"Uh," says Dean, expression falling, though he holds onto the smirk out of habit. "I don't know if things are the same in the spacey future, but where I'm from, 'We need to talk' is kind of an instant boner killer."

She's in his bed, so she can't be breaking up with him. But she's been distant lately, more quiet, enough that even through his haze of self-involved grief, Dean's begun to notice. His stomach dips.

"Okay," he says, toeing off his socks. Nervously, he sits on the bed, occupying the empty curve in front of her stomach. "What's up?"