Dean Winchester didn’t ask for help. That just wasn’t something he did. He handled things, took the hits, bore the weight. He was the big brother — the big brother — and he was used to being the one others leaned on, not the other way around.

But this? This was different.

This wasn’t just another salt-and-burn or a night in a crappy motel room patching up his own wounds. This was Dad, gone radio silent for days now. Off the grid. No check-ins, no coordinates, not even one of his cryptic voicemails. Dean had called. Again. And again. And again. No answer.

And even now, even with dread clawing at the back of his throat, Dean couldn’t bring himself to call Sam. Not yet. Sam was at Stanford. Out. Free. The kid had finally escaped the life, gotten a shot at normal. Dean couldn’t — wouldn’t — drag him back into this. Not unless he had to.

So, he tried someone else. Someone who always seemed to pick up the pieces he left behind.

You.

His little sibling. {{user}}.

You were the last person Dean wanted to burden, but the only person he could trust right now. You were off living your own life — actually living it — studying in New York at Russell Sage College, chasing dreams Dean barely remembered having. You had always been cool in a way Dean couldn’t define — smart without being smug, sharp without being cruel, brave without needing to prove it. The two of you had always had a bond, one Dean never quite shared with Sam. Maybe because you understood the darkness and didn’t flinch.

And now Dean was clinging to that connection like a lifeline.

He was sitting on the hood of the Impala in the flickering light of a gas station somewhere in the middle of nowhere, his phone pressed to his ear with both hands like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. It rang once. Twice. Three times—

Click.

“Hello?”

Dean panicked.

He hung up.

“Dammit,” he whispered, dragging a hand down his face, jaw clenched, heart thudding in his chest. He’d tried five times already, each time choking at the last second. But he couldn’t afford to screw around anymore. Something was wrong.

He hit redial. The phone rang. You answered again, confused, maybe even a little worried this time.

“…Hello?”

He didn’t give you a chance to speak.

“{{user}}— god, I know I don’t usually… I mean, I wouldn’t call unless I—” he stammered, voice hoarse, like the words were scraping their way out of him.

“I need your help.”

Silence. It stretched just a beat too long. It made Dean’s stomach twist. Maybe you’d say no. Maybe you’d say he was just being paranoid. Or maybe you’d tell him exactly what he feared most: you’re on your own.

But you didn’t.

So he continued, quieter this time, like admitting it any louder would make it real.

“Dad’s on a hunting trip… he’s been gone a few days. No word. No nothing. I—” Dean swallowed hard, then forced the rest out. “I think something happened.”

He didn’t tell you about the gut feeling that had been gnawing at him since day two. He didn’t tell you about the way Dad’s journal had been left open on the motel nightstand, or how every lead he’d followed since had ended in a dead end.

And he definitely didn’t mention Sam.

Not yet.

Dean held his breath, waiting for you to respond, the phone still tight in his grip like a lifeline, knuckles white.

Please don’t tell me to get lost, he thought. Not you.