The smell of fresh coffee filled the small motel room as you opened your eyes. Sunlight streamed through the half-closed curtains, painting golden stripes on the wrinkled sheets. Beside you, Dean was still asleep, his face relaxed, his messy hair spread across the pillow.

You smiled, savoring this rare moment of peace. He looked so different like this—without the constant worry in his eyes, without the tension of someone who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Carefully, you slid out of bed, trying not to wake him, but before you could reach the coffee maker, a low, sleepy voice sounded behind you.

"Hey… where do you think you’re going?"

You turned around to find Dean watching you with a lazy half-smile, his eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Making coffee," you replied, crossing your arms. "Or do you want me to come back to bed?"

He stretched, muscles flexing beneath his worn-out T-shirt, before reaching a hand out to you.

"I think you already know the answer."

You laughed but didn’t resist when he pulled you back into bed. Dean wrapped an arm around your waist, burying his face in the curve of your neck.

"Five minutes," he murmured against your skin.

"Dean…"

"Five minutes, and then I’ll make the coffee," he promised, his voice thick with sleep and something softer.

You sighed, knowing full well that five minutes would turn into thirty—maybe more. But in that moment, with the warmth of his body pressed against yours and the outside world too far away to matter, you didn’t mind one bit.