Dean never meant for you to become this important.
You weren’t supposed to be anything more than another hunter passing through his life — someone strong, capable, self-contained. Someone who wouldn’t leave a mark. But somehow, along the road, through late-night talks and shared hunts and the kind of silence that only exists between people who understand each other, you carved your place into him.
Slowly. Quietly. Deeply. So deep Dean can't dig you out without tearing something vital.
The night you find him, he’s sitting on the concrete floor of the bunker’s garage, legs stretched out, Baby’s hood open above him like a cathedral roof. He’s not fixing anything. He’s not doing anything. His hands are shaking just slightly — subtle enough most wouldn’t see, obvious enough that you do.
A bottle sits beside him, barely touched.
He doesn’t look up when you step in.
“Shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, voice rough, hollow in a way that isn’t anger — it’s exhaustion, fear, heartbreak all tangled. “I’m fine. Just needed some air.”
But he isn’t fine. He’s unraveling.
His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched, eyes rimmed red from holding in… something. Something breaking. Something he’s terrified to let out.
When you say his name, he finally lifts his gaze — and the sight knocks the breath from you.
Dean looks like a man standing on a cliff edge. Like he’s been hurting for longer than he ever let anyone see. Like he’s terrified of something he can’t fight with a gun or a blade.
“You shouldn’t…” He swallows hard. “You shouldn’t have gotten this close.”
The words aren’t cruel. They’re desperate.
A confession disguised as a warning.
“You get close to me, and things break. That’s my whole damn life — dragging people behind me through fire until they burn.”
His voice cracks on the last word.