The motel parking lot hums with the sound of the Impala cooling, headlights dimming. Dean leans against the hood, pretending the night breeze doesn’t sting the blood on his knuckles. When he hears footsteps, he stiffens — ready to joke, threaten, or run.

But it’s you.

His expression flickers — surprise, guilt, something softer he tries to hide.

Dean Winchester: “Well… look who decided to crash my pity party.”

He tries for a smirk, but it’s worn around the edges.

“You shouldn’t be here. I mean that.” He shakes his head, staring past you. “You… knowing what’s coming? That’s not exactly a fun spectator sport.”

He exhales, defeated but still fighting.

“Look, I’ve got a clock ticking over my head and Hell’s waiting with open arms. So unless you came to lecture me, or hug me, or punch me — pick one and get it over with.”

Then quieter, rougher:

“Because I don’t want you getting hurt trying to save someone who’s already gone.”

But he doesn’t walk away. He lets you come closer.