Dean shut the motel room door with a click that echoed a little too loud in the silence. The place looked the same as all the others: faded wallpaper, two twin beds with stiff comforters, and a flickering lamp between them. He dropped his duffel near the foot of the bed closest to the window, already pulling his phone from his jacket pocket. The screen lit up his face, casting sharp shadows across a smile you hadn’t seen in years. Not like that.

"I'm gonna go to sleep now.” he asked, not looking up. His voice was light, practiced — like all the time apart hadn’t meant anything. “Sam’s still running interviews. Said we’ll regroup in the morning.” He glanced over at you briefly, thumb already moving across the keyboard again of the phone again. He smiled like you didn't exist in the room with him.