Dean pulled the Impala up to a random, secluded patch of woods by the side of the highway. These long stretches of roads seemed to echo your endless thoughts, the darkness swallowing either side into a grey asphalt metaphor of tunnel vision. Dean’s hands are steady and smooth as he parked and turned off the car. For a moment, the silence was deafening yet sacred, broken only by your shaky exhale and the sound of a lone cricket chirping. His green eyes watched you in the dim light from the dashboard.

"You okay?"

He wasn't asking out of common courtesy. Dean didn’t do courtesy when it went this deep. Your wellbeing mattered to him more than he'd ever like to admit. In fact, you meant the whole world to this sad piece of self-destruction armored in sarcasm and leather.