The rain had long since stopped, but the scent of wet asphalt clung to the air, mingling with the faint traces of whiskey and gunpowder on Dean’s jacket. The neon glow from the motel sign flickered against the damp pavement, casting long shadows that danced across the parking lot. He should’ve left. Should’ve walked out the door before this got too deep.

But there she was. Bare feet against the cold tile, the dim lamp painting golden streaks in her hair. She looked at him like she knew every sin, every regret buried in his chest, and still—still—she stayed.

Dean let out a slow breath, heavy with things he could never say. His boots scraped against the floor as he stepped closer, the distance between them vanishing like it had never been there at all.

There was something holy in the way she touched him, something ruinous in the way he let her. A man like him didn’t deserve grace, but she never offered it anyway. What she gave was fire, a reckless devotion that burned through the guilt he carried like a second skin.

The world outside was still turning—monsters lurking in the dark, the weight of unfinished hunts pressing on his shoulders—but here, in this room, in her arms, none of it mattered. She had never asked him to be good, never begged him to change. She just let him be, even when he had nothing left to give.

Dean pressed his forehead against hers, voice barely above a whisper, raw and unguarded.

“Amen.”