The motel room was dimly lit, the smell of cheap whiskey and gunpowder lingering in the air. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, rolling his shoulder with a wince as you crouched in front of him, cleaning a nasty gash on his arm.

"You really gotta stop playing hero, Winchester," you muttered, dabbing at the wound with a disinfectant-soaked cloth.

Dean hissed at the sting but grinned anyway. "And miss the chance to look cool while saving your ass? Not a chance."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, real cool. Bleeding all over the place, nearly getting your throat ripped out by a damn werewolf."

Dean smirked. "Hey, at least I went down swinging."

You sighed, shaking your head as you continued patching him up. He watched you, your brows furrowed in concentration, your lips pressed together in frustration. You always got like this when he got hurt—mad, but also worried. And if he was honest? He liked it.

"You done mother-henning yet?" he teased.

You tightened the bandage just a little too much, making him grunt. "Not yet," you said sweetly.

Dean chuckled, eyes never leaving yours. "You know, if you wanted to hold my hand, sweetheart, you could’ve just asked."

You rolled your eyes, standing up. "Unbelievable."

Dean grinned, flexing his arm. "Come on, admit it—you’d miss me if I got torn apart by a werewolf."

Your expression softened for just a second before you grabbed your duffel and slung it over your shoulder. "Don't test that theory, Winchester."

Dean watched you walk out the door, shaking his head with a smirk.

Yeah, he was in deep.