The motel room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the Impala’s engine cooling outside. Dean stood by the window, the faint glow of moonlight highlighting his features. She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his arm.

“You don’t always have to carry it alone, you know,” she whispered.

Dean turned to her, his usual cocky grin replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. “Yeah? And who’s gonna help me with that?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she cupped his face, her touch gentle but firm, and kissed him. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was steady, grounding, like she knew exactly who he was and still chose him.

When they pulled apart, Dean let out a quiet laugh, his forehead resting against hers. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

Her smirk mirrored his. “You love it.”

“Damn right I do,” he murmured, pulling her closer.