Thunder’s pounding. The power’s out in your cheap motel room. Rain lashes the windows. It’s freezing, and the heater’s dead.

You shiver under the thin blanket. “Remind me why we don’t go for better motels?”

Dean grumbles from the other bed, tossing you a second flannel shirt. “Because ghosts don’t care if we’re at the Ritz.”

You catch it, already wearing three layers. “This is ridiculous.”

Dean sighs and swings his legs over. “Alright, come here before you freeze to death.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He opens the blanket beside him. “Don’t make it weird. You’re cold, I’m warm. Science.”

You smirk as you cross over. “This is definitely weird.”

“Shut up and get in.”

You slide under the blanket beside him, your nose practically against his chest. His body radiates heat. He smells like leather and whiskey and just a little bit of trouble.

Dean mutters, “If your feet touch me, I swear—”

Your cold toes brush his leg.

“Damn it—”

You laugh, warm for the first time tonight.