The motel room smelled like old bourbon and rain-soaked leather, the kind of place that carried memories in its peeling wallpaper. The neon sign outside flickered, casting red and blue glows across the damp carpet. A storm was rolling in, thunder rumbling low like a beast stirring in its sleep.

She stood by the window, shoulders drawn tight, the air around her heavy with ghosts he couldn’t see but knew were there. Shadows clung to her, the weight of everything she carried pressing against the cracked glass. It had always been like that with her—like she was bracing for a fight that never ended, like she was made of sharp edges dulled by too many hands trying to smooth them down.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped together, the scabs on his knuckles still fresh. He had fought for her. Would fight for her again. But some battles weren’t waged with fists, and this one had been brewing long before he came along.

His voice was quieter than usual, rough around the edges. “You ever think maybe you don’t have to be what they made you?”

Lightning flashed, catching the edge of her eyes—wild, untamed, a storm of her own. She didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

Dean exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before pushing himself up. He stepped closer, slow, careful, like moving too fast might shatter whatever fragile truce lay between them.

“I don’t scare easy, sweetheart,” he said, voice steady as the rain started to fall. “But losing you? Now that scares the hell outta me.”