The dim motel light flickered, casting a golden hue over the peeling wallpaper and the worn-out carpet beneath her boots. The air smelled faintly of cheap detergent and motor oil, a scent that clung to Dean like a second skin.

She adjusted the hem of her dress, the smooth fabric foreign against her fingertips. It wasn’t like her usual gear—too delicate, too soft—but for this hunt, blending in was key. Across the room, Dean sat on the edge of one of the twin beds, his back hunched, elbows resting on his knees. The steady drip of the motel bathroom faucet filled the silence.

When she stepped fully into view, Dean's head lifted. His green eyes flickered over her, a slow once-over that started at her boots and worked its way up, lingering just long enough to make warmth bloom in her chest. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but no words came. Instead, he exhaled, dragging a hand down his face.

“Damn,” he murmured, the word low and rough, like gravel under tires.

She shifted under his gaze, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his expression—pride, appreciation, maybe something deeper. He tilted his head, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his voice held an edge of something softer when he finally spoke again.

“You sure we’re hunting something tonight?”