the hum of the old television was the only thing filling the room, a low static that did nothing to drown out the sound of dean’s breathing. he was sitting so close that {{user}} could feel the rough canvas of his jacket brushing against her arm. bobby had been asleep for hours, his snoring muffled by the heavy wooden door down the hall, leaving them alone in the dim light of the library.

dean’s fingers were wrapped around a sweating bottle of beer, his thumb tracing the edge of the label with a restless energy he couldn't seem to shake. he looked tired, the kind of exhaustion that went deeper than bone, yet his presence was electric, heavy with things he never let himself say. {{user}} shifted on the worn cushions of the couch, her shoulder pressing firmly against his. she expected him to lean away, to make a joke and put up that familiar wall, but he stayed anchored right where he was.

the heat radiating from him felt like a physical weight. she kept her eyes fixed on a flickering black-and-white movie on the screen, her heart hammering against her ribs. the silence wasn't empty; it was a canyon between them, jagged and dangerous.

"bobby would kill you," she whispered, the words barely catching the air. she didn't have to specify what for. the way he was looking at her, the way he hadn't moved an inch since she’d leaned in. it was all written in the tension of his jaw.

dean let out a short, breathy laugh that didn't reach his eyes. he finally turned his head, his gaze dropping to her lips before meeting her stare with a raw intensity that made her breath hitch.

"he’d have to find me first," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, rough and scraping against the quiet. "and honestly? might be worth the funeral."