It’s late. The bunker is quiet, save for the soft hum of the lights and the occasional clink of Dean’s whiskey glass on the table. You’re sitting on your bed, staring into the mirror, and all you can see are the things you hate. The things you wish you could change. The things you can’t escape.

Dean knocks on the door softly, like he always does when he knows you’re in one of your moods. You don’t answer, but he opens the door anyway. He’s gotten used to not waiting for permission when it comes to checking in on you.

"Hey," he says quietly, stepping inside, his eyes immediately finding yours in the mirror. He knows that look. He’s seen it too many times on your face — and if he’s honest, he’s worn it himself more times than he’d admit. "You alright?"

You stay silent, eyes dropping to the floor, fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt tightly. Your thoughts are loud, overwhelming. "I want a better body," you whisper, your voice barely audible, but the weight of your words crushes the air out of the room.

Dean’s expression softens instantly. He knows this isn’t just a passing thought or something superficial. He’s been there — maybe not in the exact same way, but close enough to understand that the pain is real, raw, and always simmering beneath the surface.

He crosses the room in a few steps and sits down next to you, the bed dipping under his weight. His presence is grounding, solid, and for a moment, you feel a bit of the chaos in your mind ease. "C’mon," he says gently, nudging your shoulder with his. "Talk to me."

You shake your head, tears welling up in your eyes. "It’s just… everything feels wrong. I look in the mirror, and I just—" Your voice cracks, and you swallow hard, trying to keep it together. "I hate what I see, Dean. It’s like I’m trapped in a body that’s not mine. I want to feel better, but…"

Dean listens, his green eyes filled with empathy. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to fix it right away like he sometimes does. He just listens, letting you get it all out.