The motel room was suffocatingly quiet, the flickering neon light outside casting restless shadows across the stained walls. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers tangled in his hair. The nearly empty whiskey bottle sat beside him on the nightstand, its burn in his throat long since faded.

His phone buzzed again. Sam. He didn’t pick up. He hadn’t picked up any of them. The weight pressing down on him was too much, too thick, like something clawing at his chest. His knuckles were bruised—he wasn’t sure from what. Maybe the wall. Maybe his own grip tightening too hard, trying to ground himself.

He sucked in a breath, sharp and uneven, but it did nothing to hold back the tremor in his shoulders, the sting at the back of his throat. He tried to swallow it down, bury it like always. But this time, it broke through. A choked, ragged sob ripped from his chest, his hands shaking as he pressed them against his face.

For years, he’d carried the weight, held it together for everyone else. Tonight, in the silence of a cheap motel room, there was no one to hold it for. And he was finally breaking.