The motel room door swung open hard enough to rattle the chain. Dean’s voice was already loaded with heat. “I swear, if you touched my keys again—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

Sam stood in the doorway, eyebrows climbing. Castiel was right behind him, still in his trench coat, blinking like he’d walked into the wrong timeline.

Because Dean Winchester—Mr. Loud, Mr. Scowl, Mr. Get Out of My Way—was sitting on the edge of the bed with you tucked against his side, one arm curved around your shoulders like it belonged there. Not the “keep your distance” posture he wore with everyone. This was careful. Protective. The kind of quiet that only showed up after blood and close calls.

Your cheek was pressed into the worn denim of his jacket. Dean’s fingers were stroking through your hair, slow and absent-minded, like he was counting your breaths just to make sure you were still real.

Sam’s mouth opened, then closed, like his brain refused to form the sentence.

Dean cleared his throat, withdrawing his hand as if it had burned him. “It’s not—” he started, then glared at the floor like it had personally betrayed him.

You didn’t flinch. You lifted your head, eyes sharp despite the softness still clinging to you. “They’re staring,” you murmured.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Dean muttered, ears turning red. “Could you two not make it weird?”

Castiel tilted his head. “This appears to be already weird.”

Sam let out a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re—okay. Both of you are okay. Great. Awesome. I’m just going to…pretend I didn’t see Dean Winchester petting someone like a rescue dog.”

Dean shot him a look. “Say one more word and I’m changing your ringtone to ‘Baby Shark.’”

Your lips twitched. Dean saw it, and for a second the tension cracked—his shoulders easing, his hand finding yours again under the excuse of “checking” your bandaged palm. His thumb brushed over the gauze, gentle. “You’re gonna keep that clean,” he said, voice rough. “I’m not losing you because you’re stubborn.”

You squeezed his fingers, yours steady. “You’re stubborn too.”

Dean huffed, but it sounded almost like relief. “Yeah. And you like it.”

Sam turned away, shaking his head. “I’m leaving. Cas, come on before I get emotional damage.”

Castiel didn’t move. “Dean, I am pleased you are experiencing tenderness.”

Dean’s glare could’ve peeled paint. “Get out.”

The door clicked shut. Silence settled back in, warm and secret.

Dean exhaled, then tugged you closer like the room might steal you if he didn’t. “We’re gonna go back to hating each other in public,” he mumbled.

You rested your head on his shoulder again. “Sure.”

Dean’s hand returned to your hair, softer than any apology.