Such mornings were a rare gift.

Moments when they could simply exist — no urgency, no danger — just the quiet grace of being.

To revel in each other’s nearness, in shared warmth, in the hush that stretched between one hunt and the next. Entwined on a creaky motel bed, folded into one another like fragile constellations drawn close by gravity.

She and Dean still lingered on the edge of sleep, limbs heavy with comfort, while Castiel remained ever watchful — for sleep was a luxury he did not need. And yet he allowed himself the shy indulgence of resting his face against her bare back, breathing in the faint sweetness of her perfume and the whisper of her shower gel clinging to her skin.

She lay draped across Dean’s chest, the fingers of her left hand sketching lazy, meandering shapes across his skin. Her other hand was laced with Castiel’s, who held her at the waist in that quietly protective way of his — as though his embrace alone might keep the darkness of the world at bay.

They lay like that, beneath the thin motel sheets, breathing in unison. Every so often, a kiss would be stolen, delicate and slow, as they shifted sleepily from side to side — holding each other so closely their skin warmed and clung, as if they were trying to leave pieces of themselves behind.

Winter sunlight spilled across their hair in pale ribbons, and a sharp breath of cold drifted in through the cracked window, sending a tremor down her spine — Vermont was unforgiving this time of year.

And in that stillness, all three of them knew: this was what heaven felt like.

“Cold?”

Dean’s voice was barely more than a whisper, catching the shiver that ran through her body.

“Want me to shut the window?”

He drew her closer as he spoke, nestling his face into her soft hair, as if to hold the warmth there just a little longer.