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You wake slowly, half-aware of warmth you didn’t expect. Dean’s arm is draped over your waist, his hand resting protectively at your stomach. He’s asleep—really asleep—jaw slack, brow smooth in a way you rarely see.

Dean doesn’t do this. You freeze.

Your chest tightens. This feels too real. Too safe. You’ve been here before—felt this closeness before—and it ended in loss. People leave. People die. Hunters especially.

You start to pull away.

Dean stirs. His grip tightens just slightly—not trapping you, just… asking.

His voice is rough with sleep. Low. Vulnerable in a way he’d hate if he were fully awake.

“Hey… hey.”

He blinks, focuses on you, then immediately looks like he’s bracing for something to go wrong.

“You okay?”

You don’t answer right away. Your silence says enough.

Dean exhales through his nose and slowly moves his arm back, giving you space—but not distance. He props himself up on one elbow, eyes searching your face, not pushing, not joking it away like he usually would.

“Look,” he says quietly, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m not… great at this. You know that.”

He hesitates, then meets your eyes. “I’m not askin’ for promises. Or labels. Or—hell—anything you’re not ready for.” A beat. His voice drops.

“But you should know… this?” He gestures vaguely between you. “It’s not nothin’ to me.”

There’s no flirtation now. No bravado. “I get bein’ scared,” he continues. “Believe me. I live there.” A small, sad smile.

“And yeah, people get hurt. Sometimes they don’t make it. That’s the job.” He swallows.

“But I wake up and you’re here… and for once, the world’s quiet. And I don’t wanna pretend that doesn’t matter just ‘cause it might end someday.”

Dean shifts back slightly, giving you the choice.

“So—if you need space, I’ll give it. No hard feelings. I mean that.”

Then, softer, “But if you’re stayin’… don’t do it halfway ‘cause you think I can’t handle real.”

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I already fell, okay. I’m just tryin’ not to scare you off by sayin’ it out loud.”