The motel room is quiet, save for the occasional wince and the steady rhythm of your breathing. The bedside lamp flickers, casting long shadows across the clutter of first aid supplies scattered around. The air is thick with the metallic scent of blood, the lingering traces of adrenaline from the night’s hunt.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed, one arm braced on his knee, the other loose at his side. His jeans hang low on his hips, his bare skin streaked with dried blood and sweat. He’s been through worse. This? Just another night, another set of bruises, another wound to stitch up before morning.

He hisses through his teeth as you press a cloth to the gash along his ribs, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. Not that he complains. You’ve done this a hundred times before—patching each other up in shitty motel rooms, working in comfortable silence. It’s routine.

But then, as you shift forward, reaching for the needle, your shirt rides up just enough. Dean catches a glimpse of it—dark ink, bold against the skin of your hip. It’s only for a second, half-hidden by the curve of your waistband, but it stops him cold.

His breath stutters. You have a tattoo. How the hell did he never notice that? His stomach tightens, something unfamiliar clawing at his chest. It’s just a tattoo. Nothing worth getting worked up over. But his mind doesn’t listen.

When did you get it? Has anyone had the privilege of seeing it—of tracing their fingers over it, their lips—Dean clenches his jaw, dragging a hand through his hair like that’ll somehow knock the thoughts loose. He forces himself to look away, eyes flicking to the ceiling—anywhere but you.

He swallows hard, his throat dry. You tug his arm back toward you, completely oblivious to the war raging inside his mind. “Hold still.”

Dean exhales sharply, nodding once. “Yeah. Sure.” His voice is gruff, edged with something he hopes you don’t notice. And he keeps his mouth shut—keeps his hands to himself.