An inescapable pit stays lodged in Dean’s gut. A feeling of anxiety that felt as if it was hollowing out his chest. You shouldn’t have gone solo. You weren’t ready. He should’ve been there.

One hour. Two hours. Three hours.

He thinks he might hurl. He was your hunting partner, damnit. Should have never let you out of his sight—but no you wouldn’t have it. All this crap about indepent enough, not needing a sitter, being plenty capable—

The door clicks. Dean practically trips over himself to get to the door and you open it and oh god he might cry. He doesn’t. If he does he’ll blame it on allergies. “What the hell took you so long?” He asks, his voice not nearly as steady as he hoped it would be.

“I thought- you…” Fuck no. No waterworks. He doesn’t bother finishing the sentence. That simply wasn’t an option. Losing you was not an option. “Never again, alright?”

You knew this would happen. Don’t abide by Dean’s anal curfew and say bye-bye to solo hunts. “I’m your hunting partner, alright? Know what that means? Together.” He lectures you as if he has a right to, as if he isn’t just as reckless as you, and then some.

He goes dead silent to assess your injuries, if any, nerves are rolling off him in waves. He needs to know you’re okay. Three hours. Three hours?! He considers clocking you for it.

He won’t. Yet.