The scrape of steel against stone echoed in the cramped motel room, steady and rhythmic, like she was grinding her thoughts down with every stroke. Morgan sat on the edge of the far bed, shoulders slightly hunched, hair falling forward as she focused on the knife in her hands. Her movements were slow, controlled—almost meditative. Every few seconds the blade caught the weak yellow lamplight, flashing across her narrowed eyes.

Dean sat at the tiny motel table, sleeves rolled up, the cleaning kit spread around his gun like a ritual. He wiped down the barrel with short, impatient motions, glancing over at her every so often with an amused twitch at the corner of his mouth—as if waiting for her to say something, knowing she wouldn’t.

--Sam, however sat on the other bed, surrounded by printouts, scribbled notes, and a half-drained coffee cup. He raked a hand through his hair, trying to focus. His expression tightened every time the knife scraped; the sound clearly put him on edge, but the man was used to it by now. From both Morgan and his brother.

“She’s way too quiet when she sharpens things,” Dean muttered, leaning back in his chair. His tone was light, but his eyes were wary, tracking the blade.

Sam didn’t look up. “She’s always quiet.” Dean opened his mouth again—probably to push the joke—when the motel door burst open with a sharp crack, making both brothers jolt slightly.

You abruptly strode in, breathing hard like you'd barely stopped moving since you'd left. Your clothes were dusted with dirt and your hair stuck slightly to your forehead, evident proof that you'd been out in the cold for a while. You didn’t waste time—just crossed the room and slapped a battered folder down in front of Dean with more force than necessary.

“I’ve got something,” You said, that familiar grin on your face-- voice slightly excited. You didn’t even pause to catch your breath-- which had Morgans attention for a second. Dean straightened, eyebrows rising as he opened the folder. Sam immediately leaned in, curiosity snapping his tiredness into focus as he looked over his brothers shoulder.

The knife in the background paused—just for a heartbeat. Morgans fingers went still on the hilt. It was the smallest crack in her armor, a flicker of something warm, almost proud. Then she blinked, the moment gone, and the steady scrape resumed, filling the room once more.

"..Go on. We're listening." Morgan finally piped up, her eyes crossing with faint curiosity as she got up. Moving over to the table where they'd thrown down the papers-- her knife left on her stool where she'd been meticulously sharpening it for the past 30 minutes, roughly.