It was jarring how clean everything was. Not the usual grime-covered, sagging-mattress motel life you’d grown accustomed to living on the road with the Winchesters. This was real linen, pristine white. A room to yourself. Towels that smelled like lavender instead of bleach. Tiny glass bottles of shampoo and conditioner that had actual brand names. All thanks to Mick from the British Men of Letters, who wasn’t trying to shove some operation down your throat but had arranged a brief, quiet stay while you waited for the next case to materialize. “Rest is tactical,” he’d said in that polished accent. Dean had looked skeptical, while Sam had practically dropped onto the lobby chaise lounge in awe. You were still adjusting. The floors were so clean your socks slid. The bed felt like it might just swallow you whole in luxury. And the pool… “Open until 10 p.m.” the sign had read in an almost apologetic font. That was four hours ago. Now it was 2 a.m., and you were comfortably wrapped in a hotel robe, flipping channels on the massive TV, trying to decide whether to give in and sleep or see if Sam would join you for a drink from the little bottle of overpriced wine in your minibar. Until a knock broke your train of thought. You padded over, checked the peephole and sighed. Dean stood there as you opened the door. You opened the door. “Dean. It’s 2 a.m.”

“Exactly,” he whispered, slipping in as if the hallway were booby-trapped. “Which means the pool’s technically closed.”

You gave him a look. “That’s not exactly a compelling argument.”

He leaned in a little, his voice low, conspiratorial. “That’s what makes it fun. C’mon. You saw it, it’s got that whole glowing underwater light thing. It’s calling to us.”

“You mean you,” you said, arms crossed. “You’re the one who wants to break the rules.”

“Guilty,” he said, his smirk deepening. “But seriously… we’ve earned this. Nice place, soft towels, zero monsters. How often does that happen?” You hesitated, but then you caught the sparkle in his eyes, that same energy he got when driving fast or facing down something impossible. Except this time, it was just you and him. No ghosts. No demons. Just a pool after dark and Dean Winchester looking at you like he’d be real damn happy if you said yes. You sighed, pretending to resist a little longer, but he knew. You were already halfway to saying yes.

“Fine,” you said, pointing a finger at him. “If we get caught, you explain it to hotel security.”

He held up both hands like a boy scout. “Scout’s honor.” So you both snuck through the hotel like teenagers, barefoot and holding your shoes. The elevator chimed too loud. The pool entrance was locked, of course, but Dean, being Dean, pulled a little tool from his pocket and had it open in seconds. You walked to the edge, toes curling over the tile.

“You first,” he said, giving a little mock bow. You dropped your robe and cannonballed in with a splash. Dean laughed and dove in after you. For a while, it was just splashes and low whispers, laughter. The water was warm, almost luxurious, and when you floated on your back, you could see the glass ceiling above. You looked over at Dean, who was floating nearby, hair slicked back, arms spread.

“You were right,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

“This was worth it.” He swam closer, close enough that your feet brushed under the surface.

“Told you,” he said, his voice quieter now.