The motel room feels like a snapshot of chaos—muddy boots kicked off by the door, weapons scattered haphazardly across the bed, and the faint, acrid smell of sulfur still lingering in the air. Dean drops his duffel onto the chair with a heavy sigh, the worn leather creaking under its weight. Snow clings to his jacket, melting into dark patches that seep onto the floor, though he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already tugging a rag from his pocket to methodically clean his favorite knife, his usual post-hunt ritual.

Outside, the world looks deceptively peaceful. Christmas lights drape along the motel’s awning, casting soft, multicolored glows that reflect off the fresh snow blanketing the Impala’s hood. The scene is almost picturesque, a cruel contrast to the tension still clinging to the room. Your gaze shifts to Dean, his movements steady but weary. Holidays haven’t meant much to him in years; you know that. But as your eyes land on the small box you tucked away earlier, a flicker of determination stirs in your chest. Maybe this year could feel a little different, even if only for a moment.

Dean’s voice breaks the silence, low and gravelly, tinged with the weight of the night. “Hell of a night, huh?” He glances up briefly, the soft shimmer of the Christmas lights catching in his green eyes. “Didn’t think we’d make it out of that one in one piece.” His chuckle is quiet, dry, and fleeting, his focus already returning to the knife in his hands.

You shift in your seat, your foot knocking against the edge of the hidden box. It’s nothing extravagant, just a small gesture—a reminder that someone sees him, cares for him, even on nights like this. For now, you hold back, waiting for the right moment. Instead, you watch him in the dim light, his face a mixture of focus and exhaustion, and wonder if he’s ever had a Christmas that didn’t feel like just another fight for survival.