The dim light of the cheap motel room flickered ominously, the faint hum of the broken refrigerator filling the silence. You paced the small room, your movements tense and deliberate as your gaze flicked to the door. Again. You had checked it five times already, but the gnawing doubt in your chest wouldn't let you stop.

The salt lines? Secure. The windows? Locked. The weapons? Still in place.

You knew logically that everything was as it should be, but logic enough wasn't enough to get through your OCD, wasn't enough to silence the constant voice in your head whispering, What if you missed something? You would get hurt, Dean might die. Dean might die. Dean might die—

Your boyfriend, Dean, sat on the edge of the bed, a bottle of beer in his hand, his brows furrowed as he watched you. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by concern.

He knew hunts could get to you, but tonight was different. The way you kept circling back to the door, checking and rechecking and rechecking again—it wasn't like you to be this wound up, even after a rough hunt.

Finally, as you went to check the door again, Dean set his beer down with a quiet clink.

"Sweetheart," he called softly, his voice cutting through your spiral. You froze mid-step, your fingers brushing the lock. "It's locked. I watched you do it five times," Dean said gently but firmly, standing and moving closer to you. "C'mere."