[ Already he can feel himself regressing, can hear the hum of the open road beneath baby's tires as he drives tirelessly on, countless blurs of street signs passing him left and right, off to nowhere in particular. Settling nowhere in particular. There was no such thing as home for a Winchester, a hunter, for him. He'd tried that, and it'd only put the woman and kid he'd loved in danger.

He was nothing but a loaded gun. She had to see that.

But she's pulling herself closer, closer yet and all of a sudden his throat's gone tight, mouth dry as he gives a thick swallow, brows ridden into a tuft as he sighs. There's a dizzying tinge to the tip of his skull— he can't do this, can't talk about this, doesn't want now to be the moment that he loses her... but she knows better than to bring this up.

Than to think he was ever one that could just 'talk about things'.

It's that word. That confession, thick in her throat that leaves green hues flickering up with a sliver of pain. ]   You don't...   [ It's nearly choked out, desperately torn between lifting his thumbs to graze away the tears welling at her lash line, and pulling from her embrace entirely. Getting the hell out of dodge before this got any worse. ]   You don't know what you're saying. I'm not someone you wanna keep around, Clara.

[ A flutter at the edge of his jaw, heat swelling to his cheeks. He's angry. Angry that she's chosen to bring this up on such a light night between them. Angry that he can't provide what she needs. And so maybe she can feel him start to resist, his figure giving the slightest pull backward. ]   Maybe I shouldn't of come back, I...