You could hear them whispering in the library, their voices undecipherable in the distance. Dropping the grocery bags in the kitchen, you rounded the corner, stopping as Dean's voice raised.

"Do you think it's the truth?" He asked before Sam hushed him once again. You took that moment to round the corner. It didn't take Sam long to notice you. Smacking Dean's shoulder, he nodded towards you, both men freezing.

"What's up?" You asked, but Dean took off down the other hallway, leaving you alone with Sam who rubbed his neck awkwardly.

"Nothing," he muttered, but you had known him long enough to know he wasn't completely telling the truth. "We were just talking about this new case."

While you didn't believe him, you decided not to push it. The truth would come out eventually. It always did. "A hunt?"

Sam seemed relieved you took the bait. Sighing, he ran his hand through his hair, nodding too vigorously. "Yeah, just over the state border. Dean's already getting the car ready to go. You wanna come?"

"Sure," you answered. "I can be ready in ten."

True to your words, you were ready in ten minutes, tossing your duffel bag on the backseat before you slid in as well. Dean was already in the front seat, his eyes never meeting yours as he nervously tapped the steering wheel. Sam threw an awkward smile over his shoulder before Dean turned the Impala out of the garage and down the road.

Both men stayed quiet, strange for a road trip. Wishing they would just tell you what was up, you leaned your head back, closing your eyes and letting the gentle movements of the car lull you to sleep.

"Y/N, wake up!" Sam exclaimed right next to your ear. Startled awake, you shot forward, your head connecting with his.

"Oof," you mumbled, rubbing your tender forehead as he did the same. "Next time, maybe not so loud?"

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you quickly realized that Dean was nowhere to be found. You were parked in some sort of motel parking lot, the sun sinking behind the stuccoed two-story building. "Where's Dean?"

Sam brushed the hair back from his face, one of his few tells. He was nervous and frustrated, and you wanted to know what the hell was going on. "He went to the bar."

You climbed out of the car, stretching your back. "Wow, that's fast. Even for him. What's the big rush?"

Sam sighed, handing you a room key. "Y/N, I hate to break it to you, but I think tonight you should definitely sit down and talk with Dean. That's the only way this thing is going to blow over."

"What thing?" You asked, but he was already moving away from you, heading to room 14. Peering down at your own key, you noticed you had your own room. Room 21 which was on the second floor, far away from them. That, paired with Sam's comment had tears stinging in your eyes as you tried to figure out exactly what you had done wrong.

Sniffling, you took your bag and climbed the stairs, each step feeling as if your feet were encased in concrete. Shuffling past an old woman who stared suspiciously at you, you pushed open the door to room 21, wincing at the single bed in the middle. Another reminder that you might have somehow screwed up the best thing that had ever happened to you.

Hours later, you still felt horrible. Cuddled up in the rough hotel sheets, you stared at the TV, attempting to watch the local news for a clue about your case. Sam was no doubt sitting below you, searching for everything he could find about the victims. Dean, well, you had no idea if he was back from the bar yet.

The bright neon light of the hotel shined through your curtains, the sky pitch black behind it, and you shut off the TV, planning on getting a couple of hours of sleep. Hoping that everything would seem better in the morning.

It was hard, but finally, you fell asleep, the highway by the window lulling you to sleep. It seemed shortlived however when a sudden noise had your eyes snapping open, your heart racing as you reached for the knife you always kept under your pillow.

"It's just me," Dean slurred, plopping down in the only chair in the room. With the light from the neon sign, you saw he was holding a whiskey bottle that had to be at least three-quarters empty.

"Dean, this isn't your room," you argued, making no move to climb out of bed. You watched him carefully, noticing that his shirt was slightly unbuttoned, his hair standing on end. He was sprawled in the seat, his body loose, unwound more than you had ever seen him. "You're drunk."

He shook his head, the bottle almost falling from his fingers. But even in his inebriated state, he was able to stop it from falling. "Not complet..compltel..ly," he stuttered. "Just enough to be...brave enough."

"Brave Enough for what?" You asked, your fingers nervously toying with the unraveling thread of the cheap sheets.

"To finally talk about all those nights!" He exclaimed before taking another drink of whiskey. "You and that damn mouth of yours."

"What the hell are you talking about?" You yelled back, tired of being accused of something you didn't even know about.

Placing the whiskey bottle on the table beside him, he stood up, almost knocking over the lamp as he made his way over to you. "The last two weeks we shared a hotel room together. Right?"

You nodded, staying silent. "And then, back at the bunker, your room is right next to mine? You prefer to sleep with your door slightly open?"

"Yeah, but I don't see...,"

"Y/N, you talk in your sleep!" He finally got to the point. "All those nights. In the hotel rooms, loud enough I could hear you in the hallway. You talked. Any idea what you talked about?"

"If I did, would I be this freaking confused and hurt?" You asked. "Between you and Sam I'm going crazy!"

"Me too darling. Me too," he sighed. "Y/N, you talk about your dreams a lot. What you want. What you wish life was like. But mostly, you talk about me. About how you wish things were different between us."

"I talk a lot," you whispered, your heart plummeting. You had never imagined that your sleeping brain would give away your greatest secret.

"At first it was awkward," he muttered. "Hearing you say those things, knowing you would die if you knew. But then, hearing you felt the same. I had no idea how to handle it."

"You feel the same?"

"Sweetheart, hearing those words from your lips, I wanted nothing more than to hear them when you were awake. It's something I had dreamed about for a long time."

You loved hearing this. That he felt the same, but then you remembered he was drunk. He probably wouldn't even remember this in the morning, and you would go back to the awkwardness from the past few weeks. "Dean, you're drunk. Go back to your room, and if you remember this, we can talk in the morning."

"There's no way I will forget this," he promised, but he still headed to the door. "And we will talk more tomorrow."

He left you alone, and wide awake. Your heart raced as you laid back down, wondering what was going to happen now. Would he remember? Or would you have that awkward distance that would send you on your way?

Your mind refused to quiet down as you tossed and turned, and as the sun started to rise, you gave up. A long warm shower later, you were packing up your bags, ready to head and find some breakfast.

Opening the door, you almost ran into Dean, who stood in front of you, two cups of coffee in his hands. "Morning," he announced cheerfully as if he hadn't drunk an entire bottle of whiskey last night. "Fresh cup of Joe, just the way you like it," he assured you, handing you the steaming cup of coffee.

"Thanks," you answered carefully, watching to see what was going to happen.

"Oh wait!" He stopped you as you started to raise the cup up. "I wanted to give you something else first."

"Yeah? What's that?"

He took the coffee cup from you, sitting them both down on the table beside the empty whiskey bottle. "This," he spoke softly, cupping your cheek. "I remember everything about last night." With those words, his lips brushed against yours, softly. "And I wanted to let you know, I'm grateful you talked in your sleep."