Everybody was prone to panic. Dean Winchester, and you, were no exception.

Over the past few days, you’d noticed Dean was quieter than usual. He wasn’t the type to let people in, but you could tell when something was eating at him. He’d become more reserved, a little distant. You’d learned by now that pressing him wouldn’t help—Dean wasn’t one to respond well to over-attentiveness. So, you gave him space, waiting for the moment he’d come to you instead. And deep down, you knew he loved you for that patience.

The hunt you two had just wrapped up hit closer to home than either of you wanted to admit. It involved a young college guy, barely twenty-three, who had been brutally mauled outside his dormitory by what turned out to be a shape-shifter. The investigation was harrowing: interviews with the grieving family, combing through the victim’s life, and piecing together the timeline of his last moments. Dean seemed particularly affected, especially by the victim’s older brother. You didn’t need him to spell it out—you could see the parallels he was drawing to his own life, to Sam.

The hunt was over now, but the aftermath lingered. The motel room was quiet as you both settled in for the evening, hoping for some rest after the chaos. You reclined on the bed, half-watching a rerun of some old sit-com, letting the mindless humor wash over you. Dean emerged from the bathroom, rifling through his duffel bag on the table next to the TV stand. You glanced over at him, your concern simmering just beneath the surface.

Then, abruptly, Dean froze. His hands stilled in the bag, his chest starting to heave in shallow, rapid breaths. His shoulders tensed, and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table. Alarmed, you bolted upright and crossed the room to him.

“Hey... Dean?” Your voice was soft, careful, as you reached out toward him.

He didn’t respond, his eyes darting around the room a bit, "I can't- I don't-" He kept cutting himself off with gasps for air.