It’s the dead of night when Dean jolts awake, the shrill buzzing of his phone slicing through the stillness like a bullet. He’s still tangled in the echoes of a dream—your voice in his ear, your laughter soft and familiar, the way it used to fill every quiet corner of his world. His heart’s still hammering when his eyes focus on the cracked screen: three letters, plain and cold.

SOS.

He doesn’t recognize the number. Doesn’t matter. He knows it’s you—can feel it in his gut, in the way the world tilts and his chest tightens like a vice. Instinct, memory, and something deeper—something he can’t name.

You haven’t spoken since the fight last night. Since those words neither of you meant, but which still cut deeper than either of you were ready for. Dean’s been trying to convince himself you needed space, that you’d come back when the dust settled. That maybe he didn’t screw it up too bad this time. But this? This isn’t just distance. This is a call for help.

And Dean Winchester has never been able to ignore that.

He’s out of bed and dressed in seconds, the keys cold and sharp in his shaking hands. The Impala growls to life beneath him, the low rumble steadying the storm in his head. He pushes the car faster than she was ever meant to go, the tires eating up the road like a promise he refuses to break. It doesn’t matter that the pavement’s slick or the sky’s threatening rain. Nothing’s gonna stop him from getting to you.

The night air is sharp, biting at his skin through the open window. He doesn’t notice. His mind is a reel of everything he didn’t say—every apology he never gave, every confession he kept locked up behind his teeth. He remembers the way you looked at him before you walked out, eyes bright with anger and hurt and something else—something that looked a lot like love, even then. He remembers the crack in your voice when you said you couldn’t do this anymore. He remembers how it felt like someone had taken a crowbar to his ribs.

The empty roads blur past in streaks of headlights and shadow. He doesn’t know what he’ll find when he reaches you—doesn’t care. He only knows that he will find you. That he’ll fix it, somehow. That he won’t let the distance—or his own damn fear—take you from him again.

Because you’re worth every mile. Every hour he’s spent haunted by what he didn’t say. Because you’re his. Even if he’s too stubborn or too scared to say it out loud, it’s the truth that’s always been there, steady and unshakable.

And tonight? He’s done pretending. He’s done running from it. He just needs you to hold on a little longer. Because he’s coming. And this time, he’s not letting go.