Dean’s voice echoed in the bunker, rough around the edges, just like him. Dry and devoid of any emotion, because he didn't want you to see it. “I’m fine,” he said for the third time, pacing like a caged animal.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching him unravel. “No, you're not."

He stopped, turning to look at you, his jaw clenched. His eyes burned, and for a second, he looked like he might break apart right there. But Dean Winchester didn’t break—not out loud, anyway. "You don’t get it,” he snapped, his voice low, tired. “I can’t—”

“You can’t what?” you shot back, stepping closer. “Can’t let someone care about you? I can't do this anymore. You’ve been running from this since the day we met.”

The room felt too big and too small all at once, the distance between you impossibly heavy. Finally, Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked at you, his olive eyes glassy, and said, “I’m sorry.”

When he didn't elaborate, you titled your head to the side. A silent question— 'sorry for what?'

“For… everything,” he mumbled, voice cracking. “For dragging you into this shit. For not knowing how to… how to do this without screwing it all up.”

You wanted to reassure him. Fall on your knees and hold his hands, telling him desperately that he wasn't screwing it up, that he couldn't if he tried because you loved him that much.

But you were sick of it, so you just looked at him.