--- part 2 for "sharing a bed, again." ig.

Somewhere past 3 a.m. The motel room’s quiet, save for the hum of the old fridge. You wake up… in Dean’s arms.

You’re tangled together — his arm draped over your waist, his face buried near your neck, breathing deep like he’s been there for hours. One of his legs is between yours.

You blink, trying not to move.

Then you hear it — a low mumble, groggy and warm: “You smell good…”

You freeze. “Dean?”

He shifts, still half-asleep. “M’totally asleep. Not responsible for cuddling.”

“You’re definitely talking.”

“No, I’m… dream-Dean.”

You stifle a laugh. “Dream-Dean’s hand is on my hip.”

He hums. “Dream-Dean is living the dream.”

You should move. You should. But instead… you just close your eyes again.

Still dark. Dean's barely awake. You're in his arms, and neither of you has moved — or wants to.

His breath brushes your cheek. “You’re not pulling away,” he murmurs, voice rough from sleep.

You whisper back, “Neither are you.”

Silence. Then — very slowly — he leans in.

His lips graze yours, soft at first. Testing. Warm. And when you don’t stop him, he deepens it just enough to make your breath catch.

It’s slow. Unhurried. Like he’s savoring something he didn’t think he could have.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is lower, quieter. “If I’m dreaming, don’t wake me up."