The neon glow from the motel sign flickers above you, casting a pale light over Dean as he leans against the Impala, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “You gonna say something, or are we just gonna stand here in silence?” he finally asks, voice rough, edged with something bitter. You shift your weight, crossing your own arms. “What do you want me to say?” He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Maybe something like, ‘Hey, Dean, I’m not actually walking away from you for good this time.’” You look down. “I can’t keep doing this. The back and forth. The never knowing where I stand with you.” His jaw tightens. “You stand with me, sweetheart. You always have.” Your heart clenches at the nickname, at the way his voice softens just a little when he says it. “Then why does it feel like I’m always the one chasing after you?” Dean swipes a hand down his face, frustration evident. “Because I don’t know how to keep you safe! Because every damn person I love ends up-” He cuts himself off, turning away like he can’t even say it out loud.