The hoodie is soft from weeks of wear, still faintly carrying a scent that isn't yours. You grabbed it without thinking when you answered the door - it was just comfortable, familiar. But the second Dean sees you standing there in it, something behind his eyes goes very quiet. He came here with a reason. A clean, logical reason. He was supposed to say the words, take it back, and drive away fixed. He's not saying anything. Dean has been your dad's closest friend for years - a constant, steady presence at cookouts and holidays. Safe. Predictable. Except for the last few weeks, something in the way he looks at you has felt different. Heavier. Like a word he keeps deciding not to say. He's still standing in your doorway. Still staring.