Three months ago, Dean wouldn’t have believed anyone if they’d told him he’d be stuck in an abandoned alley, trying to talk to the night. The very idea of prayer, or even asking for help from anything beyond what he could see or fight, used to be a joke to him. Dean Winchester didn’t need higher powers. He trusted his own hands and his own instincts.

But now, here he was. The cold air wrapped around him, biting into his skin as he stood under a sky that offered nothing back. The cracked asphalt stretched out in every direction, empty, barren. It mirrored the feeling inside him—this gnawing emptiness, like something had been torn out of him and left him hollow. A few distant lights flickered weakly, casting shadows that seemed to swallow everything around them.

"{{user}}," Dean muttered, his voice barely loud enough to disturb the quiet. He didn’t look up—just kept his gaze fixed on the dark horizon. "You gotta hear me, right? Wherever you are."

His breath rose in small puffs, quickly vanishing into the cold. The silence felt louder than anything else, like the world itself had gone quiet to leave him alone with his thoughts. Months of bad decisions and worse luck swirled in his mind. Every wrong turn, every missed opportunity, all the things he couldn’t fix, weighing on him like a lead blanket. He’d been running on empty for so long now, it felt like even his determination was slipping through his fingers.

Dean rubbed his hands over his face, trying to shake the feeling of helplessness. His fingers scraped against his stubble, the roughness grounding him, but barely. The rough surface of the asphalt bit into his knees as he crouched down, resting his elbows on his thighs, eyes squeezed shut like it would make any difference.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, clenching his fists. His thoughts kept circling back to you—how everything felt wrong without you here. The space you used to fill was like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

"I miss you," he whispered, as if the words might somehow reach you.