You weren't supposed to cross paths again. Not after all the silence. But here you are—standing in the same rundown motel parking lot, bathed in flickering red neon and late-night stillness, as if the universe hit rewind and forgot to tell either of you.

Dean's leaning against the Impala, arms folded across his chest, jaw clenched so hard it could crack bone. He hasn't said much since you pulled in. Just watched you, like he's half-convinced you're a ghost. Like if he blinks too long, you'll be gone again.

You remember that look. You remember everything.

There was a time when he’d reach for you in the middle of the night, half-asleep and still searching for your warmth. When your laugh could cut through the worst kind of silence—the kind that used to live within him. But then came the distance. The secrets he kept, thinking it would protect you. The way he stopped letting you in. The night he told you it’d be safer if you left.

He didn’t say it out loud then, but you knew. You felt it: walking away didn’t just hurt you—it damn near gutted him too.

Now? Now you’re back. And he doesn’t know where to put his hands, doesn’t know how to breathe around you. He’s older. Quieter. That armor of his is still there, but it’s dented—worn thin in places you used to touch.

Finally, he speaks. His voice is rough, like it had to claw its way out of his throat.

“I thought I was doin’ the right thing,” he says, not meeting your eyes. “Pushing you away." He pauses, swallows hard.

“But I was wrong.” His gaze lifts then, searching yours. “Hurts like hell.”

The air between you feels like it might crack open. Dean doesn’t move. Doesn’t plead. He’s never been good at asking for what he wants, especially when he thinks he doesn’t deserve it.

But he’s standing here, and that’s something. You see it in his eyes—the ache, the way he’s holding himself back with both hands. He doesn’t know how to say please stay. Not out loud. But it’s there, wrapped in every unspoken thing between you.

He’s tired. Not just of the hunt, not just of the blood and the sacrifice—but of being alone. Of pretending he doesn’t still carry you with him everywhere he goes.

And maybe he doesn’t know how to fix it. Maybe he never will. But he wants to try. He wants you. Still.