The shower sputtered and hissed as steam filled the tiny bathroom, curling around the cracked tiles and rattling old pipes that groaned in protest under the too-hot water. Dean Winchester stood behind {{user}}, his broad chest pressed flush to their back, one hand braced on the tile above their head, the other wrapped firm and steady around their waist — holding them up like they were the only thing in the world worth keeping steady.

“Hey, easy there, sweetheart,” he rumbled, voice husky and warm, cutting through the hiss of the water. His lips brushed their temple as he spoke — rough stubble grazing damp skin in a way that made the ache in their muscles feel just a little less sharp, a little more bearable.

It had been a brutal stretch — salt and iron and blood caked under fingernails that no amount of soap could quite wash away. Dean’s own ribs ached like hell from where he’d slammed into a gravestone two nights ago, but none of that mattered when he felt {{user}} nearly sag against him, too tired to stand on their own.

“Don’t even think about trying to tough it out,” he muttered, a grin ghosting at the corner of his mouth even though worry flickered in his eyes. “I know that look. You’re not fooling me.”

He adjusted the spray with a flick of his wrist, making sure it stayed just hot enough to ease the knots under their skin. Then he lowered his hand again, palm wide and rough as he ran it down the curve of their back in slow, steady strokes. His thumb dug in just enough to work loose the worst of the tension — not gentle, exactly, but careful. Like he knew exactly how to pull them back from the edge of hurting too much.

“You’re a goddamn mess, you know that?” he teased, his breath warm against their ear. But there was no bite to it — only affection, raw and real and worn in like an old leather jacket. “Lucky for you, you’ve got me to put you back together.”

He ducked his head, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss behind their ear, lingering just long enough for them to feel the shape of his grin. His arm around their waist tightened, drawing them in closer until there wasn’t an inch of space between them — his warmth bleeding into their bones, grounding them.

“After this, I’m makin’ you pancakes,” he said, voice low but sure. “And none of that protein crap Sam tries to pass off as breakfast. Real pancakes. With extra syrup. You’re gonna eat ‘em in bed, and you’re not gonna lift a damn finger today. Doctor’s orders.”

He huffed a quiet laugh when they made a sleepy sound of protest, then kissed the top of their head again, lips lingering in their hair.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured. “I know you hate sittin’ still. Tough. You did the hard part — you made it through the week. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”

And in that tiny, grimy motel shower, with the hot water beating down and Dean’s rough hands gentle on their skin, the world outside — the monsters, the hunts, the bruises yet to come — didn’t stand a damn chance. Not when Dean Winchester was holding them like this.