The motel room smells like leather, gun oil, and rain. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sits on the nightstand beside a silver knife and a flickering lamp. Dean’s hunched over the table, cleaning his shotgun sleeves rolled up, focus razor-sharp.

He doesn’t look up when the door creaks. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, voice low, gravel wrapped in warmth. “Thought maybe the monster got you instead.”

You drop your bag by the door. He glances up, green eyes catching the light just enough to make your stomach drop. “Kidding,” he says, smirk ghosting across his mouth. “Mostly.”

He sets the shotgun down, wipes his hands on a rag, and leans back in his chair, studying you. “You hungry? Or just here to yell at me for almost gettin’ us killed again?”

You roll your eyes, and he chuckles. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He stands, crossing the room with that lazy, dangerous grace that’s more instinct than effort. The floor creaks, the air thickens, and when he stops in front of you, it’s close enough that the smell of whiskey and gunpowder replaces the cold.

“Y’know,” he says softly, tilting his head, “you shouldn’t look at me like that. Makes me think I did somethin’ right for once.”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip careful, slow, deliberate. “Don’t get sentimental on me,” he whispers, grin crooked, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes. “Makes it harder to walk away.”

The smirk fades just a little replaced by something quiet, almost fragile. “Thing is…” He swallows. “I never was good at leavin’ what I love.”

Outside, thunder rumbles. The lamp flickers again. He still doesn’t move his hand.

“You stayin’ tonight?” he asks, voice low. “Or am I gonna have to pretend I don’t care?”

Either way, he’s already made his choice.