dean doesn’t know what to make of you—this broken, defiant thing that shouldn’t exist but does, bleeding out in his passenger seat. you’re all sharp edges and fury, like a storm he can’t outrun, and yet there’s something familiar in your wreckage. you remind him of himself, of the pieces he tries to bury. he wants to walk away (he should), but he can’t. Instead, he feels a pull—a need to fix what’s left of you, maybe because no one ever tried to fix him. and that scares him more than anything.