𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The night air was thick with leftover summer heat, the kind that clung to your skin even after the sun went down. Dean shut the Impala’s door with a quiet thud, stretching his shoulders after hours behind the wheel. His hands were still stained faintly with grease from tuning her up earlier, the smell of motor oil clinging as stubbornly as the ache in his muscles. The small motel just off the backroad sat quiet, one light above the door flickering like it was barely holding on.

When he pushed the door open, the sound of your steady breathing filled the room, mixing with the faint trace of leather and gunpowder that always followed him in. You were curled on his side of the bed, tangled in the blankets, your hair spilling over the pillow. He stopped in the doorway, exhaustion softening for just a moment. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he leaned down to press a kiss against your cheek, careful not to wake you.

The shower pipes groaned to life a minute later, steam curling against the cracked mirror as he scrubbed away the grit of the road and the blood that wasn’t his. Hot water stung at the raw scrapes on his knuckles, but it grounded him, washed away the hunt until he almost felt clean.

The burner phone buzzed just as he stepped out, towel slung low around his waist. Sam’s name lit the screen. He snatched it up fast.

“Dean, we’ve got a lead—possible nest just outside Lincoln. We should move.” His brother’s voice was sharp, no room for stalling.

Dean dragged a hand through his damp hair, staring at his reflection. He was tired. He was late. He should stay. But Sam’s words—the urgency, the promise of unfinished business—spoke louder.

“Yeah,” he said, quick and sure. “I’ll be there.”

He pulled on jeans and a tshirt, topping it with a flannel as he tugged on his boots without bothering to dry off completely. By the time he was dressed, you were awake, blinking sleepily against the dim light.

“I know I said I’d be back early,” Dean murmured, grabbing his leather jacket from the chair, his voice low, apologetic. “Already later than I promised. But Sam needs me tonight.”

He didn’t wait for your reply—maybe couldn’t. He bent down, pressed a quick kiss to your temple, and then he was gone, the door shutting quietly behind him, boots heavy on the porch.

An hour later, the sound of the lock clicking stirred you awake again. The door creaked, and there he was.

“What happened?” your voice rasped, heavy with sleep.

“Nothing major. Just a couple vamps. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”