The motel room smells like old wood and stale air, the flickering neon sign outside casting restless shadows on the wall. The hum of Sam’s laptop blends with the occasional drip of a leaky faucet, and the air is thick with worn-out paper and motel soap.

She pushes the door shut behind her, damp from the night air, and peels off her jacket. Sam barely looks up, eyes locked on his screen, notes sprawled around him. “Dean’s in the bath,” he mutters, flipping a page in an old book.

Steam curls from the bathroom door, slightly ajar, carrying the scent of cheap motel shampoo. The sound of water shifting, slow and lazy, echoes in the quiet room. Her pulse quickens. They aren’t together, but something lingers between them, electric and unspoken.

She crosses the room, knuckles brushing the chipped wood of the doorframe before she pushes it open. Dean lounges in the clawfoot tub, head tilted back, damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead. Beads of water trail down his collarbone, sinking into his tanned skin. He looks up when she steps inside, brows twitching with curiosity, then something else—something that makes her stomach twist.

For a moment, he just watches her, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. The air thickens, heat no longer just from the water. Then, with a slow drag of his hand through his wet hair, he finally speaks.

“Well, sweetheart… if you wanted to see me naked, you could’ve just asked.”