The motel room is quiet—too quiet. Sam’s out on a supply run, and Dean’s sitting stiff on the edge of the bed, phone still in his hand like it’s burned him.

You’re across the room, watching him. He hasn’t looked up yet.

Your jacket’s still half-on, your boots dusty from the road. A moment ago, the three of you were laughing about a ghost hunt gone sideways—mud, salt rounds, bad diner coffee. Normal. Familiar.

And then the phone rang.

Dean’s jaw is tight. His voice had dropped an octave when he answered—low, guarded, different.

“Cassie.”

The name hit you like a gut punch, even before he ended the call.

Now he’s quiet. The kind of quiet that means something’s boiling under the surface.

You finally speak.

“How bad is it?”

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just runs a hand through his hair, the call still ringing in his ears.

“She said it’s happening again. Same town. Same kind of deaths.”

He pauses. “She needs help.”

He finally meets your eyes—and it’s all there. Guilt. Conflict. Something older than you want to admit still lingering in the corners of his expression. But beneath it all, you see it: he doesn’t want to go. He just thinks he has to.

You fold your arms, voice low.

“You gonna tell me what kind of help she needs, Dean? Or am I supposed to pretend this is just another case?”

He flinches. Just a little.

“She’s not you,” he says quietly. “She never was.”

It’s meant to be comforting. It just makes your chest ache.

“So why do you look like someone punched you in the gut just for saying her name?”

The tension snaps sharp in the air between you, bitter with unspoken truths. You’ve known Dean your whole life. You know what it means when he won’t meet your eyes. You also know he’s not the guy who runs from monsters—but emotional baggage? That’s harder.

He stands up slowly. Walks to you. Close enough that you can smell the faint trace of leather and motor oil, the familiar warmth of him wrapped around the ache you’re trying to hide.

“She broke it off. She couldn’t handle… all this,” he says, gesturing around like the world you live in is some storm no one survives.

You stare at him because you already knew why she broke up with him. Hell you were there.

“I did. I’ve handled it my whole damn life.”

His throat works on a swallow. He nods.

“I know. That’s why I’m not walking into that town alone.”

You blink.

“You’re bringing me?”

He smirks—soft, sad, vulnerable in a way Dean rarely lets himself be.

“I don’t want Cassie. I want you. But I’m not gonna lie—it’s gonna be messy. Seeing her again… it’s gonna dig things up.”

Your jaw tightens with the thought.

“Good. Maybe it’s time you buried them.”

He holds your gaze for a long second. And even with all the weight between you—history, jealousy, scars—he reaches for your hand.

“I don’t want to lose you over this.”

You squeeze his hand once, hard.

“Then don’t.”