Rain tapped lightly against the windshield, rhythmic and steady, like a lullaby meant only for the road. The sky was a heavy gray, thick with clouds that hadn’t lifted since they left New York. The Impala rumbled along the highway, headlights cutting through the dark stretch of forest around them, nothing but trees and silence for miles. The hum of the engine, the soft crackle of the radio left on low, the occasional shift of Sam in the back seat—all of it faded beneath the weight of exhaustion.

Dean’s hand was on her thigh, warm and limp, his body slack in sleep. He had passed out an hour into the drive, head tilted slightly toward her, jaw slack, freckles visible beneath the stubble and dried blood at his temple. Even in sleep, tension clung to his shoulders. He looked older tonight. Or maybe just human.

He’d forbidden her from joining the last hunt. Said it was too dangerous. Too much blood. Too much fire. She’d stayed behind, biting back her anger, and slept through the chaos. Now she was the only one with the energy to keep the wheels turning.

The road stretched endlessly, lit only by twin beams and the faint green glow of the dashboard. Her hands stayed steady on the wheel, but her chest was tight. She hated this feeling—being useful only because they were broken. Watching them fall apart and knowing she could do nothing but drive.

Dean stirred beside her. His fingers curled slightly, pressing into her leg as if anchoring himself. His eyes opened just enough to squint against the lights.

“You okay?” he rasped, voice rough like gravel.

She nodded, even though he wasn’t really awake enough to see.

His gaze lingered on her, half-lidded but soft. Vulnerable in a way he never let himself be when the world was burning.

Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “Thanks for keeping us safe, sweetheart.”

And just like that, the rain kept falling, and she kept driving west.