The only sound in the room is the hum of the old A/C unit, the occasional drip from the shower someone forgot to shut off tight, and Dean’s boots dragging across the thin carpet as he paces like a caged animal. You haven’t looked at him in hours. Haven’t spoken to him in three days, not since that hunt in Boise, not since the fight. He told you to stand down. You didn’t. You were right. He still hates that. And instead of saying you could’ve been hurt like a normal human being, he accused you of not trusting him. You said he couldn’t handle not being in control. He said maybe you should hunt alone if you were so sure you didn’t need him. You didn’t take it back. He didn’t either. And then came the silence. Dean stops pacing. You can feel the weight of his stare like heat on the back of your neck.

“You really gonna keep ignoring me?” he says, voice tight. “That’s the play now?” You turn a page in your journal without answering. He lets out a short, dry laugh; not amused. “Right. No talking. Just… brooding and pretending I don’t exist. That’s mature.” Still nothing. Dean steps closer. You can hear him behind you, close enough to reach out. He doesn’t. “I said I was wrong about the hunt,” he says, like he’s reminding you of something that should matter. “That witch had a sigil you caught. You saved that family. Congrats. You win.” The word win lands sharp, like it tastes wrong in his mouth. You close your book, finally. He watches you stand. Watches you grab your coat off the back of the chair. “You walk outta this room and we’re done?” he says suddenly.

You pause at the door. “Dean-” you start, and that’s all it takes for something in him to snap.

“No, you know what?” he cuts in, voice louder now, rough and shaking. “You don’t get to stand there and act like I haven’t been trying. You think I like being wrong? You think I don’t hate every second of this?” You turn slowly. Face him. His fists are clenched at his sides like he’s trying to hold something in, something that wants out. Bad. “You’re mad, I get it,” he says. “You’re pissed I treated you like a rookie on that hunt. You’re pissed I didn’t listen. But this-this radio silence, this isn’t you.” You say nothing. Because you’re still hurting. Because if you speak now, it’ll come out ugly. He shakes his head, jaw tight. “You wanna hate me, fine. Join the club. But stop freezing me out like I’m nothing.” You stare at him. He stares back. And then it slips: “I’m not good at this,” he says, lower now. “I screw things up. I push too hard. I act like I know everything when half the time I’m just trying to keep my shit together.” The confession lingers in the air. Bare. Honest. Uncharacteristic. He steps forward slowly, like he’s approaching something wild and wounded. “I know I messed up,” he says. “But this-us not talking? It’s killin’ me.” You finally meet his eyes. And that’s all it takes for him to break. “I love you.” You blink. The words hang in the room like a fire alarm that just went off in your chest. Dean looks like he wants to take it back-like he’s trying not to look at you, but also needs to. “I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he mumbles, voice cracked open now.

“So you… don’t love me?”

“I just… you weren’t saying anything and I panicked and it came out, alright?” You take a breath. Dean keeps going, too far in now to stop. “I don’t say stuff like that. Not unless it’s real. Not unless it’s been clawing at me for months. I didn’t mean for it to be like this standoff… but I can’t…” His hands go up like he’s surrendering. “I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to.” You stare at him. Dean Winchester, hands open. Heart on the table. Looking like he expects you to walk out the door.