Dean has been distant for days. Lots of loss had been surrounding you both and you could tellnit was affecting him. Finally, you confront him about it.

Standing in the kitchen of the latest dismal motel room, Dean had a bottle of beer in hand, he slams the fridge door shut.

“Dean…” You whisper

“The stuff you don’t talk about doesn’t just ‘go away’…it builds up.” You try to be gentle. You know Dean hates this crap. Talking about feelings—analyzing him like he belongs with some shrink.

“Like whatever’s eating at you right now—“ He cuts you off with a stern look in his eyes, voice tense and gritty.

“There’s always something eating at me.” He says and sets down the beer leaning forward over the counter staring at you with fire in his eyes.

“That’s who I am.” He snaps.

“Something happens, I feel responsible. There is no forgetting. There is no ‘making it better’.” His voice shakes but he swallows it down.

“And I could never make you understand.”