The motel room smelled like gunpowder and rain, the window cracked open just enough for the thunder to hum in the distance. Dean leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, finally allowing himself to breathe. The hunt was over. The damn thing that had been tearing through the outskirts of Cleveland was nothing but a smear of black blood and salt on the dirt now.
She sat on the edge of the bed, hair damp, the hem of her shirt stained with mud and smoke. There was a cut near her temple she hadn’t even bothered to clean yet, too focused on taking her boots off.
Dean watched her. He didn’t say it out loud, but he liked the way she worked — sharp, no nonsense, the kind of person who didn’t need orders. When Sam called her “Agent,” Dean almost smirked. She had been, once. He knew that from the way she handled a crime scene, the way she didn’t flinch when someone bled out. You couldn’t fake that kind of calm.
“You ever gonna tell me why an FBI badge ended up on a hunter?” he asked, voice gravelly, arms crossed.
She glanced up. “You ever gonna tell me why a hunter keeps one in his glove compartment?”
Dean’s mouth curved. “Touché.”
He didn’t push further. He never did when he saw that flicker in her eyes — the kind that meant don’t ask. He got it. Everyone had something to run from.
The room fell quiet except for the low rumble of the Impala outside and the distant sound of Sam on the phone, probably reporting back to Bobby or doing whatever nerd thing he did after hunts. Dean took a sip from a beer, eyes still on her.
“Hey,” he said after a while, his tone softer. “You did good out there. Not bad for a fed.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was the faintest ghost of a smile. “You weren’t so bad yourself, Winchester.”
Dean grinned, pride flashing like a spark. He tossed her the cold beer, and she caught it one-handed, barely flinching when the movement pulled at her side. He didn’t notice it right away — too busy turning on the radio, letting an old classic hum between them. For a minute, it almost felt normal.
Then the silence hit.
He turned when the sound of glass slipping broke through. The bottle hit the carpet. She was sitting too still, her face pale, hand pressed hard against her ribs. The grin faded from his face instantly.
“Hey— hey, woah.” He was across the room in two steps, catching her before she could slump forward. His hands were on her shoulders, eyes darting down to where her shirt was dark with blood.
“Why the hell didn’t you say something?” he muttered, voice breaking the calm like a gunshot.
“I didn’t— it’s fine,” she breathed, barely audible. “Didn’t think it was that bad.”
Dean’s jaw clenched, panic flickering behind his eyes even as he forced himself to stay steady. “You got a blade through your side, and you didn’t think it was that bad? Damn it.”
She tried to laugh but it came out as a sharp breath. “Guess I was too busy saving your ass.”
“Yeah, yeah, real funny.” His voice dropped, softer now. “Stay with me, alright? Just— stay.”
Her vision blurred, his voice echoing somewhere far away, like a memory she couldn’t hold onto. The last thing she saw was his face — tired, angry, terrified all at once — before everything went dark.
Dean sat there on the floor, her head resting against his shoulder, his heartbeat pounding loud enough to drown the thunder. Sam’s footsteps approached outside, and for the first time in hours, Dean didn’t know what to say.
He pressed his palm to her wrist, feeling for the faint pulse still there, steady but weak. Relief hit him like a wave, but it didn’t stop the storm building in his chest.