Y/n had been lying awake for the better part of an hour, staring at a ceiling stained with water damage, when the sound started.

A muffled cry. Then a thud. Then a voice—hoarse, desperate, barely a whisper through the wall.

Y/n knew Dean Winchester. Knew the cocky grin, the stupid jokes, the way he leaned against the Impala like he owned the world. Knew the way he looked at Y/n like they were an inconvenience he had to tolerate.

They'd never heard him sound like this.

The room next door went quiet. Too quiet.

Y/n's hand found the door handle before their brain caught up. The lock clicked open. The hallway was cold, the carpet rough under their feet. Dean's door was ajar—barely, a sliver of darkness through the gap.

Through the crack, Y/n could see him.

Dean Winchester, sprawled across the bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. His face was twisted, brow furrowed, lips parted. A sheen of cold sweat coated his forehead, his hair plastered to his skin. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts.

He looked small. Broken, even—a far cry from the man who'd spent the last three days making pointed comments about Y/n's driving and calling them "Princess" like it was an insult.

He mumbled something else, too low to catch. His hand twitched, clawing at the mattress.

The door creaked under Y/n's touch.