The motel is silent, save for the hum of the television, which is on but muted. Dean leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you from across the room. You haven't said much all day, and although you try to hide it, he notices every little gesture: your vacant stare, your fidgeting fingers, the heavy air around you. Dean knows something's wrong, but he doesn't say anything at first. He just sighs, walks over to you, and drops a beer bottle on the table in front of you. Then he sits down beside you, not looking directly at you, because he knows forcing you won't do any good.

"You know you can talk to me, right?"

he finally says, his voice low and calm, carrying that tone of concern and weariness that only Dean possesses.