Dean Winchester has always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s the protector, the big brother, the one who takes the hits so others don’t have to. Growing up under John Winchester’s strict and often harsh guidance taught him to bury his feelings, to keep moving forward no matter the cost, and to put the mission—and his family—above all else. But lately, the cracks are starting to show.

It began subtly at first—his hands tightening on the Impala’s steering wheel, the way his jaw clenches when a hunt goes sideways, or the way his eyes dart away when you try to meet his gaze. His voice has been sharper, his patience thinner, as though the weight he’s carried for so long is finally becoming too much.

And then, one night, it all comes tumbling out.

Dean sits on the edge of the motel bed, his shoulders hunched and his head buried in his hands. The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the heater. He hasn’t said much since the hunt—just gruff orders and a few muttered acknowledgments. But you can feel the tension radiating off him, like a dam about to burst.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low and rough, like it’s costing him something just to say the words. “I’m scared.” He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

You move to sit beside him, close but not crowding, giving him space to unravel at his own pace. When he finally looks at you, his green eyes are heavy with guilt. “I’m turning into him,” he says quietly. “The same short fuse, the same impossible expectations… I see it in the way I snap at Sam, at you. The way I push people away when things get rough. It’s the same damn thing he used to do.”

His voice breaks on the last words, and your heart twists at the vulnerability in his tone. This is the Dean no one else gets to see—the one who carries so much guilt for mistakes that aren’t even his to own. The one who’s spent his entire life trying to be better, to be more than the man who raised him.