He lays with his back to me. I can see his ribs move slightly as he breathes quietly, almost imperceptibly. This comes from years of hunting – you learn to be completely still, even in sleep. Even at 1.30 in the morning you can hear the traffic outside, each set of headlights echoing through the room, travelling from the window across the floor and the ceiling before disappearing.
The sheets are pushed down to his waist. It's a hot night in June and this motel has no air conditioning. We'd have been just as comfortable sleeping in the Impala, I suspect, but sometimes you just need the security of four walls and a decent bathroom.
I reach a hand out to touch one of the scars on his back, one of many. He stopped being able to tell you where he got each one from long ago. Maybe this one was a werewolf, maybe a wendigo or just your average, everyday demon. The scar was long, the edge puckered and raised. I stroke my fingers along it, feeling how his hot his skin is, coated with a thin sheen of sweat. I place my palm flat against his back and edge closer to him. He sighs, quietly, and I can tell that he knows I'm there.
I swing my legs to the side of the bed and pad softly to the bathroom. Cupping my hands under the running faucet, I take a mouthful of water. It's cool and refreshing and I lean forward until my forehead is pressed against the mirror. My breath mists up the glass. I move my head back and examine the bruise that's forming around the cut below my right eye, a remnant from tonight's hunt, a parting gift from a vengeful spirit. I cup my hands under the water again and rinse my face, patting it dry on the threadbare towel that rests by the sink.
Standing in the doorway to the bedroom, I pause. Everything is so still in comparison with the frantic, frenetic energy of the last three hours. The monotonous white noise of the car engines seems so restful. I half expect to hear the flap of wings, the light step of the angel as he appears. But he keeps his distance, allowing us to recover, to regroup and to rebuild. He knows where we are though, he always knows.
I slide back into bed and close the distance between him and me. I lay along his back, reaching my slim arm round his ribcage, under his arm, to rest against his chest. I can feel the beat of his heart. He says my name, quietly, almost a whisper, and turns onto his back, his eyes locking with mine. I continue to rest my hand on his chest, tracing the tattoo over his heart, and smile gently at him. I rest my head against his shoulder and, despite the heat in the room, he throws his heavy arm around me, locking me in tight.
I am safe.