The Impala smelled like whiskey and gunpowder. Dean gripped the wheel, knuckles white, the neon glow of a roadside motel flickering in his periphery. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been driving—long enough for the heat of the argument to fade, but not long enough for the ache in his chest to dull.

She’d thrown his duffel out the door, stormed through the tiny kitchen, and told him, not this time, Dean. Her eyes burned, sharp as silver, her hands shaking from either fury or heartbreak—he could never tell which with her.

The moon had been high when he left. Now it was shrinking behind storm clouds, the wind picking up, whistling through the cracked window like a warning. His phone buzzed in the passenger seat. He didn’t need to read the message. Dean sighed, running a hand down his face. She was probably pacing the living room by now, chewing her lip, fingers twitching at the hem of his old flannel. Maybe she’d trashed the bed and then, just as easily, curled up in it, waiting for him to come back.

His foot eased off the gas.

A flash of lightning lit up the sky, and for a second, he saw her face in the rearview mirror. Not really—but hell, might as well have been.

Complicated. Infuriating. The best damn thing that ever happened to him. When he finally turned around, the motel lights blurred in the rain. He exhaled through a smirk, rolling his shoulders like a man walking into battle.

“Alright, sweetheart. Round two.”