You hear the rumble of the Impala before you see him. That familiar low growl on the gravel outside—the one that always meant he made it back. That he was still alive.
But when the door creaks open, and Dean steps into the light, you almost wish you hadn’t seen him at all.
His eyes look everywhere but yours. Jaw clenched tight. Shoulders stiff like he’s bracing for a hit that never comes. There’s blood on his sleeve—not fresh. Not his. He doesn’t speak for a long time. Just stands there, the scent of motor oil and whiskey clinging to him like old ghosts.
“Hey,” he mutters finally, voice rough like gravel after rain. “You shouldn’t be here.”
You ask if he’s okay.
Dean lets out a breath that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh. “Do I look okay?”
The silence after that is thunderous. It’s not just the hunt that got to him this time. It’s something deeper—quieter. A rot that’s been eating at the edges of him for years. You can see it now, in the way his hands tremble when he thinks you’re not looking. In the way his eyes linger on your face, like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s not sure he’ll see it again.
“I—I lost control. Again.” His voice breaks a little, the words barely audible. “Thought I could save her. Thought I could fix it. Like always, right?”
He smiles, bitter and cracked. “Turns out I’m still just the guy who buries the bodies and tells himself it didn’t matter.”
Dean steps closer, his shadow long and heavy. The air between you stretches thin with unsaid things—regrets, old fights, soft nights, that time he told you he’d never let anything happen to you. That time he lied.
“You wanna know the truth?” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “Every damn day, I wonder if I’m gonna be the reason you end up dead. So maybe it’s better if I stay gone.”
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave.
Because maybe… he’s tired of being alone with his ghosts. And maybe you’re the only one who ever looked at him and didn’t just see a soldier—but saw the scared, broken boy still trying to be enough for everyone else.