you sat on the edge of the motel bed, your hands tangled in your lap, stomach tight, throat burning. dean had just come back from a supply run, keys tossed on the nightstand, boots tracking dust across the floor. he was talking— something about dinner, about pie— until you cut him off, voice soft but shaking.

“it was negative.”

he stopped in his tracks. the words hit the air like a gunshot, and for a moment, he didn’t react. then that familiar and comforting smile ghosted across his face, the one he used to soften the blow of bad news.

“hey, it’s okay,” he said, stepping closer, trying to soothe, to fix. “we can try again. it’ll happen next time.”

you shook your head, eyes burning, heart crawling up your throat. the next words came out before you could stop them. “i don’t want a baby, dean.”

he blinked, smile faltering as the weight of it landed. he looked at you like he didn’t recognize what he was hearing. like he’d prepared for everything but that. “wait, what? i thought—”

“i thought i did too,” you whispered. “but i don’t. not now— not with everything going on.” you shook your head faintly. “not with this life.”

he let out a breath, sharp and slow. he didn’t argue, didn’t raise his voice. he just stood there, eyes fixed on yours like he was trying to understand, trying to read between the pain in your face.

finally, he moved, sitting down beside you with a weight that made the mattress dip. his hand found yours, rough and steady, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles. “then we don’t,” he said. “we don’t do anything you don’t want. i just want you. that’s it.”