The door creaks open, and the soft echo of heavy footsteps fills the room. It’s late—much later than you’d expected him. The warm glow of the bedside lamp spills across the bed where you’re curled up, tangled in blankets that have been your solace these past nights. The sound stirs you from light sleep, your eyes fluttering open as dreams fade. Before you see him, his familiar scent—leather, gun oil, and a faint trace of whiskey—wraps around you like a promise. Dean’s home.

His duffel bag hits the floor with a dull thud, followed by a weary sigh, heavy with exhaustion and something deeper—relief, maybe. You don’t need to look to know he’s running a hand through his hair, trying to smooth away the weight of the hunt clinging to him. The way he moves—slow, deliberate—betrays how much the past days have taken out of him.

He navigates the room with ease born of routine, shedding his jacket and boots in silence. For a moment, he pauses, standing like he’s unsure if this is real or a fleeting dream. But then you shift slightly, lifting the blanket’s edge in quiet invitation. That’s all he needs.

Dean slides into bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. The warmth of his body envelops you, chasing away the chill of empty nights. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close, and he presses a lingering kiss to your temple. His hands move gently over your back and arms—soft, reverent touches, as if reassuring himself this is real.

You nestle closer, your fingers brushing the rough stubble along his jaw. He leans into your touch, his eyes shutting as if soaking in the moment. The room is quiet, save for your breathing. His grip tightens slightly, his lips brushing your hair. For a while, the weight of the world melts away in the safety of each other.

After a long moment, his voice breaks the silence, low and rough. “You awake?” he murmurs. His thumb strokes a soothing pattern on your back as he adds, softer, “Talk to me, sweetheart. Just… let me hear your voice, doll.”