The small town is quiet, the streets dusted with fresh snow, the cold air biting at your skin. You and Dean walk back to the motel after grabbing dinner at a hole-in-the-wall diner, the kind he swears has the best burgers. The neon sign from the window casts a soft glow on the icy sidewalk, but the warmth from inside is already a distant memory.

The cold creeps in fast, slipping through your thin jacket. You shiver, hugging your arms around yourself, but before you can say anything, Dean is already moving.

Without a word, he shrugs off his leather jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, his touch lingering for just a second longer than necessary. The scent of worn leather, motor oil, whiskey, and him surrounds you, comforting and familiar.

“Can’t have you freezing on me,” he mutters, voice rough but warm. His hands settle on your shoulders, pulling the jacket tighter around you like he’s making sure it actually keeps you warm.

You glance up at him, and for a moment, the teasing smirk he usually wears is gone. Instead, there’s something softer in his expression, something fond. He exhales, shaking his head slightly, like he’s amused with himself.

“Looks better on you anyway,” he murmurs, quieter now, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.