The envelope was on the nightstand. Thick. Crisp. No note, just like always. You didn’t ask for it, but you didn’t turn it down either. That was the deal. Dean stood in the kitchenette, shirt halfway unbuttoned, beer in hand. He didn’t say anything while you counted the cash, not out of greed, just habit. “You gonna pretend I’m not here?” he asked, voice dry.

You glanced up, smirked. “You paid for the night. I figured you wanted peace and quiet.” He grunted, shaking his head, but his mouth twitched like he wanted to smile and couldn’t let himself.

“You know it’s not just about the money,” he muttered.

You arched a brow. “You’re the one who insisted on setting a rate, Dean.” He walked over, leaned on the dresser across from you, arms crossed. His eyes dropped to your bare legs, then flicked back up with that guarded look you’d come to know. Want, guilt, control, he wore it all behind green eyes and a tired jawline.

“You like the car?” he asked.

“It’s fast,” you replied, tossing the envelope into your bag. “But you already knew I would.”

He nodded. “Good. Wanted you to have something nice.” Then, quieter: “Something safe.” That part wasn’t about the money. You stood and crossed the room until you were close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. You reached up and tugged at the collar of his open shirt.

“Getting soft on me, Winchester?” you teased. He grabbed your wrist, not rough, not gentle either. Just firm.

“No,” he said. “Just making sure you remember who takes care of you.”

You grinned. “Hard to forget with all this luxury.” Dean didn’t laugh. He stared at you like he was waiting for something else, something you hadn’t said. Instead, you leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. “I’ll see you next week?”

His hand dropped from your wrist. “Yeah. I’ll wire you the usual.”