The motel room smelled of stale coffee, dust, and the faintest trace of cigarette smoke embedded deep into the walls. The kind of smell that clung to your clothes long after you left. Dean sat slouched on the couch, flicking absently through channels on the too-small TV, the static glow painting his face in pale light. You were hunched over the coffee table, a cooling mug of coffee within reach, pen scratching furiously against paper as you chased down the last threads of the case.

Somewhere between the low murmur of the TV and the scrawl of your pen, a soft sound drifted through the room—a hum. It was almost nothing at first, quiet and absentminded, the way someone might do when their hands are busy but their mind is elsewhere.

Dean didn’t notice right away. His gaze stayed on the screen, unfocused. Then, gradually, it registered.

A melody. Familiar.

His brow creased as he tried to place it, the notes tugging at something buried deep. Then it hit him—hard.

Hey Jude.

His heart skipped.

Mary used to hum that to him. Back when the nights were safe. Back when bedtime meant warmth and love, not a loaded shotgun by the door. It wasn’t just a lullaby—it was her. Her voice in the dark, soft and steady, cradling him to sleep in a world that felt whole. A world that existed before the fire, before Azazel, before the hunt swallowed them whole.

The memory was a knife and a balm all at once.

He sat there, eyes on the flickering TV, but his mind was a thousand miles and decades away. He could almost smell her perfume, feel the soft fabric of her sleeve as she tucked him in. Could almost see his dad—not the hardened, battle-worn man he’d become, but the younger version who smiled more than he barked orders. Could see Sammy as a baby, gurgling in the crib beside him.

And then it hurt. God, it hurt.

Dean swallowed against the tight knot in his throat, his fingers flexing on his knee like he could shake the feeling loose. This wasn’t the kind of thing he let himself think about. Too dangerous. Too easy to drown in it. In his life, you kept your eyes forward or you got eaten alive by what was behind you.

But just for a moment, he let himself stay there.

Then your pen scratched across the paper again, and the sound of your humming floated back, sweet and unassuming—completely unaware of the storm it had just stirred up inside him.

Dean’s jaw worked. He blinked, forcing the moisture from his eyes before it could betray him.

“Hey, uh…” *His voice came out rough, gravel catching in the middle. He cleared his throat. “Don’t hum that song."