He should be grateful. Kissing the clouds of heaven, believing in the boomerang of goodness. A material treasure—every couple of days, he comes to your godforsaken town, snuggles against your back with his chest under a thick blanket. Just listening, counting the beats of your heart, drawing patterns on the skin of your shoulder, soothing himself to sleep.

He should be happy. Waking up next to you, bringing breakfast in bed; the house always clean, smelling like a real home—the one he didn't have. Dean was living a life that wasn't apple pie, but at least half of it, and that should have been enough. What else is there to dream about? A serious relationship, with only conflicts about choosing a new colour of curtains for the guest room. You're too ideal.

He's grateful, but luck will never turn full circle. The anxiety that had been wrapped around his neck like a cobra suddenly squeezed. Cut his air off with ease. Yesterday was Saturday. Dean stirred up a nest of vampires and then drove across the country to see you. Some call it reckless; others call it love.

Dean calls it fear.

When he walks into the bedroom, dawn is just beginning to break through the curtains, and he sits on the edge of the bed in exhaustion. The silence is slippery and fragile when you open your eyes, but he is silent. And he doesn't touch you.

"You won't understand a thing," Dean finally mutters, exhausted and drained; leaning his elbows on his knees, he covers his eyes with the palm of his hand, trying to block out the visions of your repeated death in his head. He puts you at risk every day. "We'd be better off parting ways. Ain't joking."

He's a liar or just a coward. Dean sighs, restraining himself from looking into your eyes. The sheets rustle. He knows you'll argue; he knows he's vulnerable to your pleas. But his heart wasn't broken just once. It's impossible to get a way in it—he knows. Even if you try so hard it hurts.