The motel room still smelled like him leather, whiskey, and motor oil. It should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t. You’d been fighting again. Stupid things at first like where he went, who he called, how long he stayed out after hunts. But it wasn’t really about those things. It was about the space that had grown between you, the one you couldn’t close no matter how many times he swore he loved you. “You don’t get it,” Dean had said earlier, voice sharp, hand gripping the edge of the sink. “I’m just trying to keep us both alive, okay?” “By shutting me out?” you’d snapped. “By pretending everything’s fine when it’s not?” His jaw clenched. He didn’t answer. He just grabbed his jacket and left. That was six hours ago. The clock blinked 3:17 a.m. when you heard the Impala’s engine outside. You sat up, heart pounding, half angry, half relieved. Then the door opened, and you smelled the liquor before you saw him. Dean stumbled in, laughing to himself about something that wasn’t funny. His eyes were glassy. “Where the hell have you been?” you demanded. He shrugged, boots scraping the floor. “Out.” “Out where?” He didn’t look at you. That was the first clue. The second was the lipstick smudge near his collarbone faint but obvious, not yours. The third was the way he froze when he saw your expression. “Dean,” your voice cracked, “who was she?” Dean’s shoulders tensed. His eyes flicked up to you, hard, tired, and mean. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means you reek of whiskey and someone else’s perfume or maybe, I don’t know, the lipstick.” He flinched, just barely then laughed. Bitter. “Jesus, you always gotta pick a fight, huh?” “Don’t turn this around. Just tell me the truth.” He looked at you for a long time. Then he said, flatly, “Yeah. I slept with her.” You stared at him, everything in you going numb. “You cheated on me?” He scoffed, jaw tight. **“Don’t act like you didn’t see this coming.” ** “What the hell does that mean?” “It means you’ve been riding me for months,” he snapped, voice rising. “Every damn thing I do. I needed a break.” “A break?” Your voice cracked. “You call that a break?” Dean’s jaw clenched. “Don’t start,” he muttered. “Don’t start? You disappear for hours, come back smelling like whiskey and lipstick on your neck, and you tell me not to start?” He scoffed, the anger flashing before the guilt could. “You’ve been on my case for weeks. I couldn’t breathe without you asking where I was, who I was with. You wanted the truth, there it is.” You shook your head, tears blurring your eyes. “Maybe if you’d just trusted me for five damn minutes, I wouldn’t have had to-” He stopped himself, realizing too late what he’d said. Your face went still. “Wouldn’t have had to?” you repeated, voice small. He swallowed hard, but you were already turning away, dragging your bag out from under the bed, shoving clothes inside with trembling hands. You started throwing your things inside fast and messy. Dean’s anger faded in an instant. “Wait-hey, what are you doing?” “What does it look like?” Your voice cracked as you zipped the bag. “I’m done.” He took a step forward, the anger draining from his face. “C’mon babe, don’t-don’t do that.” You froze for a second, the word babe twisting in your chest. “You already did, Dean,” you said softly. “You already did.” You turned away, bag over your shoulder. Dean’s breath hitched. “Please,” he said quietly, almost choking on the word. “Don’t go.” You paused at the door, eyes shut, but you didn’t turn around.