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The tension rolls out of her body when she hears Dean's familiar gait, the heavy footfalls with a scrape of his heel on the left. The grumble of his voice when he trips over her converse sneakers by the broom closet next to the front door. The floorboards creak with his weight, tracking through the living room and up the stairs, uneven thumps when he jogs the last couple.

He has a room across from hers with his own bed, his own too-soft pillow, his own floor covered in clothes, both clean and dirty, but he tracks into hers, dropping his bag by her closet door. She feigns sleep as he sheds his clothes, letting them fall onto a pile of her own, mixing his dirt-stained shirts with her dirty jeans, socks and panties. Sam can smell him for days in her room, his shirts sweat-soaked at the pits, making all of her clothes smell like boy. Sometimes she forgets what she smells like without him, the faint vanilla scent of the generic detergent and softener lost in his sweat, leather and old spice, totally overwhelmed.

She lets out a shocked stutter of breath when she feels him drop down onto the mattress. He hisses air out between his teeth, and she knows he's hurting, that if she looked, if there was enough light, she would be able to see the new maze of bruises over his chest, red-purple colonies of them over his ribs, invading across his skin.

The scratchy hair on his legs brushes against her calves as he settles next to her, curved like a bow around her, the edges of his boxers tickling the tops of her thighs, making her shift until their legs are tangled like vines. His arm reaches out and circles her waist, curling until his fingers are tucked between her hip and the bed.

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