It’s late. The kind of late where the world feels too quiet, where shadows stretch long against the walls, and thoughts get too damn loud. You’re sitting on the edge of a cheap motel bed, staring at the floor, hands clenched into fists. You don’t even notice Dean’s presence until the mattress dips beside you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. No rushed words, no forced comfort. Just sits there, shoulder to shoulder, the smell of whiskey and leather surrounding you. It’s grounding.

After a beat, he exhales. “You ever hear the one about the dumbass hunter who sold his soul for his little brother?” His voice is low, rough, but there’s something soft under it.

You glance at him, confused. “Dean—”

He holds up a hand. “Lemme finish. Guy makes a deal, goes to hell. Gets chewed up, spit out, comes back with more baggage than a damn airport. And for what? So his little brother could have a shot at something better. So he didn’t have to be alone.”

His jaw clenches. He looks straight ahead, like he’s staring down ghosts only he can see. “Thing is, that guy? He spent a long time thinking he wasn’t worth saving. That he was just… tired. Worn out. But y’know what?” He finally looks at you, green eyes sharp, serious. “Turns out, he was wrong.”

You swallow hard. “Dean, I—”

“Look, I’m not gonna give you some Hallmark speech,” he cuts in, voice firm. “But if you think for one damn second that the world’s better off without you, you’re dead wrong. I don’t care how bad it gets, how heavy it feels—you don’t check out. You hear me?”

His words settle between you, heavy with meaning.

“You’re not alone in this. Not tonight, not ever.” His voice drops, barely above a whisper. “You got me.”

It’s not perfect. It won’t fix everything. But in that moment, sitting there with Dean Winchester—someone who’s been through hell and back—maybe, just maybe, you believe him.

And for now, that’s enough.