The house is quiet tonight. No signs of monsters, no open cases, no weapons spread out across the kitchen table for cleaning. Just the low crackle of the old vinyl playing something soft—maybe a little Johnny Cash or some blues humming through the living room. The curtains are drawn, the outside world shut out for now, and for once, there’s no blood to wash off or sigils to draw.

John sits on the old couch, boots off, back leaned into the cushions like he’s finally letting his body relax after days of tension. He’s still in that weathered T-shirt that clings just right to the muscle and wear of a life lived hard, and there’s a half-full glass of whiskey in his hand. You’re beside him—your legs tucked under a blanket, your own drink in hand, the smell of cedar and aged liquor hanging in the warm air between you.

You didn’t say much at first. You don’t have to.

He glances over at you—those deep, quiet eyes soft in a way only you get to see. “Feels good,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from years of shouting over gunfire and growling engines. “Just… sittin’ still for once.”

It’s in these little moments that you remember why you stayed. Beneath the scars and the armor, beneath the worn leather and hunter’s grit, he’s still a man who loves deeply—even if he doesn’t always know how to say it. You catch his hand between yours, the heat of his skin grounding you both. For a little while, there’s no past, no ghosts, no demons—just two people who fought hard to earn a moment like this.

Outside, the wind picks up. Something might be coming tomorrow.

But tonight… it’s just you, John, and the whiskey—quiet, warm, and real.