The motel room is quiet. The kind of quiet that hums in your bones and makes your skin crawl, like the world’s waiting for something to break. Rain taps against the windows in a soft, relentless rhythm—normally comforting—but tonight, it feels like a warning.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tight between his knees. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you in hours.

You’re curled up in the armchair by the window. Your body’s still, eyes glassy and fixed on some far-off point beyond the streaks of rain on the glass. You haven’t moved. Haven’t said a single word.

Dean’s seen you rattled before. Hell, he’s seen what your visions can do—the nosebleeds, the migraines, the way your voice breaks when you try to describe something too dark to name. But this? This is different.

“You’re scarin’ me, darlin',” he says quietly, and there’s no edge to his voice. Just raw, aching concern. “Talk to me. Please.”

But you don’t. You can’t. Whatever you saw—whatever gripped you in that moment—it’s still got its claws in you.

Dean drags a hand down his face, then stands. He kneels in front of you, close enough to feel your shallow breaths ghosting across his skin. His hands hover for a second, unsure if touching you will ground you or shatter you further.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” he says gently, searching your eyes for any flicker of the person he knows. “Just let me in. Give me something.”

Nothing. Your lips part for a second, but then they press shut again, trembling. Dean swallows hard, a knot forming in his throat.

He hates this. Hates that your gift is carving pieces out of you every time it takes hold. He wonders how much more you can give before there’s nothing left.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays there, knelt in front of you. His fingers twitch, aching to reach for your hand, to remind you you’re not alone. But he waits.

Because something’s coming. He can feel it in his gut, like a storm brewing just beyond the horizon. And you—you already saw it.