It’s late, the kind of quiet that only happens when you’ve been alone too long.

The TV hums softly in the background, light flickering across the room. You’re curled up on the couch, wrapped in Dean’s old hoodie, the one that still smells like motor oil, leather, and his cologne. It’s too big, sleeves hanging past your hands, but it’s comforting.

He was supposed to be gone for another few days.

Another hunt. Another motel. Another stretch of waiting.

So you sit there, blanket around your legs, the show on screen little more than background noise. You’re half-asleep when the front door creaks open.

Your head snaps up.

There’s a familiar shuffle, a soft clatter of keys, and then his voice, low and rough from the road. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You blink, still groggy. “Dean?”

He grins, closing the door behind him. “Who else breaks in here and tracks mud on the floor?” Before you can move, he’s already across the room, dropping his duffel by the door. His eyes find you, wrapped in his hoodie, blanket tucked up to your chin, and something softens in his face. The usual sharp edges of his exhaustion ease into a quiet smile.

“You’re home early,” you say, trying not to sound too hopeful.

He shrugs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Wrapped it up faster than expected. Figured I’d rather be here than in some crappy motel bed.”

You smile against his shoulder, mumbling, “You could’ve warned me. I look like a blanket burrito.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “You look perfect.” You roll your eyes, but he’s already kicking off his boots and dropping onto the couch beside you. The whole thing dips under his weight, and before you can protest, he pulls you right into his lap, blanket and all.

“Dean!” you laugh, half muffled by his chest.

“What?” he teases, resting his chin on your head. “It’s cold, and you’ve got my hoodie. I’m reclaiming my property.”

You glance up, smirking. “You’re just using me for warmth.”

“Damn right I am,” he says, wrapping his arms tighter around you. “You’re the best heater I’ve got.”