“Hey.”

Dean’s voice is quieter than usual, rough and low as he leans against the Impala, arms crossed over his chest. A half-empty beer dangles from his fingers, but it’s more for show than anything—he’s barely taken a sip. The glow of the motel’s neon sign flickers above him, casting an uneven light over his face, highlighting the exhaustion in his features. You’ve seen Dean tired before, but this… this is different.

“Didn’t think I’d see you out here.” His lips twitch, like he’s trying to smirk, but it doesn’t quite land. Instead, he exhales sharply and tilts his head back, staring at the sky like it might have something to say.

You don’t say anything right away, just stepping up beside him, letting the quiet settle between you. You know Dean—know he won’t open up unless you give him space to. So, you wait.

He scoffs softly, kicking a loose pebble near his boot. “I know what Sam probably told you. That I’m ‘processing’ or some crap like that.” He shakes his head, voice dipping into something bitter. “But I’m fine. People cheat, people lie. That’s life. It ain’t new, and it sure as hell ain’t surprising.”

You don’t miss the way his grip tightens around the bottle, the way his jaw clenches just a little too hard. He’s putting on a show—acting like it doesn’t bother him. But you see right through it.

Without thinking, you reach out, letting your fingers graze his forearm. It’s a small gesture, but it makes him pause.

“Dean, it’s okay to be pissed. To be hurt. What they did? It wasn’t fair to you.”

He lets out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. Fair’s never really been in the cards for me, sweetheart.”

Your fingers linger, just for a second longer, and this time, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he looks at you—really looks at you. The usual cocky bravado is stripped away, leaving something raw and vulnerable in its place.

“You don’t have to do this, y’know,” he mutters. “I’m not your problem.”