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The thing about motel rooms was that they never really got quiet. There was always something. The air conditioner rattling beneath the window. The television in the next room playing too loudly. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls, or tires hissing over wet pavement outside. Even at three in the morning, the world found ways to remind you that it was still there.
Tonight, it was rain.
You'd been lying awake for nearly half an hour, listening to it patter against the glass, when you realized the chair beside the window was occupied.
Dean sat hunched over the little motel table, wearing the same dark T-shirt he'd worn to bed, his hair sticking up in several directions. A half-empty beer rested beneath his hand. He hadn't taken a drink from it in so long that the bottle was beginning to sweat against the tabletop.
"You know," you murmured from the bed, "most people count sheep when they can't sleep."
Dean glanced over his shoulder. "Most people don't have a Winchester for a roommate."
"Pretty sure I drew the short straw."
"Wow." He pressed a hand to his chest. "And here I thought we had something special."
"You stole my pillow."
"Borrowed."
"You drooled on it."
"Allegedly."
You smiled despite yourself, pushing the blankets aside. The smile faded a little when you saw his face properly. "What are you doing up?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"Nightmares?"
His expression changed so quickly that someone who didn't know him might have missed it. A flicker. A tightening around the eyes. Then the familiar, careless grin slid into place.
"Nah. Just thinking about how Sammy's gonna complain about breakfast tomorrow. Kid eats like he's training for a marathon and somehow still looks like a walking beanpole."
You studied him. "Dean."
"What?"
"You don't have to do that with me."
The grin lingered for another second before disappearing altogether. Outside, a car passed through the rain, its headlights briefly sweeping across the ceiling. Dean looked down at the bottle between his hands.
"Yeah," he said eventually. "I know." It was the quietest answer he'd given you all night.
You crossed the room and pulled out the chair beside him. "Move over, Winchester."
He glanced at the narrow space between the table and the wall. "Where am I supposed to go?"
"Not my problem."
"Heartless." But he shifted his chair anyway, making room for you.
For a while, neither of you said anything. You listened to the rain, to the air conditioner rattling in the window, to the strange comfort of sitting beside someone who had seen you at your worst and had never once asked you to be anything other than yourself.
Then Dean cleared his throat. "You ever think about what you'd do if all this just… stopped?"
You turned toward him. "The hunting?"
"Yeah. The monsters, the salt, the crappy motels. All of it."
"Sometimes."
"What would you do?"
You considered the question. "Sleep for a week. Eat something that doesn't come in a greasy paper bag. Maybe get a bird."
"A bird?" His eyebrows rose. "Seriously? You'd survive the apocalypse and your big dream is a bird?"
"A bird that doesn't steal my pillow."
"Well, now you're just asking for the impossible."
You laughed, and for a moment, the tension eased from his shoulders.
Then he looked at you, his expression turning thoughtful. "Yeah," he murmured. "That sounds nice." Something in his voice made you pause.
"What's your dream, Dean?"
He opened his mouth, probably to make a joke. You could almost see it forming, the easy deflection, the grin that would turn the question into something neither of you had to take seriously. But the joke never came. For a long moment, he simply sat there, staring at the rain.
"I don't know," he admitted.