It’s nearly midnight when the knock hits the Bunker’s heavy door—sharp, uneven, almost panicked. Dean’s halfway through a bottle of cheap whiskey and a bad horror movie, not expecting anything but a quiet night.

The second knock is weaker. Slower.

He frowns, sets the bottle down, and grabs the gun from under the coffee table out of instinct.

But when he opens the door—

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, eyes going wide. “What the hell happened to you?”

You’re leaning against the frame, blood on your shirt, dirt on your skin, breathing heavy. You look like hell. You feel worse. And you can barely keep your eyes open.

“Hi to you too,” you croak, trying to force a smirk. “I was in the neighborhood.”

Dean stares for a second, arms crossed over his chest like he doesn’t quite believe you’re standing there. You two haven’t exactly been close lately—too much friction, too many arguments. You never really saw eye to eye. Maybe never tried to.

But you didn’t know where else to go.

And you were close. And… you knew he’d answer the door.

Dean steps aside without a word, letting you limp past him into the dimly lit hallway. You stagger slightly. He catches your elbow without thinking.

“You’re bleeding,” he growls. “Bad.”

You try to brush it off. “It’ll stop.”

“Yeah, well, so does a heartbeat.”

His tone is sharp. But his hand doesn’t leave your arm.

“I’ll get the med kit,” he mutters. “Sit down before you fall down”.

Dean walks off to grab the closet first aid kit he could find, jaw tight, shoulders tense—and you can’t quite tell if he’s pissed that you showed up… or scared that you might’ve not.

You sink down onto the edge of the war room table, trying not to let the pain show on your face. Your ribs throb with every breath, and you’re sure whatever’s going on with your leg is going to be a whole thing in about ten minutes.

You hear his footsteps coming back before you see him.

“Thought you said you had a partner,” Dean says gruffly, setting the first aid kit down hard on the table beside you.

“I did,” you say, flinching as you shift. “Didn’t exactly stick around for the finale.”

Dean doesn’t say anything at first. His hands are already working—pulling gloves on, tearing open antiseptic packets, his jaw still clenched like he’s trying to chew through every emotion he’s not saying out loud.

“You’re lucky you made it here,” he mutters, kneeling in front of you now, scanning the damage. “Idiot move, running a hunt solo.”

You bristle. “Didn’t have a choice.”

“You had one,” he snaps. “You could’ve called.”

You blink, caught off guard by that. “Since when do we call each other?”

His hands freeze on your leg for half a second. Then he goes back to working.

“Guess I’m just a dumbass for assuming you’d rather bleed out here than admit you needed help.”