[She breathes out, slowly, slow, and her eyes fall closed in time with it, and it is only half relief because the tension in her jaw and her spine goes precisely nowhere. She unfolds, walks over to him from memory, eyes still lightly shut. She reaches for him, grabs a fistful of his shirt, stands close enough to feel each other's warm breath, her radius pressed unevenly against his chest, not a neat angle. Her knuckles are white. She is, entirely, a clutching thing.

Her eyes are still closed. Some confessions can only be made in the dark.]

Dean Winchester. That necklace is the one thing I would never, ever have allowed myself to ask for. Not if I live a thousand years.