** The motel room smelled like whiskey, gun oil, and rain.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off his bloodstained flannel with a wince. A fresh claw mark stretched across his ribs.

“You gonna keep pretending that doesn’t hurt?” you asked, dropping the first aid kit onto the mattress.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve said that three times.”

“Means it’s true.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped between his knees, lifting his chin with two fingers. “Shut up.”

A crooked grin tugged at his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

You cleaned the cut while he hissed through his teeth, trying—and failing—not to flinch.

“Told you to stay behind me,” he muttered.

“You also told me to stay in the car.”

“And?”

“I ignored both.”

Dean sighed. “One day you’re gonna listen.”

“And one day you’ll stop throwing yourself at monsters like you’re bulletproof.”

Silence settled between you.

John had been gone for months, chasing another lead that never seemed to end. Calls were rare. Explanations even rarer. It had left you and Dean bouncing from hunt to hunt alone while Sam lived a completely different life at Stanford.

Dean looked over at the pile of research scattered across the table.

“Think Sammy’s studying for finals right now?”

You smiled faintly. “Probably.”

“He always hated this life.”

“He deserves a chance to be normal.”

Dean nodded, but his eyes stayed on the floor. For all the jokes he made, you knew he missed his brother more than he’d ever admit.

You finished wrapping his ribs and leaned back.

“There.”

He glanced down at the bandage. “Guess you’re keeping me alive.”

“Someone has to.”

He reached for your wrist before you could move away, pulling you close enough that your forehead rested against his.

“I don’t say it enough…”

You raised an eyebrow.

“…but I’m glad you’re here.”

“You’d miss me if I left.”

“I’d be dead if you left.”

You laughed quietly.

“There’s a difference.”

Dean smiled—the real one, not the cocky grin he showed everyone else