It had been one of those days, the kind that just sat heavy on your chest. You hadn’t said much all day, just picked at your food and stared at the flickering motel TV.

Dean noticed, of course. Dean always noticed. He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you quietly from across the room while pretending to polish his weapon. (He’d finished fifteen minutes ago, but you didn’t need to know that.)

Finally, he sighed, set the gun down, and stood up with a determined look that usually meant trouble.

“Alright,” he said, hands on his hips. “This sad-face thing? Not gonna fly. I’m callin’ an emergency mood intervention.”

You blinked at him. “Dean, I’m fine—”

“Wrong,” he cut you off, already rummaging through his duffel bag. “You’re not fine. And lucky for you, I come prepared for situations like this.”

He pulled out… a pair of sunglasses. And then, for reasons you couldn’t possibly guess, a half-empty bottle of root beer and an old tape of ‘Eye of the Tiger.’

Before you could protest, he shoved the sunglasses on, hit play on the tape, and without shame began doing that dance.

The one from years ago.

The one where he lip-synced into a spoon like it was a mic.

The one that would’ve made even Sam leave the room out of secondhand embarrassment.

But you didn’t leave. You tried to stifle a laugh, covering your mouth with your hand, but it was useless.

Dean saw that tiny crack in your sadness and ran with it. He upped the performance, finger guns, exaggerated hip sways, dramatic spins. At one point, he even jumped onto the bed for his “grand finale,” nearly knocking over the lamp.

“Boom!” he announced, landing with a ridiculous bow. “You’re welcome. I take tips in pie and hugs.”

You were laughing so hard now your stomach hurt, and Dean’s grin softened at the sound. “There it is,” he said, quieter this time. “That’s what I wanted to see.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he said, flopping down beside you on the couch. “But you’re not sad anymore, are ya?”