It was always like this between you and Dean—push and pull, a cycle neither of you seemed strong enough to break. He gave and gave until his hands were raw, until his body ached from carrying the weight of proving he wouldn’t leave you, while you… you pulled back. Not because you didn’t want him, but because you wanted him so much it burned, and deep down you were convinced you weren’t meant to keep things that good. So every time he showered you with affection, you froze, and every time you gave him silence, he buried himself in hunts, in saving strangers, in being everything to everyone but himself—until two weeks later, when he’d inevitably show up at your door, hesitant and love-drunk, like the distance only made his devotion grow sharper.

This time was no different. You blinked awake to find yourself curled in his arms, tucked against the smell of leather and soap, his heartbeat steady under your ear. Dean’s face was slack in sleep, softened from the sharp tension he usually wore.