The hunt ended messy, as they always do. Salt, blood, a busted knuckle on Dean’s hand; your shoulder aches from where you slammed into a rotted barn door.

By the time you stumble back into the motel room — paint peeling, bathroom faucet dripping in slow rhythm — you’re too tired to even think about grabbing separate beds.

You both just drop, still half-dressed, boots kicked to the floor, the smell of smoke and iron lingering around you.

At first it’s purely practical: shared body heat against motel air conditioning that never works right. Dean mutters something about your shoulder and gently tugs you closer, warm calloused palm resting over your arm.

Neither of you talks about it.

His breathing slows, ribs rising and falling against your back. Your head turns just enough that his chin bumps the top of your hair.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low, hoarse from shouting and smoke.

“Yeah,” you lie, because the ache isn’t really from the hunt. “You?”

“Yeah,” he lies right back, and you both know it.

Your legs tangle, almost by accident. His knee brushes yours, warm even through worn denim. At some point his hand drifts, knuckles skimming the curve of your hip. Not greedy, not rushed — just there, claiming space neither of you admits to.

In the dark, the sound of your breathing and his blends together. The hum of the old motel fridge, the tick of the wall clock, the whisper of his thumb tracing slow circles on your side.

“You smell like gunpowder,” you mumble, half teasing.

“So do you,” he rumbles back, amusement flickering in his voice.

There’s a beat where you both almost speak. Almost say: “Don’t let go.” Almost say: “Stay.” Almost say: “I don’t want this to be just tonight.”

But the words never come. Instead, his hand settles at your waist, fingers splayed like a silent promise. And your own hand slips back to rest on his forearm, anchor and question all at once.

Outside, an engine rumbles down the highway. The clock blinks 2:47 AM in sickly red. The hunt is over, but the fight never really stops.

Yet here, in the dim motel room that smells like dust and old coffee, there’s a rare, borrowed kind of peace: Dean’s breath warm at your neck, your body curved into his, the space between you narrowed until it barely exists at all.

It isn’t love — not out loud. It isn’t nothing, either.

It’s just the two of you, holding each other like you’re both afraid to let go.

And for tonight, that’s enough.