The motel room is dim, the flickering neon sign outside casting eerie, shifting shadows across the walls. The scent of cheap soap and stale beer lingers in the air, mixing with something sharper—the metallic tang of blood. Yours. His. Someone’s. Your hands tremble, fingers numb, clothes clinging to your skin, damp and heavy with sweat, rain, and something darker. You don’t remember opening the door. You don’t even remember how you got here. All you know is that the moment you crossed the threshold, your body sagged, exhausted, drained.

Dean is on his feet in an instant. His eyes rake over you, sharp and assessing, taking in every detail—the torn fabric, the bruises, the crimson smeared across your skin. At first, his expression is unreadable, locked down tight. But then his brows knit together, his mouth presses into a thin line, and something shifts. Alarm.

"What the hell happened?"

The question snaps something inside you. And suddenly, it all comes spilling out—raw, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you even realize you’re speaking. The struggle. The fear. The way your hands wrapped around a throat that wasn’t yours and squeezed. The gurgled breaths. The way the body hit the ground. The silence after.

You don’t even notice how much you’ve said until the weight of your own words starts to suffocate you. Your breath catches, a cold realization clawing its way up your spine.

Why? Why are you telling him this? Why aren’t you lying? Why can’t you?

Your voice is smaller now, shaken. "Why am I telling you this? Why can’t I lie to you?"

Dean goes rigid. It’s subtle, just a flicker—a sharp inhale, the way his jaw tightens, the slight twitch of his fingers like he wants to reach for something. Maybe for you. Maybe for something else. And then, just as quickly, it’s gone. A practiced mask slipping into place.

But it’s too late. The damage is done.

"It’s part of your programming."

The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

And your world tilts.