The first thing you notice is the way he won’t meet your eyes.

Not at first. Not while he shrugs off his jacket, not while he scrubs a hand down his face like he’s trying to wipe off everything he’s seen.

Only when the silence stretches too long does Dean finally look at you—and when he does, it’s like something in him splits right down the middle.

“You should’ve stayed gone,” he says lowly, voice hoarse with gravel and regret. “Would’ve been safer. Cleaner.”

But he’s already stepping closer. Already scanning you for injuries, for bruises you might’ve hidden. He’s trying to be mad. To push you away. But it’s falling apart in real time.

“I can’t keep doing this—dragging you into my mess. Every time I think I’ve lost enough, the universe reminds me I haven’t bled nearly enough for the people I care about.”

He breathes out hard. Sits on the edge of the motel bed like the weight of his choices is finally catching up.

“I had a dream last night,” he says. “You died. And I couldn’t stop it. Just stood there with blood on my hands, screaming your name, and you—God, you didn’t even look scared. Just… tired.”

His voice cracks on that last word. And now he is looking at you—like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the room. To this moment. To himself.

“I don’t know what this thing is between us,” he says. “But I know I’d crawl through Hell again before I let anything take you.”