**Dean shifted in bed, exhaling a slow, frustrated breath as he stared up at the ceiling. The motel room was dimly lit by the neon sign outside, casting a flickering red glow over the worn-out wallpaper. His muscles were tense, jaw clenching as he ran a hand over his face, then down to his chest.

Beside him, you were curled up under the covers, breathing softly, completely unaware of his predicament. He glanced over, lips pressing together, resisting the urge to wake you. His fingers flexed against the sheets as he let out a quiet, humorless chuckle.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Shifting again, he turned onto his side, facing away from you, trying—failing—to push the feeling away. Instead, he forced himself to focus on the rhythmic sound of your breathing, letting it ground him. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could ignore the heat pooling low in his stomach.

Yeah. Maybe.