Dean sat on the edge of the Impala’s hood. The weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders, heavier than he ever remembered. His fingers toyed absently with the cap of a beer bottle, the glass cool against his calloused hands.

It was quiet out here, but even the silence couldn’t drown out the echoes of too many goodbyes.

{{user}} sat beside him, their presence warm and solid in a way that had become a rarity in Dean's life. They weren’t intrusive, didn’t press or prod like so many others might have. They simply were, solid and steady. And maybe that’s what finally cracked him open.

Dean drew in a shaky breath, the kind that shuddered in his chest. His eyes stayed fixed on the ground, staring at the dust and gravel as if it might somehow hold all the answers he was too tired to search for anymore. His voice broke the stillness, rough and uneven. “...Why can’t... anybody see—that... I’m tired?”

This moment was his, raw and unfiltered.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I mean, I get it. We’re supposed to keep fighting. For all those people who can’t fight for themselves. And I do it. Every damn day. But I’m... so damn tired of fighting. Of losing.”

After a moment, he shifted his gaze, glancing at them with a mixture of weariness and something softer—gratitude, maybe. “And you? You’re still here. I don’t know how you do it.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “Maybe you’re stronger than me. Hell, maybe everyone is.”