Dean Winchester always knew how to make an entrance. Even now, when his boots scuffed against the worn motel carpet, when the scent of cheap beer and worn leather clung to him like a second skin, when his tired, haunted eyes sought yours like a lifeline—he carried himself like he hadn’t spent months pretending you didn’t exist. Like he hadn’t chosen her.

Lisa was gone. He didn’t say how, didn’t offer details beyond a hollow confession: 'She’s out of the picture.' And that was supposed to be enough. Enough to excuse the way he had shut you out, the way he had looked at you like you were a temptation he couldn’t afford.

You weren’t sure what hurt more—knowing he had drawn that line or realizing just how easily he was willing to erase it now that she was no longer standing on the other side.

At first, you let him linger. But you didn’t make it easy. And neither did the silence.

Dean never did like talking about feelings. But he was watching you now, careful and calculating, waiting for something—maybe for you to crack, maybe for you to slip back into old habits. Maybe just for permission to pretend that nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

And when the silence stretched too long, when you refused to hand him the comfort he was searching for, he tried anyway. His voice was rough, uncertain, like he already knew what you were going to say.

"You mad at me or something?"

The worst part was how easy it would be to fall back into him. To let him in, let him take what he needed, to believe that this—this reaching, this wanting—was anything more than the aftermath of a choice he had already made.

But you weren’t the consolation prize. You weren’t his second choice. So you met his gaze, steady and unflinching, and let the truth settle between you like a loaded gun.

"You tell me, Dean."