“No. Dean…I wouldn't.”

The words hit a lot harder than he ever expected to actually scratch that because he never expected Sam - his baby brother - to say he won't save him if he was dying.

Something closes up around his throat. He wants to yell at Sam, say something, say anything at all before the man walks out but he can't. He can barely see the younger Winchester walking out of the kitchen.

His head is spinning and his throat is still clogged up with what felt like a fucking boulder. He turns away bracing a hand on the steel counter - Sam's words keep looping in his head and it's making him restless and frantic.

He walks out of the kitchen - more like a stumble - doesn't pay attention to anything or anyone around until he reaches his room and puts on his headphones.

A familiar drums and bass of rock bands drown his own uncharacteristically pounding heart and he falls back in the pillow.

The music keeps up but it only distracts him so much because all he can think is what Sammy said to him.

▪︎ ☆ ▪︎

You didn't mean to eavesdrop on the conversation - it was a simple coincidence - Dean wasn't in his room and neither in the library, so you thought he was drinking a beer or two.

Your feet stop before you can step in the kitchen just as your ears catch Sam talking. It makes you frown as you listen to him address the whole Gadreel over deal, you agreed with man just allowing an angel to possess him and then not even letting him know was a mistake on your boyfriend's part, but with every word he said something heavy settled on your chest.

Something that felt like it was crushing your heart.

Selfish? Doesn't want to be lonely? You don't know if Sam was on the right topic anymore. You hear Dean too, his temper is rising with a tone of frustration - a common reaction to when he's misunderstood - but then Sam says he wouldn't save Dean if he was in his place and it makes your eyes widen.

It's quiet after that. Too quiet. You could hear your own heartbeat.

Sam walks out first. His steps halting when he sees you. You know he knows he said a little too much but he won't say anything - too much pride? maybe you don't know.

He brushes past you after a moment of nothing being said. You contemplate whether or not to step in the kitchen to check on Dean when the said man stumbled out - his movements a little clumsy - he didn't even notice you walking in the opposite direction to where Sam went which meant he was heading for his room.

You follow right behind him but stay staring at the closed door. You knew he was hurt but the thing was you knew he wasn't okay - more than usual - since Gadreel went all betrayer and killed Kevin.

Sure he carried all sorts of pain and guilt since you knew the man but after Kevin it was like physically affecting him.

He was either wide awake or slept in way past his usual time, he was skipping at least meal everyday in name of work, was more irritable than he usually was, his posture was becoming slouched - as if a physical weight was pressing down on him - and he just didn't seem fully present always lost in thoughts and by the look of his eyes in those moments they were not kind thoughts.

You knew what all these signs pointed to, remembered reading them under a title of depression way back - don't remember but you knew you had read that.

And as far as you knew Dean, he would be well in his ‘I'm fine. I'm good.’ method of coping with emotions and refusing help but you would be damned if you left him alone.

So with that resolve you took a deep inhale before exhaling and lifted your hand to the door knob.

▪︎ ☆ ▪︎

Dean's eyes open when the sound of door opening barely makes it past the music blasting through his headphones.

He looks up to find you poking your head in clearly worried and all he could muster was to fold up his lazily stretched out legs as an invitation that she could come in.

He closes his eyes again right after, not opening them even when the bed dips beside him. He didn't want to ignore you but he didn't have the strength to have a chat about anything really. He just wants to listen to his music and sleep off for a day or two if he's graced with it.

“I'm fine.”

He forced when he could practically feel the worry roll off her in waves - cringing at his voice when it came out hoarse than he intended.

He opens his eyes and tilts his head to look at you - you're curled up to his side like a warm weight - he sighs, unbinding his arms and letting you slip under one of them to rest against his chest.

He doesn't look you in the eyes. He can't look in your eyes because he knows that you don't believe a thing he would say.

He knew you could see through more than half of his bullshit and chose not to press him but he isn't quite sure that if looked down at you that he won't break down.

That he won't start crying the moment you tell him it's fine. That he won't cry about anything and everything he felt tightening around his airways with some kind of vice-grip starting from the heat of the fire he still felt every 2nd November to the face that his own brother - the one he always wanted to protect but couldn't do it right anytime - won't come to save him if he was dying or trying to kill himself to save the world or for the greater good.

So he doesn't, doesn't look down at you even when he feels you looking up at him. Your breath warmth against his neck.

He just presses you closer to himself until you're almost on top of him - letting your weight press him down - running his hand up and down on your back as his eyes close again focusing on his music and feeling you under his fingers.

He was fine. He will be fine.

He has to be fine.

If he can't be a good brother or a stable lover. He has to be fine enough to be a good hunter. That's the least he could do for everyone.