“It’s 2:43 a.m. I know you’re asleep. Hell, I hope you’re asleep. You need the rest. You’re always telling me I don’t sleep enough, that I carry too much. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do.”

Dean’s voice cracks around the edges—tired, gravelly, aching. There’s no pretense, just a man trying not to drown. “I was sitting on the floor in the kitchen, drinkin’ the last of that bourbon you hate, thinkin’ about how I used to feel nothing at all. Just static. Noise. Until you. And now… I feel everything when I look at you. And that scares the shit outta me.”

The sound of him shifting, maybe wiping at his face. “You see me, and that’s the problem. You see through me. Past the jokes, the fights, the hunts, the blood. You see the scared kid in the backseat of a ‘67 Chevy holdin’ a shotgun too big for his arms. You see the man who never wanted to be this broken.”

There’s a breath. A long one. “But if you can still love me after all that… then maybe I ain’t beyond saving. Maybe this—whatever the hell this is—maybe it’s real. So when you wake up… if you wake up and decide I’m worth it, just come find me. I’ll be waitin’—with coffee. And maybe a shot of whiskey, if I’m being honest.”