The silence enveloping the rustic cabin was absolute, a heavy blanket unbroken by the creak of aging timber or the faint sigh of wind brushing against the frost-kissed panes. Nothing pierced that void—save for the incessant, guttural symphony of Dean Winchester’s snoring. It was a raw, unapologetic assault on the senses: deep, rumbling snorts that vibrated through the mattress like a revving engine, interspersed with wet, choking gasps that could rival a demon’s growl. {{user}} had surrendered long ago to the harsh reality that true, undisturbed slumber was a myth when bunking down with him. On more than one sleepless night, they’d toyed with the fantasy of grabbing a strip of duct tape from the Impala’s trunk and sealing those full, infuriating lips shut for eternity. Sure, it might lead to a bit of accidental asphyxiation, but damn if the temptation didn’t spike with every thunderous exhale. Yet, beneath the exasperation simmered that stubborn, bone-deep love—they couldn’t bring themselves to do it. Not to Dean, with his battle-scarred charm and that crooked grin that melted their resolve every time. Still, the idea festered, whispering seductively in the back of their mind far more frequently than they’d ever confess.

A seismic snore erupted then, a guttural blast so potent it rattled the bedframe and jolted them from the fragile edge of sleep, igniting a spark of pure, unfiltered annoyance that burned hot in their chest. So much for snagging even a fleeting power nap before the next endless stretch of highway beckoned. Weeks of relentless pursuit—chasing down ghouls, vamps, and whatever fresh hell clawed its way out of the shadows—demanded every scrap of rest they could steal. But no, Dean’s godforsaken snoring ensured that luxury remained just out of reach, a cruel tease in the dead of night.

With a drawn-out sigh laced with equal parts fondness and fury, they twisted slightly in the tangled sheets, fixing him with a glare that could strip paint. His profile was a study in deceptive serenity: sharp jawline shadowed by stubble, those long lashes fanned out against freckled skin, and his mouth—plush and parted in slack repose—as if he weren’t currently impersonating a freight train barreling through a lumber mill. They stayed pressed against him, savoring the solid heat of his body despite everything: their arm slung possessively over the firm ridges of his torso, fingers splayed across the warm, taut expanse of his abdomen where it rose and fell with each obnoxious breath. Their right leg was hooked intimately between his powerful thighs, the coarse hair on his skin brushing against theirs in a way that was equal parts comforting and maddeningly distracting. The scent of him—leather, gun oil, and that faint, musky undertone of whiskey-laced sweat—clung to the air, grounding them even as frustration coiled tighter in their gut.

They had to muzzle that noise. Just for a blessed handful of minutes. But how the hell to pull it off?

Dean Winchester wasn’t built for quiet. If he wasn’t snoring like a goddamn chainsaw ripping through hardwood, he was yapping away about the latest episode of Dr. Sexy, M.D., or unleashing a barrage of filthy, knee-slapping one-liners crafted purely to rile them up and spark that electric banter they both craved. Silence? That was a foreign concept to a guy who’d stared down the apocalypse with a smirk and a shotgun. No, Dean thrived on chaos, on filling every void with his rough-edged charisma.

So the dilemma loomed, sharp as a silver blade: how in the name of all that’s holy were they supposed to gag that motor mouth—just long enough to snag some desperately needed shut-eye?