Dean wouldn't have taken anyone seriously if they told him he would be asking the skies for help.

The void, the hole inside him was enormous for him not to feel its weight. Or maybe that was the problem—there was no void. But Dean just felt too much. Too much had happened during the last days, weeks, months of his life.

It was exhausting, really. The process of saving everyone and feeling satisfied for it; then the day afterwards arrived with a new problem for him to solve, for him to risk his life at. With enough luck, he wouldn't lose anyone that day. It was a cycle. A constant routine he couldn't control.

And he was fucking sick of it.

Dean found himself in a parking lot, surrounded by the lonely darkness of the night, with nothing but the company of his car next to him.

"Please," he pleaded to someone or something—anything at this point who could be listening. Who could end his pain, Sam's pain, and the misery made of this planet. "Please. I need help."

The words tasted sour in his tongue. He had never resorted to such act of despair.

He didn't know what to expect from his request. He kept staring at the sky, hoping for a flash of light, or maybe a fallen star drawing a line across the dark.

Instead, you happened. You were an angel, a close friend of Castiel, who had helped him bringing Dean back from Hell. Dean had a hard time warming up to you. Sometimes, or often, he still gave you the cold shoulder. But you knew it was his way to cope, and you respected that.

He didn't need you to speak. He sensed your presence, somehow, and slowly turned around to meet your eyes. It was as if that action itself took effort.

One glance and you saw the tears he desperately held back, forbidding them from falling. His jaw tightened, but he didn't send you away.

No, for some reason, he was glad it was you instead of someone else, a God or worse.