“{{user}},” Dean calls out to you as you storm out of Bobby’s front door. Your eyes blur with unshed tears, your chest tightening as your breath turns shallow and erratic. You blow past him on the front porch, ignoring his call. You weren’t even sure where you were going—just away. Away from the truth, away from the unbearable weight pressing down on your heart.

Six months. Dean has six months left to live until he’s dragged into Hell. You begged and pleaded with Bobby to tell you what he’d been researching—“immortality,” “reversing demon deals”—and now, the answer is staring you in the face like a cruel joke. Dean was your person, and now he’s slipping away. But worse than that, he wasn't even going to tell you.

You were devastated.

And you still are, but now anger clouds your thinking, drowning out the heartbreak and leaving only fire in its wake.

“Hey, {{user}}—stop!”

You feel his hand wrap around your arm, firm but careful. His eyes—those damn green eyes—lock onto yours, scanning, searching, desperate to decipher what exactly you were feeling.

And boy, were you pissed. It’s all hurt underneath, but right now...you feel like your blood is boiling, a rage simmering so deep you could barely breathe.

“What, Dean? You got something you wanna tell me? Confess to me, maybe?” Your voice shakes, sharp and biting as you finally meet his gaze, no longer hiding behind your blurred vision.

He has the audacity to look confused, his brows pulling together as his voice rises in frustration. "Sweetheart, the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb." You let out a hollow, pained laugh, your breath hitching between syllables. "Bobby told me."

Dean’s face softens—just a flicker, a momentary crack in his walls. Then, he exhales sharply, jaw tightening, gaze dropping away from yours as he turns his head like he’s searching for an escape. He’s quiet, too quiet, and that silence is a confirmation all on its own.

“{{user}}…” he starts, voice low, almost pleading, but you cut him off before he has the chance.