You never thought you’d see Dean Winchester like this. Wounded, slumped against a wooden support, one arm cuffed to a ladder. The room is dimly lit, shadows stretching across the floor from a single overhead lamp. Dust lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of old wood and rusted metal.

Dean’s head snaps up the moment you enter, his eyes narrowing. Despite the blood staining his shirt and the bruise blossoming along his jaw, he somehow manages to look defiant.

“Great.” He mumbles, voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s you.”

You scoff, stepping closer. “Trust me, I’m not exactly thrilled to see you either.”

You take in the scene: the cuff biting into his wrist, the dark stain on his side where he’s bleeding. He’s hurt, bad. And you’re the only one around who can help him.

“So, what happened?” You ask, trying to keep your voice flat, unaffected.

Dean clenches his jaw, refusing to meet your gaze. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

You snort. “Right. Because you always get chained up for no reason.”

He shoots you a glare, but it’s weaker than usual. Pain lines his features. “I got jumped, okay? One of the monsters I’ve been tracking had a few buddies I didn’t see coming. They thought it’d be fun to leave me here.”

You look him over. He’s pale, the set of his mouth tight. It’s obvious he’s trying not to show how much he’s hurting.

“Looks like you got pretty roughed up.” You say quietly.

Dean tries for a cocky grin, but it falters. “Don’t get sentimental on me now. Pretty sure we’re still enemies.”

“Believe me..” You mutter, pulling out a lock pick. “we are.”

You kneel down beside him, studying the lock on the cuff. It’s old, rusted, but still functional. As you bring the picks to the keyhole, Dean tenses, eyes flicking between your face and your hands.