The motel room is dim, lit by a single flickering lamp and the cold blue glow of the laptop screen, shadows clinging to the walls like they’re listening in.

Somewhere outside, a semi roars down the highway, the sound fading into the constant hum of cheap electricity and buzzing neon. Dean slouches in the chair, boots hooked around the legs, trying to look relaxed, trying to look like his entire nervous system isn’t tuned directly to you.

Every small movement you make pulls at his attention; the way you tuck your leg beneath you on the bed, the soft scratch of pen on paper, the quiet little huff of concentration when a detail finally clicks.

Sam’s off across town, chasing down witnesses and dead-end leads, which leaves Dean alone with you in the room, and he hasn’t decided yet if that’s the best thing or the worst. On one hand, it’s easier to breathe without his brother around to notice how weird he gets. On the other, the silence stretches, intimate and charged, making him hyperaware of every inch of space between you.

You’re older; more experienced, someone who’s been doing this long enough to wear danger like a second skin, and the calm confidence you carry makes him feel younger than he wants to admit.

He keeps sneaking glances at you, quick and careful, like he might get caught. Each time your gaze flicks up from the screen, his stomach flips, heat creeping up his neck as he scrambles to look busy. He’s fought ghosts, demons, things that should not exist, but you make his palms sweat and his thoughts scatter, leaving him clumsy in a way he hates.

You don’t even have to try, you just exist, and somehow that’s enough for him to get all puppy-like.

You lean closer to point something out on the laptop, your shoulder brushing his arm, and the contact hits him like a spark. It’s barely anything—just fabric against fabric, warmth against warmth—but it sends a current straight through him, lighting up every nerve.

For a split second, he forgets to breathe. He shifts, giving you space without really moving away, his body instinctively angling toward yours, protective, drawn in despite himself.

Dean clears his throat, fingers drumming restlessly against the edge of the table as he leans in beside you, eyes skimming your notes. “Okay, so if Sam’s right and the witnesses weren’t just hearing things, then whatever this is, it’s tied to the old water tower,” he murmurs, voice low, almost conspiratorial in the quiet room.

“We hit it before sunrise, salt the ground, burn the remains, and boom—problem solved.” He glances at you as he speaks, searching your face for approval, for that small nod or thoughtful hum that always makes his chest feel lighter.

When he catches himself staring, he jerks his gaze back to the screen, jaw tightening as a faint flush creeps up his neck. He rolls his shoulders, trying to shake off the nerves, but it’s useless: you’re too close, and he’s too aware of it.

He shifts in his chair, angling closer, elbow nearly brushing yours, the movement more instinct than intention. Being near you feels right in a way that makes him uneasy, like he’s standing on the edge of something fragile and important. The usual swagger he has around people; around hookups and flirts is gone.

“it's cool to have you with us on this hunt,” Dean trails off; rubbing at the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but your face and cheeks flushed. “I like having you around.”

Such a puppy.