The bunker was unusually quiet that night. Dean had been in his room, going over some case files, when something in the back of his mind gnawed at him, a sense that something wasn’t right. You hadn’t been yourself for a while now—withdrawn, quieter than usual, avoiding the usual banter and late-night beers with him and Sam. He knew you were struggling, but you never really talked about it. You hid it well. Too well.

Dean had been through his own hell—literally and figuratively—and he could see the signs in you. The late-night silences, the forced smiles, the distant look in your eyes when you thought no one was watching. But this time, the silence was different. It was too heavy, too long.

Something was wrong.

His gut told him to check on you, so he dropped everything, quickly heading to your room. As he knocked on the door, there was no answer. His chest tightened as he called your name again. Still nothing.

Without thinking, he pushed the door open, heart pounding in his chest. That’s when he saw you—sitting on the edge of your bed, tears streaming down your face, hands shaking, and the glint of something sharp on the nightstand next to you. Dean’s breath caught in his throat, panic surging through him.

"Hey, hey, hey," he said, rushing over, voice thick with fear. "What are you doing?" His hands were on you in an instant, pulling the sharp object away and tossing it aside before kneeling in front of you, eyes wide with concern. His hands cupped your face gently, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Talk to me," Dean pleaded, his voice soft but desperate. "Please. Don’t do this. You don’t have to go through this alone."

Your tear-filled eyes finally met his, and the weight of everything you’d been carrying inside came crashing down. You couldn’t hold it in any longer.

"I-I’m just so tired, Dean," you choked out between sobs. "I don’t know how to do this anymore. I don’t know how to keep going."

Dean’s heart broke at your words. He’d been there before—on the edge, where everything felt too heavy,