The first thing you register is the pounding in your skull. Your mouth is dry and your limbs feel like they’ve been filled with cement. There’s a dull ache in your lower back that makes you wince when you shift.

Then comes the heat. Not the room but the warmth pressed up against you. Solid. Unmistakably human. Unmistakably male.

And then you feel his arm. Heavy and warm, it’s draped casually across your waist, like it belongs there. The slow, steady rhythm of someone else breathing at your neck confirms it: you’re not alone.

Your stomach flips. You crack your eyes open and glance down. Naked. Fully, undeniably naked. You suck in a sharp breath and clutch the blanket tighter around your chest.

And then it hits you—hard, fast, and unforgiving. Dean Winchester’s arm is around you. Your blood turns to ice.

Your pulse stutters in your throat. You turn your head slightly, just enough to see his face—lips parted, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks. He looks content. Like waking up in your bed is something he’s done a hundred times before.

“Shit,” you whisper, voice hoarse.

Memories flicker out of order. The clink of whiskey glasses. Dean on the motel couch, sitting too close. His thigh pressing against yours. The heat in his gaze. The kiss. God, the kiss. It was desperate and messy. Then came the breathless gasps, his voice low and rough in the dark—

Your stomach churns. And just as the weight of it all crashes into you, there’s a knock. Three sharp, familiar raps against the door. Then comes the voice.

“You alive in there, kid?” Bobby. Your heart nearly launches out of your chest.

Dean stirs behind you, groaning softly into the pillow. His arm tightens slightly around your waist before loosening again.

You’re frozen in place. Bobby Singer is standing on the other side of that door, and Dean is in your bed wrapped around you like he belongs there.

You can feel the words rising in your throat, panicked and laced with regret, but you bite them back. Bobby can’t know. No one can.