The motel room is dim, lit only by the glow from the cracked bathroom door. You’re sitting on the bed, wings barely visible; just the faint shimmer of celestial energy curling around your shoulders. Dean’s pacing, hands in his jacket pockets, but his eyes keep drifting to you like he can’t help it.

“You always look like you don’t belong here,” he says finally, quiet, not teasing this time. “Like you’re just visiting.”

Your head tilts slightly, studying him. “I don’t.”

Dean walks closer, slower now, until he’s standing right in front of you. He lifts a hand, brushes his fingers gently along the edge of your sleeve. “Yeah, well… sometimes I forget that.”

You look at his hand, then back at him. “Huh?”

He smiles, soft and a little crooked. “’Cause when you’re around… this place doesn’t feel so bad. The job, the monsters, the end-of-the-world crap… none of it feels as heavy.”

You blink slowly, absorbing every word like they’re foreign. And maybe they are, because no one talks to you like that. No one looks at you like that.

Dean scratches the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. “You just— you make it easier to breathe, I guess.”

You stare at him, heart fluttering in a way that doesn’t belong to anything angelic. Quietly, you say, “That’s not something I thought I’d ever be.”

“Well,” he says, stepping in, close enough that you can smell the leather and aftershave, “Get used to it. ‘Cause I don’t wanna forget how it feels to have you around.”