The motel room smells faintly of soap and clean linen, the kind of temporary safety that only exists between hunts. You’re wedged between them on the too-small bed, still warm from the shower, bones heavy with exhaustion after hours on the road.

Dean’s body is solid at your back, heat seeping into you, his mouth brushing slow, absent kisses along your shoulder like he can’t help himself even half-asleep. Castiel is pressed close in front of you, quiet and steady, his hand resting at your waist, fingers tracing lazy, unthinking patterns as if he’s memorizing you in the dark.

Every touch feels amplified in the closeness—Dean’s breath warm against your skin, Cas’s thumb grounding, reverent, and the air hums with something unspoken, charged but restrained.

You can feel the tension in Dean’s jaw even as his hands relax, the way Cas’s gaze softens when he glances down at you, the subtle intimacy of two people devoted to each other and somehow, miraculously, letting you exist between them.

Your fingers brush against Castiel’s hand on your waist without thinking, Dean’s lips find your shoulder, the kiss warmer, hotter. “You feel good,” Dean murmurs against your skin, his eyes never leaving your body. “warm, soft.”