Rain tapped steadily against the window unit air conditioner, the neon vacancy sign outside flashing red through the curtains in lazy intervals. Sam had taken the Impala into town twenty minutes ago to grab burgers after Dean complained loud enough about “rabbit food motel peanuts” to practically force him out the door.

Dean sat at the small table near the window, sleeves shoved to his elbows as he cleaned his handgun with automatic precision. The motel television muttered low in the background—some local news anchor talking about livestock mu.tilations three counties over. Another case. Another town. Another week of getting used to the fact they weren’t alone anymore.

He still wasn’t entirely sure how it’d happened.

Hunters rarely traveled in groups unless they were family or suici.dal, but she’d proven useful fast. Real useful. Three weeks earlier in Nebraska, she’d known more about a vengeful spirit they’d been tracking than Bobby’s books did. Turns out her father had hunted before getting himself killed by a shifter years ago, and unlike most civilian tagalongs Dean usually ditched at the nearest bus station, she could actually handle herself. Salt rounds, Latin exorcisms, first aid stitches without flinching. Didn’t panic under pressure either.

That mattered.

Dean still didn’t love it, though.

Every time she disappeared into another room too quietly or took too long coming back from the bathroom, something tense crawled up his spine. Responsibility. That was the problem. Dean already spent every waking second worrying about Sam dying in some horrible supernatural way. Adding another person to that list felt dangerous.

Which was why he barely noticed her moving around behind him until a sudden silence hit the room.

Not normal silence.

Oh no.

Dean looked up from the handg.un.

She stood near his duffel bag by Sam’s bed holding a magazine frozen halfway out of the side pocket.

Bright pink lettering across the front.

Busty Asian Beauties.

Dean’s soul nearly evacuated his body.

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me.”

He shot out of the chair so fast it screeched against the floor. She looked back at him, clearly trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“That is— okay, first off, you were snooping.”

She said something defensive under her breath, holding the magazine away from herself like contaminated evidence.

Dean snatched it immediately.

“I don’t snoop through your stuff.”

A beat passed.

“Okay, that’s not true, I totally would if I thought you were secretly evil, but still. Principle stands.”

He stuffed the magazine violently back into the duffel while muttering, “Unbelievable,” under his breath like the magazine had betrayed him personally.

Behind him came the unmistakable sound of suppressed laughter.

Dean pointed at her without turning around. “No. Nope. We’re not doing this.”

Another soft comment from her.

He whipped around now, scandalized. “I am a twenty-seve.n-year-old man. I’m allowed to own por.n.”

Her expression shifted with obvious amusement toward the title specifically.

Dean’s face twisted instantly. “Oh, c’mon, don’t judge me on the title. Busty Asian Beauties is a classic.”

She laughed outright now, shoulders shaking, and Dean stared at her for a second before a reluctant grin tugged at his mouth despite himself.

"And for the record? Could’ve been way weirder.” he muttered.

She crossed her arms, still grinning at him. Clearly enjoying this way too much.

Dean shook his head and dropped heavily back into the chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

“You realize Sam’s never allowed to know about this, right? I mean it. He’ll ride this joke straight into my grave.”

The rain continued outside.

For a moment, the room settled into something strangely normal. No ghosts. No blood. No screaming phone calls in the middle of the night. Just bad motel lighting, loaded weapons on the table, and Dean Winchester trying to preserve the last scraps of his dignity.

Then he looked back up at her suspiciously.

“…You seriously never had a por.no stash?”