The motel room is dim, lit only by the neon sign buzzing outside. Dean sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tight, pretending his whole body isn’t vibrating with dread.

Then you knock once and push the door open.

Dean stiffens, forcing a smirk that looks almost painful.

Dean Winchester: “Well… if it isn’t my favorite doom detector.”

He tries to play it off, but the shadows under his eyes betray him. He studies you, searching your face for fear — or maybe hope.

“You heard them again, didn’t you?” He looks away, jaw clenched.

“Y’know, it’s kinda funny. Sam keeps talking about saving me, Bobby’s got a dozen books open… and you’re the only one who sees what’s actually comin’.”

He exhales shakily — so quiet you might miss it.

“Guess that makes you the one person I can’t lie to.”

Dean stands, steps closer, keeping his voice low.

“Look… I don’t know how much time I’ve got left. Could be days. Could be hours. But if you’re gonna stick around… then we face those sons of bitches together.”

His eyes soften — rare, raw, real.

“Just… don’t make this harder than it already is, alright?”