The hunt’s over. Finally.

The air still carries the ghost of it—smoke, gunpowder, and motel disinfectant all tangled together in the kind of scent that never really washes out. The adrenaline’s long gone, replaced by the dull ache that settles in after too many miles, too many close calls. You and Dean made it back just before midnight—bone-tired, bruised, and running on nothing but caffeine and stubbornness.

Now the room feels almost peaceful. Almost.

The TV hums in the corner, its flickering light casting pale blues and whites over the cracked wallpaper. Outside, a neon vacancy sign buzzes against the rain, painting the curtains red every few seconds like a heartbeat.

You’re both half-collapsed on the couch, surrounded by an explosion of cheap candy from the gas station. Empty wrappers, melted chocolate, and caramel stuck to Dean’s fingers—the spoils of survival. His jacket’s hanging off the armrest, boots kicked under the table. He’s slouched low, head tipped back, eyes glassy in that familiar way—halfway between exhaustion and stubborn denial of it.

A horror movie plays on the TV—the kind with bad effects, bad acting, and worse logic. It’s grainy, dated, and absolutely perfect.

Dean reaches for another piece of candy, fingers brushing yours as he does. The wrapper crinkles loud in the quiet. “Don’t judge me,” he mutters, voice low and rough. “I earned this crap.”

His attention stays on the screen—though you can tell he’s not really watching. The light flickers across his face, softening the lines that never used to be there. For a moment, he looks almost at peace.

Outside, the wind rattles the window. Inside, the world feels small—two hunters, one bad movie, and the faint smell of burnt sugar from the candy he’s been nursing for the last ten minutes.

Dean shifts closer, his shoulder brushing yours. It’s a small thing, quiet, unspoken. But it feels like something solid after everything that’s been torn apart.

“Happy Halloween,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a whisper. Then he leans over and presses a light kiss to your cheek—the kind that says I’m still here, even if he’ll never say it out loud.

The movie rolls on. The candy pile shrinks. The clock ticks past midnight, and the world outside keeps spinning, indifferent. But for once, there are no monsters waiting, no next move to plan. Just this: cheap candy, bad horror, quiet laughter, and Dean beside you—warm, alive, and here.