[ Yeah, sure, fine. Hang onto him. He's pretty unstable as it is. He'd like something to hang onto him, to anchor him in place, and you're, well. You're always the top choice, whether it's a good idea or not. There's many forms of addiction, after all. He stares at you, listens to you. Overwhelmed. Desperate. Emotions suck.

He told you he didn't regret it? Well. ] Then I lied.

[ That's it, Dean. That's all he can tell you. He sucks in a deep breath. ]

I regret—everything. [ You. Him. The world. Everything. ] You think fruit loops makes that worth it? [ His face splits into a grin for a second. They're fucking fruit loops, Dean. It's absurd. All of this is just absurd.

He sets a palm against your chest, just to reach out. Just to touch, if you're touching him. Stares at it, his hand—Jimmy's hand—against your shirt. Goes quiet. ] It's not—why do you keep a picture of me on your phone?

[ You don't love him, Dean. You're not in love with him. You don't want that or you can't do that. One or the other, it doesn't matter. ] You're—unable. [ He meets your eyes. Please. Do you understand that? Unable to love him is acceptable. Unwilling is personal. He doesn't want it to be personal. ]