Dean stood with his back pressed against the Impala, his fingers gripping the edge of the car’s doorframe. His heart was racing, but not from fear. No, this wasn’t a hunt or a threat. This was her.

She stood a few paces away, her arms crossed over her chest, her gaze fixed on him with a sharp intensity. A case gone wrong, too many differences in approach, and somewhere along the line, Dean had said something he shouldn’t have.

"I didn’t mean it like that," he muttered, running a hand over his face, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of an emotional reaction, not that he expected her to.

"You never do," she replied, her voice flat, cold. "You never mean it, but you always say it. You always go for the jugular."

Dean's throat tightened. He’d crossed a line, and now he was trying to reel it back in. "Look, I—"

"Because to you, I am merely a monster. And in the end, that’s all I ever was." The words cut through him like a blade. His breath caught in his throat.

She’d been hunting with them for years. She’d fought beside him and Sam, bled beside them, and in return, he’d pushed her away, kept her at arm’s length. He’d always known she wasn’t fully human, but he never let it matter...until now. And in that moment, with her standing there, so perfectly herself, he realized just how much he’d failed her.

"I didn’t mean—" he started again, his voice rougher this time. Dean stepped toward her, his hands raised in a pleading gesture, but she didn’t move. She didn’t budge an inch -- but she interrupted him with a bitter laugh.