Dean’s boots scuff against the worn motel carpet as he steps inside. He seems relaxed, but when he sees your face, everything shifts.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, phone limp in your hands, staring at the floor like the whole world just caved in. Your breath is shallow, your fingers gripping the fabric of your jeans like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Dean stops cold. “Hey.” He says, voice soft. “What happened?”

You swallow hard, but the words won’t come out. Instead, you just shake your head, blinking fast, like that’ll somehow stop the sting behind your eyes.

Dean doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand answers. He just moves, crossing the room in a few strides and kneeling in front of you. His hands hover near your knees, like he wants to touch you, ground you, but isn’t sure if you’re ready for it yet.

Then, finally, you force the words out. “It’s my mom.” Your voice is barely there, just a whisper. “She’s not… She’s not getting better.”

Dean exhales sharply, his jaw tightening. He knows that kind of news. Knows the way it hollows you out, leaves you raw and untethered. And damn it, if anyone deserves a break, it’s you.

“Come here..” He murmurs, and before you can even think, he’s pulling you into him.

You don’t resist. You just collapse into his arms, gripping the back of his flannel like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. His arms wrap around you, warm and solid, his hand running slow, steady circles against your back.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. There’s nothing to say, really. But Dean holds you tighter, anchoring you, and when he finally speaks, his voice is rough but certain.

“You don’t have to go through this alone. You hear me?”

And somehow, through all the pain and fear and uncertainty, you believe him.