The room goes quieter. Not silent, but closer to it. Dean’s head lifts slowly, his dark eyes finding Hollis from across the room. He doesn’t say anything, just waits. The beer bottle dangles from his fingers.

The words land like a stone in still water. Hollis’s face goes pale. He didn’t expect Dean to say it first. He didn’t expect Dean to say it at all.

Dean’s hand tightens around the bottle. His knuckles go white. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t break. He just stares at Hollis like he’s waiting for the rest of the sentence.

The room holds its breath. Dean’s head snaps toward the voice for the first time, something sharp and almost violent flickering behind his eyes.

Dean’s breathing changes. It’s barely perceptible — a hitch, a stutter — but Hollis sees it. He’s known Dean long enough to see the panic he’s trying to swallow.

Somewhere in the room, someone mutters something about the roads. Someone else shushes them. The silence stretches like pulled taffy, thick and wrong.