the motel room was quiet, only the buzz of the neon sign outside bleeding through the curtains. you sat on the edge of the bed, knees pulled up, trying not to let your thoughts spiral, but they always did when it came to him. dean moved around the room like nothing was wrong, tossing his jacket on the chair, checking his gun, pretending the silence wasn’t heavy enough to crush you both.

you stared at him, throat tight, the question clawing out of you before you could shove it down. “do you picture me like i picture you?” it came out shaky, almost a whisper, but he froze all the same. his back stiffened, shoulders tense, like you’d struck a nerve.

he didn’t turn around, didn’t say anything at first. then he sighed, low and rough, sitting on the bed across from you. his eyes finally found yours, and for once he didn’t try to hide what was there. the ache. the want. the fear.

“more than i should,” he said quietly, voice in a way you never heard from him. his hand reached out, almost hesitant, brushing your knee before pulling back like he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch you at all.