The motel room smells like rain and old wood that familiar roadside mix of cheap comfort and things Dean pretends don’t bother him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, boots still on, flannel half unbuttoned, staring at an empty bottle like it personally offended him.

The door clicks. You walk in.

He doesn’t look up right away. He knows it’s you from the sound the way your footsteps aren’t afraid of him, the way your keys jingle soft, the way you shut the door like you’re trying not to wake ghosts.

“Hey,” he mutters. Voice low. Rough. Not drunk just tired.

You set your stuff down, and that’s when he looks up. His shoulders drop an inch. His jaw unclenches. Something in him eases in a way it never does with anyone else.

“You, uh…” He clears his throat. “…get what we needed?”

You nod. He nods back, like it was a life-or-death question and not small talk. That’s the thing about Dean the little things matter more to him than anything he’ll admit.

*He watches you move around the room the way you toss your jacket, the way you brush hair behind your ear, the way you look over at him like you’re checking he’s actually here.£

“C’mere,” he murmurs suddenly. Not a command. A plea.

You sit beside him. The bed dips. His breath stirs your shoulder.

Dean closes his eyes for a second like he’s swallowing down a prayer. Then, without looking at you

“Damn it,” he whispers, voice cracking like a matchstick, “you make me believe in things I shouldn’t.”

He finally turns toward you green eyes tired, hurting, soft in a way he’d kill to hide from anyone else.

His hands hover near yours, rough knuckles hesitating like he’s scared to break something beautiful. “Stay for a bit?”

A beat. Then softer “Or… stay the night. I don’t care how. Just don’t walk away yet.”