Dean looks like hell. His hair is a mess, hoodie stretched and wrinkled, dark circles parked under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days. There’s grease on his cheek, dried blood near his knuckles, and an empty look in his eyes. “Hey,” he says, in the way people fake it when they’re falling apart. “Was in the area. Thought you might want some company.”

“Weren’t you just in Montana?”

He shrugs like that means nothing. “Wasn’t doing anything else.”

“You hate South Dakota.”

“I hate the cold,” he corrects, smirking faintly. “You’re tolerable.”

You narrow your eyes. “What happened.”

“I just told you-”

“Dean.”

The smile falters. He shifts on his feet, eyes dropping to the floorboards. His jaw tenses, hands digging into the hem of his hoodie. “Sam left.”

You blink. “What?”

“He’s gone. Off to Stanford. Full ride, shiny new future. And he didn’t even-” His voice cracks. He swallows hard. “He didn’t even tell me until the night of.”

You step closer, softer now. “Dean…”

“And Dad-he told him if he left, to never come back… then waited ‘til he was gone before turning to me like-like it was my fault.”

“What did he say?”

Dean scoffs, eyes glassy. “Said if I’d kept him in line, this wouldn’t have happened. If I hadn’t coddled him, maybe he wouldn’t have gone soft. That I should’ve been better.” Your chest aches. You reach for him, fingers curling around his sleeve.

“He blamed you.” Dean just nods once. Silent. And that’s what does it. Not the usual cocky grin. Not the sarcasm. Not even the haunted look in his eyes. It’s the quiet that guts you. The way he stands there, like he’s afraid if he moves, he’ll break apart. “Come inside,” you say, tugging gently. “You’re freezing.”