The motel room smelled faintly of old wood and cheap fabric softener, the dim yellow glow of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows across the tangled sheets. A stack of lore books lay half-open on the scratched nightstand, forgotten the moment Dean Winchester’s head hit the pillow.

He had fought sleep, stubborn as ever, but exhaustion won. His breathing was slow, steady. The faint scruff along his jaw rose and fell with each quiet exhale. The warmth of his body radiated through the thin motel blanket, his flannel unbuttoned just enough to reveal the slope of his collarbone, the sun-kissed freckles scattered there like constellations.

Her fingertips ghosted over his skin, tracing the freckles like a silent map only she could read. One on his cheek, soft and warm beneath her touch. Another near the corner of his lips, rising and falling as he breathed. More along his nose, his temple, his shoulders. A lifetime of summers and open roads painted across his skin.

Dean stirred, lashes fluttering before tired green eyes cracked open. He didn’t startle at her touch—he never did. Instead, he let out a slow, sleepy sigh, his lips quirking up at the corners.

“Y’know,” his voice was thick with sleep, barely more than a murmur, “you’re real bad at pretendin’ you’re not obsessed with me.”