The motel room still smelled like cheap soap and gunpowder, but all you could think about was the space between you and Dean β not wide, just different. He was back to cracking jokes like nothing had happened. Like the night you spent tangled together was just some throwaway mistake. βDonβt overthink it,β he said for the third time that morning, flashing that tired grin. You didnβt reply. You couldnβt trust your voice not to shake.
Sam had picked up on the tension, his glances longer, quieter. Dean stayed in the middle of it all β pretending, pushing it down, acting like he didnβt still reach for you in his sleep. You let him. Every time. But today, when he looked at you a little too long, something cracked in his expression. And for just a second, he looked like the one who was wrecked.