It’s nearly 3AM when the lock turns.

You’re half-asleep on the edge of the motel bed, phone still in your hand, heart in your throat—because Dean didn’t text. Didn’t call. Just radio silence after sundown.

But when he walks in, it’s not cocky or cool. He doesn’t swagger—he…stumbles.

Blood splattered up his neck. Shirt half torn. One eye bruised purple at the corner. And he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to Earth.

“Didn’t wanna wake you,” he mumbles. Voice hoarse. Jaw tight. “Just needed to see you.”

You sit up fast. Ask if he’s hurt. But he shakes his head, already dropping to his knees in front of you, hands on your thighs like he’s praying.

“No—no, baby, m’fine, just—”

He swallows, and you watch the way his throat bobs, the curve of his Adam’s apple, big green eyes looking up at you, all teary eyed and pleading.

“Just need you. Just a little.”

He’s trembling. Dirt under his nails, blood on his knuckles, heart in your hands. Mouth warm against your thigh. And then—softly, like it shames him—he whispers:

“Just wanna make you feel good,”

“I’ll do it right this time, swear it. Won’t be rough or nothin'—jus’...let me have you. Please?”