiting for you to do something wrong, but like he's just… looking. Like this is his favourite bit of the room. Like if he could pause the evening, he would leave it exactly here, right down to the way your fingers keep worrying the same bit of fabric and your foot keeps making a small, repetitive arc against the carpet.

"You like the texture of that one, don't you?" he says.

You glance at him, then back at the blanket, as if it might change its mind while you're not looking. "Yeah," you say, because simple is safer, because simple doesn't trip you up halfway through the sentence. After a second you add, "It's… good. Calming. It doesn't itch."

"That's a high bar," he says lightly.

"It really is," you say, and he smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and stays there instead of flickering out.

He shifts a little closer, checking your space without making a big deal out of it, and presses a kiss to your temple, careful, like he's asking first even though you've told him a hundred times he doesn't have to. You still appreciate that he does. "I like seeing you calm," he murmurs. His hand slides over yours, not stopping the movement, just joining it, warm and steady, his thumb resting where it can feel your pulse. "It makes me feel calmer too."

Your chest does that strange, tight-and-light thing at the same time, like someone has pulled a string inside you and then loosened it again. You breathe in, then out, a little slower than you need to, just to be sure, just to prove to yourself that you can. The room smells faintly of coffee from earlier and clean cotton and that lemony polish he used on the table. There's also the quiet, comforting smell of his aftershave, something woodsy that you can never quite name but always recognise, like a signpost you don't need words for.

The film gets louder, sudden music, sudden shouting, and you feel it before you properly think about it — your shoulders creep up, your jaw tightens, your fingers pause for half a beat like they're deciding whether to bolt or freeze. Your eyes flick to the speakers, then to the remote, and your heart does that annoying little stutter like it's trying to get ahead of you and trip you up in the process. You can feel the sound in your teeth, in the back of your head, like it's rattling around looking for a place to settle.

You reach for the remote, a bit too quickly, and knock it against the arm of the couch. The small clack of plastic on fabric feels louder than it should, sharp in the quiet you were just getting used to, and you flinch at your own clumsiness, heat rising in your cheeks for no good reason.

"Hey, I've got it," Aaron says, already picking it up before you can apologise for nothing. He turns the volume down a few clicks, then one more, watching your face instead of the screen, tracking the way your shoulders slowly drop and your jaw loosens. "Better?"

You wait a second, let the sound settle, let your ears stop ringing like they've been brushed the wrong way. "Yeah. Thanks." You exhale, slow, the way you've practised, counting it without counting it. "It was… a lot. My ears feel like they're still buzzing, even when it's quiet."

"Action scenes always are," he says. "We can skip it if you want. Or mute it and just read the subtitles. Or I can tell you when it's over. Or we can put something else on entirely."

You consider that, your fingers worrying the edge of the blanket again before you catch yourself and move back to the middle. "No, it's okay like this. I just… I like it quieter. And I like knowing what's coming. The music does that thing where it jumps, and my brain jumps with it." You make a vague gesture, because the right word won't line up, because sometimes the shape of the feeling is clearer than the name of it.

"That's fair," he says, and there's no edge to it at all, no hint that you're asking for too much. "Predictable is underrated anyway."

You snort before you can stop yourself. "You would say that."

"Occupational hazard," he says, and bumps his shoulder gently into yours. "Want me to warn you before the next loud bit?"

"That would help," you say, and you mean more than just this one moment. You're still a little surprised at how easy it is to ask him for things now, at how the words don't stick in your throat the way they used to, at how you don't have to rehearse every sentence first in your head.

Your hands go back to the blanket. You line up the fringe again, then realise one bit is shorter than the rest and get stuck on it for a moment, tugging at it, then forcing yourself to let it go because you know you'll keep at it until your fingers hurt if you don't. Your skin feels a little too bright, like the lights are turned up inside you, like every sensation is being underlined. There's a faint, restless energy under your ribs that won't quite settle, not bad, just… there, humming like a fridge in the next room.

Aaron notices — he always does — and squeezes your hand once, a small, grounding pressure that reminds you where you are and who you're with.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. Just… my brain being loud." You tilt your head back against him, careful not to bonk into his chin. "It's not bad loud. Just busy. Like too many tabs open, and one of them is playing music I can't find, and I don't know which one it is."

"I know that feeling," he says, and you believe him. "Busy I can handle. Do you want tea when this finishes? Or before, if that helps?"

You think about it, about the weight of a mug in your hands, about the steam on your face, about something warm and predictable that smells the same every time. You think about the kettle sound and decide you can handle that tonight, especially if you're not alone in the kitchen when it clicks off. "Yeah. That'd be nice. Only if it's not too much trouble."

"It's not," he says immediately, like the idea of it being trouble doesn't even exist. "I'll do your usual. Two sugars, right?"

"And milk first," you add, because it matters, because the order changes the taste in a way you can't ignore, because if it's wrong it will bother you the whole time in a low, persistent way.

"And milk first," he repeats, like he's filing it away even though he's known it for ages, like he still treats it as important information and not background noise, and something in your chest eases at that.

The film rolls on. You don't follow all of it, not really. Sometimes you lose a line of dialogue and have to piece it together from what you can see. Sometimes a sudden noise makes you blink too hard and your eyes sting for a second, and you have to look away from the screen until it settles again. Sometimes your leg starts bouncing and you don't notice until Aaron's hand settles on your knee, grounding, not stopping it, just there so you know where you are. You let it bounce anyway, because stopping takes more effort than continuing, and effort is in short supply tonight.

He murmurs, "Loud bit coming," just before the music swells again, and you're absurdly grateful for the warning, for the extra second to brace, for the way it keeps the sound from feeling like it comes out of nowhere and knocks the wind out of you.

A little later, when things have gone quiet again and the characters are talking instead of running, he asks, "What are you thinking about?"

"That this is nice," you say, then wince a little at how small that sounds, like you've undersold it, like you've described a whole painting by pointing at one corner. You try again, because he's patient and you want to get it right. "It's… like when it snows and everything goes sort of soft. Quieter. Like the world's wrapped in cotton and you don't have to brace for it so much. Like you can just… exist without waiting for the next thing to hit you."

He considers that, thumb still moving in slow, steady patterns on your hand, like he's keeping time with something only he can hear. "I like that picture," he says. "We can have more cotton-wrapped evenings. Put it on the schedule."

"Please," you say, half joking, half very serious. "With bad films we've already seen. And no surprises. And snacks that don't have weird textures."

"Especially those," he says. "We'll make it a whole tradition. I'll even screen the snacks."

The credits start to roll, white letters drifting up the screen. You realise your shoulders are down, properly down, not just pretending. Your jaw isn't clenched. Your hands are still moving, but slower now, easier, more like a habit than a necessity. Aaron shifts and pulls you closer, and this time you don't overthink it or check every angle first. Your head fits under his chin like it was made for that exact spot. His breath is warm against your hair, and you can feel his chest rise and fall, slow and even, a rhythm you can borrow for your own breathing when yours wants to speed up.

"I love nights like this," he says.

"Me too," you say, a little too softly, but he hears you anyway. He kisses your temple again, and your hands keep worrying at the blanket because that's just what they do, but you feel loose in your chest in a good way, like something has unclenched that you didn't realise you were holding so tight.

You stay like that for a minute longer than necessary, listening to the quiet hum of the room and the faint sounds from outside, counting the seconds without meaning to, then losing track and starting again. Then he adds, "I'll make the tea," and shifts like he's about to stand.

"Wait," you say, and he pauses immediately, like he always does when you ask. You press your face a little more into his shoulder, breathing in that familiar, steady smell. "Ten more seconds."

He smiles into your hair. "Okay. Ten more seconds. I can do ten."

You count them. Not perfectly. You lose track around seven and have to start again, then get distracted by the sound of his breathing and forget what number you're on, but he doesn't move, and neither do you, and it doesn't really matter.

Eventually he does stand, slow and unhurried, like he's making sure the room doesn't change too quickly around you. You follow him to the kitchen, blanket still around your shoulders because the air feels a bit cooler out there. The light is brighter, and you blink a few times until your eyes adjust. He moves around the space with the easy familiarity of someone who has learned the geography of a place and a person at the same time.

The kettle clicks on, a sound you brace for and then let pass. He sets your favourite mug on the counter without asking, the one that fits your hands just right, and when he pours the milk in first you feel another small, quiet easing inside your chest. Steam fogs the window a little, and you watch it instead of the clock.

"Two sugars," he says, more to himself than to you, and stirs slowly so it doesn't clink too loudly.

"Thank you," you say, and mean more than just the tea.

He brings the mugs back to the living room, and you settle again, tucking your feet up and reclaiming your corner of the couch. The film menu hums softly, waiting. You wrap your hands around the mug and let the warmth soak in, grounding and simple and real.

“Ain’t Nothing Subtle ‘Bout the Way He Loves Her”

The sun was dying slow and gold behind the Colorado hills when the Impala pulled up outside the Roadhouse. Dust rose soft around her tires like the place itself was exhaling—welcoming, wary, watching. It was the kind of spot that made your boots feel heavier and your shoulders feel lighter, if you knew what to do with a whiskey and had something worth bleeding for.

Dean popped the driver’s door, stepping out with his usual lean-and-stretch maneuver. The leather jacket creaked, the air smelled like beer, old pine, and maybe a dash of demon stink from some nearby town they’d just cleared out. But for once, his muscles weren’t tight with mission or guilt. Instead, his eyes flicked to the passenger door where she sat, legs tucked under her, hair wild from the wind.

“Y’ready for the madness?” he grinned, cocking a brow.

Y/N stepped out, slamming the heavy door closed behind her. “Please. I’ve seen you try to eat gas station sushi. I think I can handle your friends.”

Dean laughed—full and unguarded, the kind of laugh that made him look five years younger and a little more like the boy his mom remembered.

Inside, the Roadhouse was alive with the usual hum. Darts clinked. Glasses thudded. Ash’s ridiculous hair bobbed behind the bar as he scrolled something on his ancient laptop. Ellen looked up from a rag she was wringing out, sharp eyes landing on Dean. Then on the woman walking in beside him.

And like a switch flipped, her entire face changed.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Ellen said, a grin crawling slow across her face. “Dean Winchester, bringing a date into my bar?”

Dean instantly stiffened. “She’s not a date, she’s—”

Y/N was already giggling. “Don’t worry, Ellen. I know how hopeless he is with labels.”

That got a laugh from Jo, who popped out from the back room like she’d been waiting for the curtain to rise. “He’s definitely hopeless, alright.”

Dean groaned. “Great. A tag team.”

But Ellen wasn’t done. She came around the bar and sized Y/N up like a general inspecting a new recruit. Her eyes were sharp, measuring—but kind beneath it all. “You hunt?”

Y/N nodded. “My dad started me off with salt rounds and silver before I was potty trained.”

That got Ellen’s respect. She reached out to shake her hand.

Dean, behind them, tried so hard to play it cool. Just nods, casual, stoic. But his eyes betrayed him. Every second, he was checking Y/N’s face. Watching her reaction. Smiling like he’d swallowed the goddamn sun.

And Ellen saw it. Oh, she saw it.

⸻

An hour in and Dean had loosened up. The gang had made room at their usual table, drinks flowing, stories flying. Jo was trying to one-up Y/N with old salt-burn tales. Ash was explaining the finer points of demon detection with his “genius-level IQ,” which basically meant “I drink beer and hack things.”

And Dean?

Dean was floating. One arm over the back of Y/N’s chair, one leg half tangled with hers. He wasn’t even subtle. Whenever she laughed at something Jo said, he grinned like he’d won a war. Every time she reached for her beer, he was already sliding it closer.

Ellen stood at the bar, arms folded, watching the whole damn thing like it was a soap opera.

“You ever seen him like this?” she asked quietly to Ash.

Ash didn’t even look up from his screen. “Never. Dude’s whipped.”

⸻

Later, Y/N excused herself to the bathroom, and Dean got up to grab her another drink—leaving her jacket slung over the chair.

That’s when Ellen made her move.

“You got it bad,” she said, flat-out, wiping down the bar in slow circles.

Dean raised a brow. “What?”

She stared him down like a seasoned gunslinger. “Don’t play dumb, sweetheart. You’ve been grinning like an idiot all night. The only time you looked away from her was when you were blinking.”

Dean scoffed, scratched the back of his neck. “She’s cool. That’s all.”

Ellen leaned in. “You called her your girl three times already. And just now? You ordered her drink before she even asked. You don’t do that unless you’ve memorized someone’s whole damn soul.”

Dean blushed.

Actually blushed.

“Oh, man,” Ash mumbled from the end of the bar. “It’s terminal.”

Dean shot him a look. “Bite me.”

But Ellen smiled—soft now, not teasing. Just… knowing.

“She makes you happy, doesn’t she?” she asked.

Dean looked down at the bar top, swirling the condensation off his beer bottle with one finger.

“Yeah,” he said. “She does.”

And like some cheesy fate-orchestrated moment from a movie?

Y/N had walked up just in time to hear that.

⸻

He didn’t notice right away.

Not until she kissed his cheek when he handed her the beer, still warm from the bottle but even warmer from her lips.

He blinked. “What was that for?”

Y/N just smiled, coy. “Just… felt like it.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What’d I miss?”

Ellen chuckled under her breath.

Y/N leaned closer, her voice low and honey-smooth: “Nothing, baby. Just glad to be here.”

⸻

Outside, later that night, Dean had her pressed against the Impala, arms on either side, breath puffing warm in the chill.

“You heard me, didn’t you?” he muttered.

Y/N tilted her head. “Heard what?”

Dean groaned. “You know what.”

She laughed. “That you memorized my whole damn soul?”

Dean groaned louder, forehead thumping to her shoulder. “God, kill me now.”

But she pulled him in tighter, fingers sliding into the back of his hair.

“Not a chance,” she whispered. “I kinda like lovesick Dean.”

Dean grumbled against her neck. “I’m not lovesick.”

“Mm-hmm,” she teased. “Tell that to the three different people you told I’m the best shot you’ve ever seen."

“I stand by that.”

“And that I make better pie than you.”

“Lies. Slander. I was drunk.”

“And that you’d give up the Impala if it meant keeping me safe.” Dean stilled. Pulled back, looked into her eyes.

“I meant that one,” he said, voice low.

Her breath caught. “Dean…”

He leaned in. Kissed her soft. Then whispered against her lips, “Ain’t nothing subtle about the way I love you, sweetheart.”

⸻

Author’s Note:

Thank you for reading, you sinfully sweet sugar demons! If you ever wondered what it would look like if Dean tried not to be totally whipped in public and failed? This is it. Thank you for loving these soft moments with me, for believing in the kind of peace a hunter might dare to touch. Until next time, keep the pie warm and the Impala fuelled.

Dean, on the other hand, looks perfectly fine. His cheeks are flushed a light pink, but other than that, he looks like the cold can’t touch him in the slightest. It’s infuriating, actually, but it’s to be expected. Dean ‘I run hot’ Winchester was not lying. His leather jacket is wrapped around your shoulders, leaving him in just a flannel and t-shirt, and he’s even got the sleeves on the flannel rolled half-way up his forearms.

He catches you glaring at him in the rearview mirror, sending you an exaggerated wink that has you rolling your eyes.

“What?” he drawls, twisting around in his seat to look at you.

“Can’t believe you’re not cold,” you mutter under your breath.

He smirks. “I already told you, sweetheart, I run-.”

“You run hot, yeah. I know,” you finish for him.

Dean’s hand comes over the seat, squeezing your thigh gently.

“Hey, we’ll be fine. Sam’ll be comin’ back soon.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you know this how, exactly?”

He winces, knowing you caught his bluff.

“Wish we could’ve gone in all three of us, ‘s all,” you add, turning your attention back to your book.

“Me too, sweetheart. Me too. Can’t let lore boy have all the fun, can we?”

That wrangles a tiny smile out of you, and Dean grins like he’s just won the lottery. You avert your eyes back to reading the cramped lines of text and scrawled notes in the margins of John’s hunting journal. Sam’s a lucky bastard, you think as you read. The library seems to be the only warm place open in the whole town today, meaning every single person was in it. They’d only had capacity for one more, so the three of you mutually agreed that Sam would be the most efficient.

You’re regretting it now, the icy air biting at your exposed skin. You tuck Dean’s jacket tighter around you and shiver, goosebumps crawling up your arm. You start rubbing your hand up and down on your arm, and if you concentrate hard enough, you can almost convince yourself it’s working. Apparently, the rustle of fabric is frustrating Dean, because he opens his car door and steps out.

“Where are you going?” you shout after him, the door slamming shut before he turns and opens yours.

“Here,” he says cheekily.

“Close the door, Dean. ‘S freezing.”

He shuts the door with a little too much force, shaking his hand to get the tingles out of it. Dean slides down the bench until he’s mostly pressed against your side, head snaking over your shoulder to peek at your journal.

“Whatcha readin’ ‘bout?” he says in a sing-song voice.

You shoot him a glare, and he grins. “Your dad’s journal.”

“Yeah, I know that. I asked what you’re readin' about.”

You make a non-committal motion with your hand. “Dunno. Anything I can find that makes any damn sense?”

Dean hums, sliding closer. “Whatcha lookin’ at right now?”

You sigh, flipping a page back and pointing to a crudely drawn picture of a wraith. “That. Think it might be one of these.”

He frowns, taking the journal from you and examining it. You squawk indigently, but his eyes have focused on the page you were reading. His tongue pokes between his teeth just a little, and you can’t help but think it’s cute. Kind of like the tongues on cats when they finish drinking water or when you scratch them in that perfect spot behind the ears.

“So, what’s the verdict? Wraith?” you ask.

“What?”

“Wraith. Yes or no?”

“Yeah, probably.”

You raise an eyebrow again, thoroughly unimpressed. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t really care?”

Dean shrugs, kissing your forehead before sliding away from you and laying down on the seat, sprawling himself across the bench.

“Sammy’s searchin’. We don’t gotta do anythin’," he says, exaggerated as he stretches.

You tuck up into the corner, back jammed between the seat and the door. It’s not perfectly comfortable, and the metal is cold on your back, but you know Dean isn’t set on leaving you here. Not when he’s got that childish twinkle in his eyes that says he’s either about to do something extremely stupid, or extremely endearing.

“Dean,” you warn. “We’re working.”

“I know.” He rolls dramatically onto his back, staring at the roof of the car and stretching his arms up to touch it. “I don’t really care.”

You shrug your shoulders helplessly. “Why not?”

He twists his head around, craning his neck uncomfortably to stare at you. “’Cause I don’t want to.”

You swat at his head, and he ducks away from your attacks.

“Be nice to me," he whines.

“I am nice to you. You’re distracting me,” you complain.

He seems to realize that he has been and sits up properly on the opposite end of the bench as you. He hands the journal back to you, watching you get comfy in the space he’s vacated. Dean’s basically radiating warmth, and given that he’s so close to you, you’re already starting to warm up yourself. The beginnings of a smile work their way across Dean’s face, and you note the way it softens as it grows. Maybe his goal was just to warm you up after all.

You stretch your legs out on the bench, poking Dean with your shoe covered feet and pushing him even further into the corner. It’s a mostly unconscious maneuver, but now that you’re aware you’re doing it, it’s a little bit fun.

“Aw, c’mon, why’re you doin’ that?” Dean whines, swatting your feet away for the hundredth time.

“You were bugging me. I’m bugging you.”

He scowls, launching himself forward onto you not unlike the cat you’ve compared him to before. The air gets punched out of your lungs, and you laugh weakly as he shimmies himself around.

“What’s this about?” you tease, kissing the tip of his nose.

“You’re bein’ annoying,” he grumbles.

You run a hand through his hair, and he melts into you like butter in a hot pan. Completely boneless, like gravity decided to pull him against you and lay him out like a shag carpet.

“Am I?” you say softly, lowering your voice for his sake.

You’re calling his bluff before he even has a chance to push it too far. He gets like this when he’s tired; a little bit more annoying, a little bit whinier, a hell of a lot clingier. If he doesn’t have anyone to tell him off (Sam), he’ll drape himself over you wherever you are. Coincidentally, a lot like the cats he’s unfortunately allergic to.

“Mhm.”

He’s already drifting a little, his warmth soaking into you. You shuffle down the seat so you’re lying flat on your back. Dean has to fold a little bit to fit, those stupid long legs of his half-hanging off the seat, but he’s comfortable enough. You take off his leather jacket, balling it up and putting it under your head like a pillow.

“When’s Sam coming back?” you murmur.

Dean shrugs, grumbling something about how he could be years, I dunno. You chuckle, hoping Sam comes back in time to see his brother completely soft and pliable under your touch. Dean’s pride would never recover, but it would be funny.

You prop the journal up on Dean’s back, adjusting constantly to make sure his deepening breathing doesn’t disrupt your research. The minutes bleed together as you read, and you barely notice the snow starting to come down on the town outside the frosted car windows. With Dean laying on you, you barely even notice the chill.

Eventually, as the afternoon starts to bleed away into evening, the words on the pages you’re reading aren’t sticking in your brain anymore. They’re blurring together in new ways, merging so badly you could make your own language out of them. You close the journal, marking your page, and set it on the ground.

Hands freed, you rest them in Dean’s hair. You start moving them in slow circles, brushing through the dusty brown strands of his hair and gently massaging his scalp. He hums, the sound like rough gravel, melting infinitely deeper into your embrace. It’s almost pathetic if it weren’t so damn adorable; his big bad hunter façade completely leaves his body when you lay your hands on him.

In another life, you’re cozied up on your couch, in your very safe house, very unaware of the supernatural things outside your door. You’ve got Dean with you, but instead of lying chest down across your body, he’s curled up beside you. Maybe you’ve convinced him a cat is required, despite his frequent complaints, and maybe that cat is curled up in your lap right now. Your hand rubbing it on the head between the ears, its little paws tucked around you, purring softly.

That sounds too real. Something’s not right about this picture. You freeze, half-awake, distinguishing your daydreams from reality. No cat, no house. Dean’s here, and so is the purring.

When it finally clicks, your mouth opens slightly, an amused ‘o’ on your lips. The sound is coming from Dean. He’s sort of snoring; not a proper one, but not something you can confidently say is just an inhale. It’s kind of soft, actually, the way he’s letting himself dissolve into the warmth of the car. It melts something in your soul to know that he trusts you enough to let his guard down, even when he’s working a hunt. At this point, he’s too far gone to even care who comes in and sees him.

Which is great, because Sam’s back. He slides into the passenger seat, freezing for a second and looking around when he doesn’t see you or Dean. Craning his neck and twisting his upper body, his gaze lands on you in the backseat, Dean spread out across you.

“Aren’t you two cozy,” he deadpans.

“I’m being suffocated,” you tease.

“I’m sure. He doesn’t have a good concept of personal space.”

“I heard that,” Dean grumbles.

Sam stifles a laugh in the sleeve of his jacket. “You wanna head back to the motel then?”

Dean mutters something about how he’s getting up soon, but when he doesn’t move a muscle, you answer for him.

“Yeah, Sam. Might as well. ‘S warmer in there anyways.”

Sam hums in agreement. “Thought so.”

He slides into the driver’s seat before turning to you once again. “You find anything?”

You nod, pointing to the general location of John’s journal on the floor of the car. “I have some ideas. You?”

He nods excitedly. “So, get this. Turns out we are dealing with a wraith.”

You smile to yourself, having already made that conclusion, and gesture for him to continue.

“Apparently, one of the hospital patients said she remembers seeing a specific doctor come in to see her earlier in the week. Then, three days later, she says the same exact doctor came to see her again, acting like it was the first time. After that? Chance brush of a hand when she drops something, creepy face in the mirror, then everything goes all Girl, Interrupted.”

“Nice work, Sam,” you say, at the exact same time Dean says, “You talk too much.”

Sam and you exchange a look, bursting into laughter that makes Dean groan. You apologize with a light kiss to Dean’s lips, and he settled down again as Sam pulls the car out of the lot and back toward the motel. Dean’s knocked out by the time you get there, the steady hum of the road under the Impala’s tires making a perfect white noise for him. He’s not happy about being woken when you pull into the parking lot, making a show of groaning and complaining as he stretches.

“What, did we ruin your catnap?” you tease as you pull him out of the car.

“I was not havin' a catnap,” he complains.

“You absolutely were,” you reply.

“Was not.”

“Were too.”

“Was not.”

“Dude, you totally were. You were snoring when I came back in,” Sam chimes in after unlocking the door.

“I don’t snore, Sammy. Don’t spread lies about me.”

“Yes, you do. You talk in your sleep sometimes, too,” you finish defiantly.

You and Dean follow Sam into the motel room, arguing the whole way to bed about whether or not he snores, and whether the things he talks about in his sleep are “sexy and awesome”. You and Dean collapse on one bed, Sam takes the other, and when everyone’s settled again, it doesn’t take long to fall asleep. The motel room isn’t cold, and you have the deep breathing of both brothers to listen to and help lull you to sleep.

it was stupid. like, really stupid. you weren’t even trying. you’d laugh at his dumb jokes. real laughter, like you hadn’t just heard the same crap a hundred times, and you’d tilt your head and smile at him like he wasn’t forgetting how to breathe.

“morning,” you said one day, walking into the motel kitchen like you weren’t single-handedly ruining his life.

dean stared at you. big eyes. soft smile. hair messy from sleep. you had two pop-tarts in your hand and offered him one like it was no big deal. like you didn’t just rock his whole world on a tuesday morning.

“i saved the strawberry one for you,” you said, biting into the other one.

“you, uh... saved it?” he asked, heart doing parkour.

“yeah,” you said casually, like it wasn’t the most romantic gesture anyone had ever made. “i know you like the pink ones.”

he took it from you slowly, reverently, like you’d just handed him your heart or a wedding ring or the keys to your apartment in heaven.

he could hear sam snorting behind him.

“don’t,” dean muttered as he sat down, carefully unwrapping the pop-tart like it was fragile glass.

“you’re embarrassing,” sam whispered from the other side of the table.

dean kicked him under it.

you were just… nice. that’s what killed him the most. you were a hunter, sure, you’d seen the worst shit out there, but you still had this goodness to you. you said “bless you” when he sneezed. you brought him water when he had a headache. one time, you tied his hair back when he had engine grease in his eyes, and he swore he saw the gates of heaven for a second.

but the worst part? you thought he was just being friendly.

dean “i’ve been flirting with you since missouri” winchester was being interpreted as “just a pal.”

he helped you salt your room every night. gave you his shotgun when yours jammed. carried you to the car like a damn hero when you twisted your ankle. and what did you say?

“you’re such a good friend, dean.”

he was so fucking sick from it.

you never thought twice about it, you were just like that. but dean? he was one look away from falling to his knees every time you smiled at him for too long. it wasn’t cute anymore. it was actually getting kinda dangerous.

like, last night? you had the audacity to reach over during a movie and fix the collar of his flannel. just tugged on it real gently and said, “there. lookin’ good, winchester.” oh, as if you weren’t sending him into full cardiac arrest.

he blinked at you, totally dazed. “you, uh… wanna do that again?”

“what, fix your collar?”

“no. just… yeah. that.”

you giggled and went back to your popcorn like it was nothing. he genuinely had to pause the movie and walk out to the car to scream into his hands for a full thirty seconds.

dean decided right then, enough was enough.

he was gonna make a move. no more fake-flirty shit. he was gonna say something. do something. shake it up. see if maybe you felt any of this too.

so he did. he started getting bold. subtle, sure, but still. he stopped pulling away when your hands brushed, let his fingers linger. he’d bump your hip when you were standing next to him, catch your eye during long drives and hold the stare for too long.

and then one night, as you both sat outside the motel after a long-ass hunt, him with a beer and you with a root beer bottle sweating in your palm, he leaned in just a little too close. close enough that you could feel his breath on your jaw. you didn’t flinch, just smiled, eyes on the stars.

“y’know,” he said, voice low. “i like this. you and me. nights like this.”

you grinned. “yeah, me too. feels like we’re in a movie or somethin’.”

dean turned toward you, full body, arm draped across the back of the bench so it looked casual, but he was literally using it to inch closer to you.

he dropped his voice even lower. “if this was a movie, i’d probably kiss you right now.”

you snorted. snorted.

“you’re such a dork,” you laughed, sipping your soda. “you always say the corniest stuff.”

dean just blinked at you. you weren’t even joking, were you? you thought he was playing around. he wasn’t even sure what expression was on his face anymore. but he smiled through it. “yeah. guess I do.”

he wanted to crash the car into the nearest ditch. just a light crash. nothing fatal. just enough to knock some sense into you.

little did he know it would all start with a fight.

not a big one. just one of those dumb, hot motel arguments that always happened when you two were tired and hungry and road-tripping for way too long. he snapped at you over directions. of course his stupid ass decided it would be romantic to let you drive. you rolled your eyes. then he got real quiet. you knew something was bubbling under the surface.

“you gonna stay mad all night?” you asked eventually, dropping your bag on the motel bed and kicking off your boots. “it’s not like i crashed baby or something.”

dean didn’t answer. just stood there, jaw tight, hands on his hips, staring at the wall like it had personally offended him.

you huffed. “jesus, dean. chill out.”

that did it.

he turned around so fast you flinched, not because you were scared, dean didn’t scare you, but because his face looked wild. raw and flushed and just done with everything. “chill out?” he repeated, voice sharp. “chill out? you think this is me being mad about directions?”

you blinked. “uh. yeah? it kinda felt like-”

“i’m in love with you!”

the words dropped like a bomb. cut through the air so cleanly you honestly thought you misheard him.

you froze. “what?”

“i said I’m in love with you, you fucking idiot,” he snapped, and this time his voice cracked, not from anger, but from the weight of it. the years, the months, the fucking hours he’d spent holding it in. “do you even get what it’s been like for me? watching you walk around every damn day like we’re just buddies, like i don’t wanna rip my own heart out every time you look at me like that?”

you stared at him, stunned.

“like what?” you whispered.

“like you don’t know,” he growled, stepping closer. his hands were fists now, not angry ones, just ones that didn’t know what to do with themselves. “like you don’t feel it too. you laugh when I flirt with you, like it’s a joke. you wear my damn shirts, sleep on my shoulder, hold my hand when you’re tired, and I’m supposed to just… what, pretend it’s casual? just friendly?”

you opened your mouth. nothing came out.

dean shook his head, laughing bitterly. “i’ve been trying, okay? i’ve been trying to keep it cool. to let you come to me. but you’re either the most oblivious person I’ve ever met or you’re just cruel.”

“dean-”

“no,” he cut in, voice breaking again. “i can’t do it anymore. i’m in love with you. real, scary, punch-me-in-the-face love. and i swear to god if you don’t feel the same, i’m gonna lose my damn mind.”

and then you did the absolute worst thing imaginable.

you laughed.

dean’s face fell. he looked completely shattered. “are you kidding me?”

but you were already crossing the room, already putting your hand on his chest and shaking your head, grinning like an idiot.

“i know,” you said, breathless with laughter. “i know, dean. of course i know. you’re the most obvious man on planet earth.” he stared at you, completely stunned. you smiled. “i just didn’t think you meant it. i thought that was just… you. being dean.”

he blinked. “i was being me. me is fucking in love with you.”

you laughed again, soft this time, and your fingers curled into the collar of his shirt.

“im in love with you too, dumbass.”

his mouth opened like he was about to say something, probably some sarcastic little remark, but you kissed him before he could. pulled him down by the shirt and smashed your mouth against his, and it wasn’t gentle or careful or slow. It was sloppy, overdue, and desperate.

dean groaned, hands flying to your waist like instinct, pulling you in so tightly you could feel his heartbeat through his shirt. “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted to do that,” he muttered against your lips.

you kissed him again.

and again.

and again.

when you finally pulled back, dazed and smiling, his hands still on you like he was scared you’d vanish, he just stared at you. like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“so,” you said, a little breathless. “still mad about the directions?”

dean leaned in again, forehead resting on yours, his voice hoarse with relief. “you could drive us into a lake right now and i’d thank you.”

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bf!dean who would get really jealous if you were talking to another dude at a bar (even if you were just gathering info for a case you're working on) and would pull you back towards him by your belt loops.

bf!dean who would love seeing you get jealous if another started flirting with him. he would immediately tell the girl that he already has a girlfriend and kiss you.

bf!dean who would make you watch horror movies just so you'd curl up beside him and turn your face into his chest when you get scared.

bf!dean who would love running his thumb over your knuckles when holding your hand.

bf!dean who would shamelessly flirt with you just so you'd get flustered.

bf!dean who would be really clingy in the mornings and would mumble something about wanting "five more minutes" at least 20 times.

bf!dean who would look at you sleeping peacefully if he ever woke up before you.

bf!dean who loves playing with your hair and would start grinning when you glare at him and playfully slap his hand away, scolding him about messing you hair up.

bf!dean who loves giving you forehead kisses.

bf!dean who would want to murder anyone who even glanced at you wrong.

bf! dean who would worry about you every second that you're not at his side.

bf!dean who would take note of what you order so he would never mess up when ordering stuff for you.

bf!dean who would buy you anything you showed slight interest in.

bf!dean who wouldn't let you out of his sight during hunts.

bf!dean who would patch you up as gently as he could if you got hurt during a hunt.

bf!dean who could listen to you talk about random things that you're passionate about for days and never get bored.

bf!dean who loves holding you in his arms, especially at night.

bf!dean who wonders how he deserves such a sweet girl like you after everything he's been through.

bf!dean who would take you for late night drives if neither of you could sleep.

bf!dean who would always make time for you, no matter how busy he might be. nothing is as important to him as you are.

bf!dean who would buy your favourite flowers at least once a month.

bf!dean who loves your cooking. your cooking is the most delicious in his eyes and nothing will ever change that.

hunts always ended in different ways.

sometimes going back to the motel or bunker to shower and relax, going to the closest diner to eat, share some pie. other times you’d go out for drinks, spend a little time at the local bar.

every time, it would be you, dean and sam. just the three of you. often just you and dean at times when you wanted to be alone together.

it wasn’t often that you’d work a case with other hunters. maybe some old friends that sam or dean knew, people they’d worked with before, some that john knew before he passed.

while working the case, you’d stick with dean, pair off with him, do research and questioning with him. you weren’t all that fond of being around people you didn’t know, especially other guys. dean always understood that, made sure you were comfortable the whole time.

the hunt was fine, you didn’t mind that much. it didn’t even bother you when you had some lengthy discussions with one of the other hunters.

when it did start bothering you? one of the guys suggesting going out for drinks. knowing a bar that hunters often went to was close by. of course you’d all said yes, even though you knew it might not be your favourite way to settle down after a hunt.

it started off with everyone getting drinks, sat together to talk over the hunt, some teasing here and there for different techniques. until slowly a few would break off, have smaller talks.

first, was a few of the other hunters, then sam got up, going to talk to the guy he’d worked with on research for part of today. you thought you’d get some time with dean finally, until one of the guys called him over from across the bar.

“will you be alright for a couple minutes, sweetheart?” dean looked to you, saw you glancing over to the hunter. “or you can come over too.”

a shake of your head, “you go ahead,” you smile. “i’ll stay here. just me and my cocktail will be just fine.”

dean chuckled softly as he stood, leaning to kiss your cheek before heading to the bar. he’d been sipping on a beer, taking it with him as you saw him sitting down, already getting to chatting.

the lead hunter of the group went over shortly, starting a longer conversation. you were okay on your own, thinking you’d have some peace for a while. until one of the girls you’d worked with earlier in the day plopped onto the seat opposite you.

“nice work today,” she began, then motioning over to dean at the bar. “you two make a good team.”

“thanks,” a short but friendly reply. “big group you got going on.”

you looked around, feeling like half the bar was taken up just with them. it was different to you, dean and sam. with the addition of castiel being around sometimes. you functioned better in a small group.

“it works,” she shrugged. “we all have our place, what we do best, you know?”

you brought your drink up to your lips again, taking a bigger gulp as another joined you, this time sitting beside you. you sucked in a long breath, eyeing dean still talking. thinking you should’ve opted to go back to your motel room.

it wasn’t long before the conversations got flowing, starting off with you talking a little, and it got less and less as the night went on. maybe feeling a little drained, battery run out, too many people when usually you’d be curled up in dean’s arms by now.

instinctively, you reached for your necklace. something you often did without thinking, any time you were uncomfortable in a situation. moved the pendant back and forth, fiddled with it in your palm, it helped you to calm down.

the necklace being a gift from dean helped a lot. he got it a while back, something he thought you might like. a little heart on a silver chain, one you almost never took off now.

you would’ve stayed distracted, calming down, if your phone hadn’t buzzed in your pocket.

unsure of who would be texting you, since you could see sam across the room, dean was at the bar…

you pulled your phone from your pocket, switching on the front screen to see a notification from none other than dean. your brows furrowed, clicking his name to check the text.

dean: do you wanna leave?

oblivious, you didn’t know why he was asking. you glanced to him, saw he was talking again. under the bar, his phone was resting on his thigh, his hand over it as if waiting to feel the vibration of a notification.

you replied back,

no we can stay longer if you want

watching as he placed his beer down, turned his attention to his phone screen for a minute. you looked away again, sipping on your drink once more while zoning in and out of the conversation at your table.

dean: you’re sure?

you cleared your throat, smiling at sam as he walked past to head to the bathroom, one of the girls asking you a quick question. something about what bullets you’d used on the hunt today, to which you gave a fast answer.

then you quickly replied to dean again,

yea, why wouldn’t i be

turning off your phone this time, you expected him to carry on, probably get another drink, engage further into these lore conversations that seemed to be going on.

when, again, another vibration from your pocket.

dean: you’re fiddling with your necklace

you lifted your gaze to him again, he gave a quick look, small wave. then you sent an immediate reply with a slight frown.

how on earth could you have noticed that from over there

not that you saw, but a small smile grew on dean’s face as he read your reply. you’d been together for long enough that he knew your tells, knew what you did when you were uncomfortable. knew when he needed to get you out of there even if you didn’t say it yourself.

dean: you’re the only thing i notice sweetheart

before you had time to reply, you felt a hand on your shoulder, causing you to look up. right there, dean stood behind your chair, squeezing your shoulders gently as he leaned forwards.

“i don’t mean to interrupt, ladies,” he gave a nod towards them. “it’s getting a little late, think we should head out.”

nobody minding at all, dean took your hand, helping you to get up and out of your chair, seeing sam waiting at the door once you were standing.

leading the way, dean’s hand your back as you waked towards the impala, he unlocked it, sam getting in first. leaving time for you and dean to stand back for a moment.

“how you feeling?” dean asked, gentle palm cupping your cheek as if to check you over. “anything you need?”

a head shake, “i’m fine, dean, really.”

he grumbled slightly, “you’re stubborn, you know that?” your brow furrowed. “you’re overwhelmed, you’re still fiddling.”

that’s when your hand stopped, realising you had reached for your necklace again without even knowing it. not until dean pointed it out. you closed your eyes, sighing.

“it’s okay if you are, baby, this was a little out of your comfort zone, huh?” he stepped closer, taking your hand in his instead. “we can go back to the motel, or drop sammy off and get pie. just the two of us, like it usually is.”

you thought for a minute, looking to the ground first, to where you could see sam in the car, then back to dean. seeing his eyes shining in the light, how he just wanted to make sure you were okay before going anywhere.

how he always knew how you were feeling was beyond you. he seemed to notice it before you did yourself these days.

“maybe pie,” you mumbled.

“yea?” dean’s lips ever so gently curved into a smile. “we can get pie.”

you nodded, smiling softly as you let yourself fall against him. his arms wrapping around you in an instant. he felt as your fingers gripped onto his shirt, letting you release just a touch of the tension you were feeling.

“it’s okay, sweetheart, i’ve got you,” he kissed the top of your hair, rocking you back and forth to add to the comfort he knew you needed.

“love you, de,” you mumbled into his chest, blushing softly. something you still always did.

dean moved back just an inch, holding your chin between thumb and index finger to press a chaste kiss to your lips.

“love you too, sweetheart,” he moved back after, opening up the passenger side door for you. “now let’s go get some pie, hm?”

a slow nod, you climbed into the car, smiling back at sam, where he often was since dean wanted you to be up front. dean got in right after, starting up the impala to leave the busy bar, ready to end the night on a calm and quiet note with pie.

Your feet shuffle and your head tilts up. He's all sorts of soft.

"Oh. Hi," you whisper.

"Hi, pretty," he whispers back. "I missed you over there."

He nods behind to a table with Jo and Sam and wishes he'd been paying more attention to you, over here, tucked quiet in a corner and probably feeling alone, if he had to guess. He hadn't meant to ignore you.

You try your best smile, but it comes subtle. He gives your elbow a squeeze, hopes you don't cry, but he'll hold you if you do and won't be embarrassed to comfort you at all. He thinks you shove and tie everything in a pit of your chest for him, sometimes.

"I was watching you guys," you say. "I'm okay here."

He nods. "Okay. That's okay, if you wanna be here. It's a nice corner."

Your smile doesn't bloom, like he hoped. His fingers sweep down your arm and his thumb draws smooth circles over the skin of your wrist that are meant to soothe. Green eyes focused only on you, he's close enough to kiss your chin. It lingers.

He'll stand here for days, if that's what you want.

"I wish I could have fun," you murmur. "Pool looked fun."

"I'll teach you to play," he offers, voice light.

You sigh slow, and that familiar pull flowers through him. His arms loop around your waist, chin flat to the slope of your shoulder, and he sways you gently on your feet.

"In a few minutes," you mumble beneath his ear.

He hears you breathe him in, and revels in a sticky-sweet feeling when your hand petals up to rest over the nape of his neck, fingertips swirling through the hair there. He'll teach you to play, get you to giggle, maybe dance to the jukebox later. But holding you like this is just as lovely.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆

sam winchester 𐂂 

★ Sam notices almost immediately– he isn't even looking directly at you when it happens, he just catches the way your smile suddenly looks strained or how your eyes keep darting toward the floor. It’s almost as if you’re planning an escape, or what you would have to do in order to get back to your room. ★ He spends a few minutes subtly checking in without drawing attention to you. If you guys make eye contact, he’ll shoot you one of those signature Sam puppy-eyed ‘you good?’ looks without being too obvious. ★ Sam knows you’re trying your very best not to make a scene, he also knows you’re not gonna get up and leave. When he doesn’t see any improvement, and he sees your eyes getting suspiciously glossy? He decides he's getting you out of there. ★ Mid-conversation, he'll suddenly say something like:  "Hey, could you help me find my laptop?" Even though he knows exactly where it is. (No way in Hell Sam Winchester leaves his precious laptop unattended) Nobody questions it– you're usually helping him with small things here and there anyways. Besides, they’re all busy with their own conversations. ★ The second the door closes behind you both, his entire focus shifts– quickly shifting to be face to face with you, all gentle eyes and quiet murmurs. "Hey, hey– What's wrong?" ★ His voice is careful– no pressure, no demands– just reminding you he’s here and willing to listen if you want to let it out. ★ You immediately start crying? He's not surprised. Honestly, he was surprised you’d held it in so long as is. Sam stands close enough for you to feel his big warm presence but let you decide whether you want a hug or not. ★ If you lean into him, his arms are around you instantly. Not crushing, but firm and careful– letting you hold on as much or as long as you need. ★ Sam listens more than he talks. Even if the issue seems small from the outside, he never treats it that way– if it’s big enough to make you cry, it’s big enough to be taken with all the seriousness and respect he can. ★ He'll stay hidden away with you as long as you need, not caring if everyone else wonders where y’all went– he can handle that later. Right now? You need him and that’s far more important. He won’t even ask if you want to go back out. (He doesn’t want to pressure you) Instead, he’ll slowly start talking about softer, different things– trying to carefully guide your thoughts away from what just happened.

dean winchester ₍ᐢᐢ₎ 

He suddenly held up a lacey pair of your panties between two fingers with a grin.

“Oh yeah” He said casually, nodding approvingly “These are definitely one of my favorites”

You looked over your shoulder.

“Dean” You laughed, shaking your head.

“What?” He asked innocently “I’m just being appreciative”

You rolled your eyes playfully and tossed a shirt at him “Fold the laundry”

“I am folding the laundry” He defended himself.

Another pair appeared in his hands a minute later.

“Ooh, and these ones?” He added “Strong contender too”

You snorted, shaking your head as you turned back to your bedside counter “You are unbelievable”

Eventually, after a lot more teasing than actual productivity, Dean finally finished folding the laundry and wandered over to where you stood organizing your bedside table.

“What’s all this?” He asked, snooping through your things.

“Just stuff that I need to put away”

Dean picked up one of your makeup products, inspecting it with squinted eyes.

“You don’t even need this stuff, y’know” He said "I like the way you look when we wake up. Messy hair and all"

You chuckled softly at that and leaned over to kiss him quickly “That’s sweet”

“I mean it” He said, setting it back down “You’re pretty without all this”

You smiled a little at that before continuing to organize things.

His eyes wandered over the counter until they landed on a small army of colorful tubes.

“Why do you have so many of these?” He asked, picking up one of them “There’s like a hundred of them”

“Those are my lip balms”

Dean counted dramatically “One, two, three— Sweetheart, this is a problem”

“I like them” You laughed, shrugging a little “They keep my lips soft”

Dean paused, then slowly looked at your mouth.

“…Oh” He smirked “So that’s your secret for soft lips, huh?” He leaned in, pecking your lips “That’s why you’re so hard to stop kissing?" He murmured, leaning in to steal a few more lingering kisses.

You laughed softly against his lips “It is”

“Huh” He murmured thoughtfully, pressing another kiss on your mouth "Yeah. Works. I'm a fan"

You shook your head, smiling.

Then Dean picked one of the lip balms up again, squinting at the label.

“'Wild Cherry'?” He read the label “They’re flavored?"

You nod “Yeah, most of them are”

“Huh” He hummed "And here I thought you were supposed to wear 'em, not eat 'em” He teases “You got a secret snack habit I should know about?"

"It’s for the scent, you dork" You snort, poking his chest.

“The scent, huh?”

Immediately, a playful grin spread across his face.

He scooped up a handful of the tubes and held them out to you "Try 'em on"

You snorted “What, now? Why?”

"You try 'em on…" He said, his voice dropping to a low, playful tone "I’ll close my eyes, and I have to guess the flavor. It’s a very important scientific experiment"

Dean shut his eyes and puckered his lips, waiting patiently like he was taking the challenge very seriously.

“Ready” He announced.

Laughing, you picked one and applied it. Then you stepped closer and kissed him softly.

Dean kissed you back deeply, his hands finding your waist. Hhummed against your lips thoughtfully, like he was genuinely analyzing the flavor.

"Hmm, I don't know" He whispered, his eyes still firmly shut "That’s tricky. I’m gonna need another taste. Just to be sure"

You chuckled “Dean”

“What? I’m concentrating” He said innocently “I need to be sure, y’know, for the accuracy of the investigation. So c’mere”

He pulled you back in for a much longer, slower kiss.

Each time you switched to a different flavor, he’d give the same performance; furrowing eyebrows, pretending to be confused, and insisting he needed "one more sample" just to be absolutely certain.

"You know exactly what the flavors are" You chuckle.

His lips lift in a small smirk.

"I have no idea what you're talking about" He said, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you "I’m a very thorough investigator. I think I need to go through the whole collection. At least twice. Just to be sure"

You laughed. The sound making him smile before leaning in and kissing you again.

dumb idea lol i got it while shopping for lip balms because my lips are in fact very dry 🥲 anyway

His lips tug and he smiles mild, fond, and brings your hand to slip down into his palm. He squeezes twice. Your voice snags on his ear, just subtly tense. Maybe he's imagining it, too attentive. But when has he ever let details fall to chance? He can handle being called annoying, overbearing. A small chip to take for worrying over you.

"Have you been sleeping at all?"

"...A little. My brain won't shut off."

He feels that like a velvet thud of knuckle to his heart. Familiar. You sit up and back against paled cushions, hand still caught in his.

"I'll listen, sweetheart. If you wanna talk."

You nod slow and look so far away. He'd like to bring you back but feels a little out of his depth. What can he offer that isn't among the secret, tender things he wants so badly with you?

I love you. You can come to my bed and stay there forever and sink deep into the mattress springs with me.

"Wanna take a drive?" he asks instead.

Your hands together are melding heat. He watches as you lean close and his lungs hiccup when your forehead plants lightly to his. He doesn't know if he's allowed to move. Frozen as a statue, he thinks you'd be one of those smooth, marble ones in museums.

"That would be nice," you say. "Please. Thank you."

He's the only one in the world who can hear you right now. Sweetness fills every inch of his chest, it overflows in a big rise to his face, and stains your nose where the tip of his nudges.

"Yeah, angel. Anytime, c'mon."

There's a tingling to his lashes, eyelids leathery. Doesn't matter. He pulls you from the couch and isn't sure which fingers are his or yours anymore. He will drive on and on and ache.

the world is swimming just a little and his head gives a small tilt as you shake yours at him, looking much too concerned for his liking. there's a pinch to your brow, and your fingers find his sleeve of leather.

"it's me," you say, voice soft and then booming in his ears. everything is quiet and then loud, quiet again. until your fingers hook beneath his chin to make him meet your searching gaze, and it's all narrowed down to you.

and you are an angel.

"let's go back, dean," you murmur, helping him out of his stool. his boots scuff against the floor, and he takes your hand happily once your grip on his sleeve lessens. "you wanna go home?"

his brows furrow, because he thinks he already is. you are.

you are home; safe and warm and all that he ever needs. and you're here, with him. his glittering green eyes flit over your features, pink lips slightly parted as he lets out a soft breath. his hand lands gently on your arm as he stands.

"you came to get me?"

"'course, de. you feel okay?"

he nods. a second of silence and a bob of his throat. "m'drunk, pretty."

pretty.

"i know you are, tough guy. come on."

heat stews beneath your cheeks and with his hand in yours, you begin to weave through the crowds of people occupying the bar. dean stumbles slightly behind you, towering and flushed and looking a little like a lost puppy as he follows at your heel.

and he called you pretty. there's a part of him that really thinks so. maybe all of him, you hope.

the cool air outside hits you in a refreshing wave. dean squeezes at your hand gently and tugs you a little closer, walking in slower steps than usual as you head for the impala.

"sweetheart," he breathes from beside you. "i like holding your hand."

your heart pangs and you force yourself to keep your focus ahead. "is that so?"

he hums, still watching you. his teeth dig into the plush of his bottom lip and he leans down to press his forehead to your temple. a swarm of something warm and erratic flutters about your stomach, and the feeling almost keels you over.

your feet still and you turn to look at him once he lifts his head.

"y'smell good," he whispers, eyes half-lidded and boring into yours. his hands find your waist slowly, gently. you let them. "i like that you're here."

you ache. tender and melancholy, because you've always wished to hear his words. but not like this. not when you're unsure that he even means them at all.

"don't like being alone," he continues, so close that his nose nearly brushes yours. his breath smells like bourbon, but you don't care at all. "m'gonna- i like... you."

don't like being alone.

i like you.

you reach up to cup his face gently between your palms, and he leans greedily into the touch, cheeks a little rosy now from the cold. his eyes shine a little more than before, under the moon's silver.

"dean-"

"love that. when you say my name," his voice is so quiet, low and vulnerable. "your voice s'nice. safe."

his eyes close, dark lashes kiss his cheekbones as he nuzzles against your hands and presses on, forehead bumping yours.

everything is hot, despite the air. your cheeks and hands and face, it's all warm. and there's something golden blooming inside of you, an ache in your chest and a swell of your heart.

he won't remember in the morning, you think. so you'll say it just once.

"love you," your voice is barely a breath, but dean catches it. his brows pinch, eyelids fluttering open. he's staring at something within you that is usually guarded and secure. "very much. let's leave, okay?"

he's quiet and unmoving. a moment passes, and then several. before he straightens with a hesitant slowness and nods, hands smoothing up your waist before he lets go.

his touch lingers and brands into your skin, and that allows you to pretend it's still there. that this was all real and sober and for you. that he really does think you're pretty and an angel.

that you're his home.

you are.

and he'll most definitely remember in the morning.

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ offers you the bed, then ends up sneaking next to you ๋࣭ ⭑ he tries to be noble for approximately five minutes before realizing the couch is awful and you look way too comfortable. you don’t make a big thing of it, which is exactly why he relaxes. you just lift the blanket slightly, sleepy and unbothered, and dean grumbles his way into the bed like this wasn’t what he wanted the whole time. you’re warm, steady, not fidgety. by morning, he’s stolen half your pillow and refuses to acknowledge it. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ wants to share the bed ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re safe in a way that doesn’t make him feel cornered, so sharing feels practical… until it starts feeling soft. sam is very calm about it. suspiciously calm. he says there’s no point in either of you sleeping badly when the bed is big enough, then proceeds to lie there extremely still because now he’s aware of every breath you take. you fall asleep first. he doesn’t. not for a while.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ puts pillows between you, but wakes up cuddling anyway ๋࣭ ⭑ he calls it a “safety wall,” you call it pathetic, and by sunrise the whole system has mysteriously collapsed. you talk too much. he tells you this several times. then keeps answering. then starts laughing. then rolls closer without meaning to. the pillows don’t survive the night because apparently banter is a gateway drug to accidental cuddling, and dean wakes up with your face near his shoulder looking deeply betrayed by his own body. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ shares, but overthinks the entire thing ๋࣭ ⭑ he thinks it’ll be fine because you’re fun and easy to talk to, then remembers you are also impossible to predict. sam tries to read before sleeping. huge mistake. you keep asking questions, making comments, stealing glances, turning the room into a podcast studio. eventually he tells you to go to sleep, but his voice is too fond to be convincing. he wakes up still on his side, careful as ever, with you having somehow stolen most of the blanket.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ shares, no pillow wall ๋࣭ ⭑ he trusts you not to make him feel stupid for needing rest, which is basically emotional nudity for him. dean tries to act normal, but he’s softer with you from the start. he takes the side closest to the door without discussing it, because of course he does, and lets you settle in before he turns off the light. you don’t tease him when he stays awake a little too long. you just say goodnight quietly, and that somehow ruins him more. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ offers the bed, then ends up sharing and cuddling ๋࣭ ⭑ he wants to do the gentlemanly thing, but you refuse to let him fold himself onto a motel couch like a tragic lawn chair. you can tell he’s tired before he admits it. so you pat the empty side of the bed and give him that look—the one that says you’re not arguing about this at midnight. sam gives in because he trusts your care. by morning, there’s barely any space between you, and neither of you says a word about it.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ insists on sharing ๋࣭ ⭑ he acts casual, but the second you look too good sitting on that bed, his confidence starts doing dangerous little flips. this becomes flirtation with a mattress involved. horrible idea. you take up space so naturally, so warmly, so beautifully, and dean pretends he isn’t affected while absolutely being affected. he says, “don’t hog the blanket,” then proceeds to hover near the edge because touching you by accident suddenly feels too loaded. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ puts pillows between you ๋࣭ ⭑ he needs a barrier because you have too much presence, and his self-control is already filing complaints. sam respects you. admires you. is deeply, privately flustered by you. so yes, the pillows appear. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he does not trust himself after the way you smile at him in low light. by morning, the pillows are still there, but his hand is resting over one of them, close enough to count.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ lets you take the bed, then gets dragged into sharing ๋࣭ ⭑ he tries to sacrifice his spine until you calmly inform him that being stupid is not actually heroic. you do not romanticize his nonsense, which is why this works. dean says he’ll take the floor, you tell him he has bruised ribs and terrible judgment, and he complains while obeying you. the bed is shared with military precision at first. then he relaxes. then he falls asleep faster than he meant to, because around you, he feels handled in the best way. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ shares very responsibly ๋࣭ ⭑ you both pretend this is a practical sleeping arrangement, which is hilarious because the tension has receipts. sam likes that you’re sensible about it. no drama, no teasing, no weird performance. you each take a side, set alarms, agree on blanket distribution, and somehow that makes it more intimate than if either of you flirted. he wakes up before you and stays still, because your hand is near his wrist and apparently that is enough to destroy him.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ shares, but teases you the whole time ๋࣭ ⭑ he cannot let the room stay normal because you look too pretty under ugly motel lighting and he needs to make that someone else’s problem. dean turns it into a bit. “don’t try anything,” “keep your cold feet over there,” “this is a professional arrangement.” meanwhile, he’s the one watching you too long when you laugh. you fall asleep first, peaceful and smug, and he lies there wondering when exactly sharing a bed started feeling less funny and more dangerous. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ offers the bed, then shares ๋࣭ ⭑ he’s too polite to assume, you’re too charming to let him suffer, and suddenly the couch has lost the election. sam starts formal. painfully formal. you take the bed, he’ll take the couch, no problem. then you tilt your head and ask if he’s seriously planning to sleep with one leg hanging off the end, and he folds. not quickly, but he folds. by morning, you’ve stolen the blanket and he lets you.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ shares, but the tension is obscene ๋࣭ ⭑ neither of you says anything inappropriate, which somehow makes it worse. this is the quietest disaster. dean takes the side near the door. you notice. he notices you noticing. the air turns thick with things neither of you is brave enough to name, so you both lie there in the dark pretending sleep is an option. it is not. by morning, you’ve barely slept, and somehow it still feels incriminating. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ prefers the floor at first ๋࣭ ⭑ he does not trust how deeply you read him, and sharing a bed feels way too close to letting you win. sam says he’ll sleep on the floor. you stare at him until the silence becomes a weapon. eventually he gives in, because he’s exhausted and because pretending he’s unaffected by you is taking too much energy. he sleeps on the edge, careful and guarded, but wakes up turned toward you anyway. traitor body.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ shares, steals the blankets ๋࣭ ⭑ you make the whole thing too funny for him to be mature about, so naturally the night becomes a low-stakes war. you flop onto the bed first, claim the good pillow, and dean immediately acts personally attacked. the two of you bicker over space, temperature, and who is breathing too loudly. he steals the blankets, you kick him, he laughs, and somehow it becomes one of the best nights of sleep he’s had in weeks. annoying. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ chooses the couch, regrets it instantly ๋࣭ ⭑ he thinks distance will protect his peace, then remembers you have zero respect. sam tries to sleep on the couch because you are chaos with a pulse and he knows you’ll keep talking. you do keep talking. from the bed. across the room. about nonsense. eventually he gives up, gets into the bed with the exhausted patience of a man accepting his fate, and mutters, “go to sleep.” you do not.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ prefers the floor, but you don’t allow it ๋࣭ ⭑ he tries to out-stubborn you, which is bold, considering you are professionally stubborn. dean says he’s fine on the floor. you say no. he says he’s slept in worse places. you say that’s not the flex he thinks it is. eventually he gets into the bed with the dramatic irritation of a man who has lost and knows it. you both sleep stiffly at first, then wake up closer because apparently control is fake. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ shares like adults ๋࣭ ⭑ he appreciates that you don’t make it weird, until the lack of weirdness somehow makes it extremely weird. sam trusts your composure. you trust his. so sharing should be easy. clean. mature. unfortunately, quiet tension loves responsible people. you both keep to your sides, but there’s something painfully intimate about the restraint, about knowing neither of you would cross a line unless invited.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ insists on taking the couch ๋࣭ ⭑ he does not know what to do with your emotional independence, so he chooses furniture-based avoidance. dean acts casual, but he’s suspicious of how unbothered you are. you don’t beg him to share, don’t tease him into it, don’t make the obvious joke—and that bothers him more than if you had. he lasts the night on the couch, then complains all morning like he didn’t make the choice himself. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ shares, with a pillow between you ๋࣭ ⭑ he likes your mind too much to risk low-light vulnerability without at least one sad little fabric boundary. sam is curious about you, comfortable with your strangeness, but still cautious. he puts the pillow between you almost apologetically, and you don’t even argue, which makes him feel ridiculous. by morning, the pillow is on the floor. neither of you knows who moved it. both of you are lying.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ gives you the bed, then ends up sharing ๋࣭ ⭑ he tries to protect you from discomfort, then folds the second you softly ask him not to sleep on the floor. you don’t push. that’s the problem. you just look at him with those tired, gentle eyes and say there’s enough room. dean grumbles, acts put-upon, makes one joke to survive the tenderness, then climbs in. he sleeps closer than he means to. wakes up with his hand near yours. pretends not to notice. absolutely notices. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ puts pillows between you, but wakes up cuddling anyway ๋࣭ ⭑ he thinks boundaries will help, but you’re warm and soft and sam is only human despite the giant moral burden aesthetic. sam is careful. always careful. he makes space, checks that you’re comfortable, says goodnight in that low voice that makes the room feel quieter. then somewhere around dawn, all that carefulness disappears, and he wakes up with you tucked close against him. he freezes, panics internally, then relaxes for one stolen second too long.

Dean, on the other hand, looks perfectly fine. His cheeks are flushed a light pink, but other than that, he looks like the cold can’t touch him in the slightest. It’s infuriating, actually, but it’s to be expected. Dean ‘I run hot’ Winchester was not lying. His leather jacket is wrapped around your shoulders, leaving him in just a flannel and t-shirt, and he’s even got the sleeves on the flannel rolled half-way up his forearms.

He catches you glaring at him in the rearview mirror, sending you an exaggerated wink that has you rolling your eyes.

“What?” he drawls, twisting around in his seat to look at you.

“Can’t believe you’re not cold,” you mutter under your breath.

He smirks. “I already told you, sweetheart, I run-.”

“You run hot, yeah. I know,” you finish for him.

Dean’s hand comes over the seat, squeezing your thigh gently.

“Hey, we’ll be fine. Sam’ll be comin’ back soon.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you know this how, exactly?”

He winces, knowing you caught his bluff.

“Wish we could’ve gone in all three of us, ‘s all,” you add, turning your attention back to your book.

“Me too, sweetheart. Me too. Can’t let lore boy have all the fun, can we?”

That wrangles a tiny smile out of you, and Dean grins like he’s just won the lottery. You avert your eyes back to reading the cramped lines of text and scrawled notes in the margins of John’s hunting journal. Sam’s a lucky bastard, you think as you read. The library seems to be the only warm place open in the whole town today, meaning every single person was in it. They’d only had capacity for one more, so the three of you mutually agreed that Sam would be the most efficient.

You’re regretting it now, the icy air biting at your exposed skin. You tuck Dean’s jacket tighter around you and shiver, goosebumps crawling up your arm. You start rubbing your hand up and down on your arm, and if you concentrate hard enough, you can almost convince yourself it’s working. Apparently, the rustle of fabric is frustrating Dean, because he opens his car door and steps out.

“Where are you going?” you shout after him, the door slamming shut before he turns and opens yours.

“Here,” he says cheekily.

“Close the door, Dean. ‘S freezing.”

He shuts the door with a little too much force, shaking his hand to get the tingles out of it. Dean slides down the bench until he’s mostly pressed against your side, head snaking over your shoulder to peek at your journal.

“Whatcha readin’ ‘bout?” he says in a sing-song voice.

You shoot him a glare, and he grins. “Your dad’s journal.”

“Yeah, I know that. I asked what you’re readin' about.”

You make a non-committal motion with your hand. “Dunno. Anything I can find that makes any damn sense?”

Dean hums, sliding closer. “Whatcha lookin’ at right now?”

You sigh, flipping a page back and pointing to a crudely drawn picture of a wraith. “That. Think it might be one of these.”

He frowns, taking the journal from you and examining it. You squawk indigently, but his eyes have focused on the page you were reading. His tongue pokes between his teeth just a little, and you can’t help but think it’s cute. Kind of like the tongues on cats when they finish drinking water or when you scratch them in that perfect spot behind the ears.

“So, what’s the verdict? Wraith?” you ask.

“What?”

“Wraith. Yes or no?”

“Yeah, probably.”

You raise an eyebrow again, thoroughly unimpressed. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t really care?”

Dean shrugs, kissing your forehead before sliding away from you and laying down on the seat, sprawling himself across the bench.

“Sammy’s searchin’. We don’t gotta do anythin’," he says, exaggerated as he stretches.

You tuck up into the corner, back jammed between the seat and the door. It’s not perfectly comfortable, and the metal is cold on your back, but you know Dean isn’t set on leaving you here. Not when he’s got that childish twinkle in his eyes that says he’s either about to do something extremely stupid, or extremely endearing.

“Dean,” you warn. “We’re working.”

“I know.” He rolls dramatically onto his back, staring at the roof of the car and stretching his arms up to touch it. “I don’t really care.”

You shrug your shoulders helplessly. “Why not?”

He twists his head around, craning his neck uncomfortably to stare at you. “’Cause I don’t want to.”

You swat at his head, and he ducks away from your attacks.

“Be nice to me," he whines.

“I am nice to you. You’re distracting me,” you complain.

He seems to realize that he has been and sits up properly on the opposite end of the bench as you. He hands the journal back to you, watching you get comfy in the space he’s vacated. Dean’s basically radiating warmth, and given that he’s so close to you, you’re already starting to warm up yourself. The beginnings of a smile work their way across Dean’s face, and you note the way it softens as it grows. Maybe his goal was just to warm you up after all.

You stretch your legs out on the bench, poking Dean with your shoe covered feet and pushing him even further into the corner. It’s a mostly unconscious maneuver, but now that you’re aware you’re doing it, it’s a little bit fun.

“Aw, c’mon, why’re you doin’ that?” Dean whines, swatting your feet away for the hundredth time.

“You were bugging me. I’m bugging you.”

He scowls, launching himself forward onto you not unlike the cat you’ve compared him to before. The air gets punched out of your lungs, and you laugh weakly as he shimmies himself around.

“What’s this about?” you tease, kissing the tip of his nose.

“You’re bein’ annoying,” he grumbles.

You run a hand through his hair, and he melts into you like butter in a hot pan. Completely boneless, like gravity decided to pull him against you and lay him out like a shag carpet.

“Am I?” you say softly, lowering your voice for his sake.

You’re calling his bluff before he even has a chance to push it too far. He gets like this when he’s tired; a little bit more annoying, a little bit whinier, a hell of a lot clingier. If he doesn’t have anyone to tell him off (Sam), he’ll drape himself over you wherever you are. Coincidentally, a lot like the cats he’s unfortunately allergic to.

“Mhm.”

He’s already drifting a little, his warmth soaking into you. You shuffle down the seat so you’re lying flat on your back. Dean has to fold a little bit to fit, those stupid long legs of his half-hanging off the seat, but he’s comfortable enough. You take off his leather jacket, balling it up and putting it under your head like a pillow.

“When’s Sam coming back?” you murmur.

Dean shrugs, grumbling something about how he could be years, I dunno. You chuckle, hoping Sam comes back in time to see his brother completely soft and pliable under your touch. Dean’s pride would never recover, but it would be funny.

You prop the journal up on Dean’s back, adjusting constantly to make sure his deepening breathing doesn’t disrupt your research. The minutes bleed together as you read, and you barely notice the snow starting to come down on the town outside the frosted car windows. With Dean laying on you, you barely even notice the chill.

Eventually, as the afternoon starts to bleed away into evening, the words on the pages you’re reading aren’t sticking in your brain anymore. They’re blurring together in new ways, merging so badly you could make your own language out of them. You close the journal, marking your page, and set it on the ground.

Hands freed, you rest them in Dean’s hair. You start moving them in slow circles, brushing through the dusty brown strands of his hair and gently massaging his scalp. He hums, the sound like rough gravel, melting infinitely deeper into your embrace. It’s almost pathetic if it weren’t so damn adorable; his big bad hunter façade completely leaves his body when you lay your hands on him.

In another life, you’re cozied up on your couch, in your very safe house, very unaware of the supernatural things outside your door. You’ve got Dean with you, but instead of lying chest down across your body, he’s curled up beside you. Maybe you’ve convinced him a cat is required, despite his frequent complaints, and maybe that cat is curled up in your lap right now. Your hand rubbing it on the head between the ears, its little paws tucked around you, purring softly.

That sounds too real. Something’s not right about this picture. You freeze, half-awake, distinguishing your daydreams from reality. No cat, no house. Dean’s here, and so is the purring.

When it finally clicks, your mouth opens slightly, an amused ‘o’ on your lips. The sound is coming from Dean. He’s sort of snoring; not a proper one, but not something you can confidently say is just an inhale. It’s kind of soft, actually, the way he’s letting himself dissolve into the warmth of the car. It melts something in your soul to know that he trusts you enough to let his guard down, even when he’s working a hunt. At this point, he’s too far gone to even care who comes in and sees him.

Which is great, because Sam’s back. He slides into the passenger seat, freezing for a second and looking around when he doesn’t see you or Dean. Craning his neck and twisting his upper body, his gaze lands on you in the backseat, Dean spread out across you.

“Aren’t you two cozy,” he deadpans.

“I’m being suffocated,” you tease.

“I’m sure. He doesn’t have a good concept of personal space.”

“I heard that,” Dean grumbles.

Sam stifles a laugh in the sleeve of his jacket. “You wanna head back to the motel then?”

Dean mutters something about how he’s getting up soon, but when he doesn’t move a muscle, you answer for him.

“Yeah, Sam. Might as well. ‘S warmer in there anyways.”

Sam hums in agreement. “Thought so.”

He slides into the driver’s seat before turning to you once again. “You find anything?”

You nod, pointing to the general location of John’s journal on the floor of the car. “I have some ideas. You?”

He nods excitedly. “So, get this. Turns out we are dealing with a wraith.”

You smile to yourself, having already made that conclusion, and gesture for him to continue.

“Apparently, one of the hospital patients said she remembers seeing a specific doctor come in to see her earlier in the week. Then, three days later, she says the same exact doctor came to see her again, acting like it was the first time. After that? Chance brush of a hand when she drops something, creepy face in the mirror, then everything goes all Girl, Interrupted.”

“Nice work, Sam,” you say, at the exact same time Dean says, “You talk too much.”

Sam and you exchange a look, bursting into laughter that makes Dean groan. You apologize with a light kiss to Dean’s lips, and he settled down again as Sam pulls the car out of the lot and back toward the motel. Dean’s knocked out by the time you get there, the steady hum of the road under the Impala’s tires making a perfect white noise for him. He’s not happy about being woken when you pull into the parking lot, making a show of groaning and complaining as he stretches.

“What, did we ruin your catnap?” you tease as you pull him out of the car.

“I was not havin' a catnap,” he complains.

“You absolutely were,” you reply.

“Was not.”

“Were too.”

“Was not.”

“Dude, you totally were. You were snoring when I came back in,” Sam chimes in after unlocking the door.

“I don’t snore, Sammy. Don’t spread lies about me.”

“Yes, you do. You talk in your sleep sometimes, too,” you finish defiantly.

You and Dean follow Sam into the motel room, arguing the whole way to bed about whether or not he snores, and whether the things he talks about in his sleep are “sexy and awesome”. You and Dean collapse on one bed, Sam takes the other, and when everyone’s settled again, it doesn’t take long to fall asleep. The motel room isn’t cold, and you have the deep breathing of both brothers to listen to and help lull you to sleep.