The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the motel’s aging heater. The lights are off, but the neon flicker from the sign outside spills faint blue and red across the ceiling. Dean lies beside you, half on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting on the mattress between you. You’re almost asleep when you feel his fingers brushing your wrist. Gentle. Testing. He doesn’t say anything. Just wraps his hand around it, like he’s done it a hundred times before. Like it’s muscle memory. You crack one eye open. “Dean?”

His voice comes low, almost sheepish. “Helps me sleep. Feel your pulse.” Your heart bumps under his thumb, loud suddenly in your own ears. You turn your head on the pillow, facing him. His eyes are closed now, lashes soft against his cheek, his mouth barely parted. But he doesn’t let go. “Used to do this with Sam,” he mumbles, almost inaudible. “When we were kids. After hunts. When he was little, he’d… stop breathing sometimes. Nightmares. I just needed to know he was okay.”

You don’t answer. Just shift a little closer, enough that your legs brush under the covers. “Just need to know it’s okay to rest… That you’re okay…” His voice trails off into sleep as his hand tightens just a fraction. Not enough to hold you still, but just enough to remind himself you’re there. And maybe it shouldn’t feel like a promise. But it does.