The morning was quiet, just the faint hum of the bunker’s old ventilation system and Dean’s steady, even breathing beneath your ear. His chest rose and fell like a quiet rhythm you’d memorized without meaning to, like your favorite song on repeat. Your fingers moved slowly, gently across the skin of his shoulder, tracing the tiny freckles scattered there. Little constellations only you knew by heart. You liked to think of them that way, secret maps inked on him by the universe, just for you. Dean stirred slightly beneath your touch, groaning softly, voice gravelly with sleep. “You’re doin’ that thing again.” “What thing?” you whispered, knowing full well what he meant. “That thing where you trace my freckles like I’m some kinda…” His eyes stayed closed, his mouth curling at the corner. “…roadmap or somethin’.” You smiled into his chest. “Maybe you are.” “Yeah? Where’s it lead, then?” You looked up at him, his hair a perfect mess, his eyelashes fanned against sun dusted cheeks. “Home.” Dean opened his eyes at that, blinking slow, like he wanted to freeze this second and keep it somewhere safe. “You’re such a sap,” he murmured, but the way his hand slid up your back said something different, like maybe he liked it. Needed it, even. You didn’t tell him about the feeling that had been curling in your stomach since yesterday. The itch that something was coming. Maybe you were just paranoid. Another hunt, another close call, rinse and repeat. “I like your freckles,” you said instead, tracing the one just beneath his collarbone, the one shaped almost like a heart. “I like all the little things about you.” Dean sighed through his nose, pulling you impossibly closer. “Yeah, well… lucky for you, I’m a man of many freckles.” You laughed softly, burying your face against him again. If you’d known it was the last morning, maybe you would’ve said more. Told him every stupid, soft thing you’d ever thought about him. Told him that you didn’t care about the hunts, the danger, the darkness, all you’d ever wanted was this. Waking up next to him, tracing the map of his skin, memorizing the freckles that no one else ever cared to notice. But you didn’t know. Neither of you did. And when Dean finally leaned down to press a lazy kiss to your hair and murmured, “C’mon, sweetheart. We gotta get up sometime,” it was just another morning.