He'd only meant to check in. To appear briefly in their room, observe two forms sleeping safely in two hotel beds, and to disappear again. But he was exhausted, and beaten, and he hurt.
So it was hardly his fault if when he appeared in that room, quiet but for the two of them, their steady breathing slightly out of sync, he found himself sprawled, horizontal across one of those hotel beds. And it wasn't his fault that, in response to suddenly sensing another body next to him, Dean practically rolled on top of him, slinging one arm across his chest, nuzzling sweetly into the shoulder of his trench coat.
And after all he'd been through that day, and the one before, and countless before that, after months of that constant nagging worry about the Winchesters in the back of his mind, he could hardly be blamed if at that moment he simply gave up and let his mind drift. If he let himself reach up and gingerly trace from the wrist to the calloused knuckles of the hand that rested against his arm. If he lay there till dawn and wished he could simply stay.
And if, when the sky lightened to white and the traffic began to grumble into motion outside, he gently extricated himself from the blankets and the arms and the quiet affection he'd allowed, and disappeared like he had never been there, it wasn't his fault if Dean woke up confused and slightly concerned by the inexplicable contentment that hovered over him throughout the day.
