Working with Dean Winchester had been nothing short of infuriating. Every decision was an argument, every plan met with an eye-roll or sarcastic remark. You didn’t know when the tension between you two had started, but it was clear you both barely tolerated each other.

After a long, grueling hunt, you were just about ready to be done with him, heading toward your car to leave the scene. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Dean, trying—and failing—to walk straight, each step punctuated with a wince. Blood was seeping through his jeans, staining the fabric near his knee, but he kept trudging forward as if he wasn’t hurt.

Rolling your eyes, you sighed, feeling an unwelcome pang of concern. Gritting your teeth, you walked over to him.

"Seriously, Winchester? What, you planning to just limp your way back to the Impala and bleed out on the way?"

Dean looked up, his green eyes flashing with that familiar defiance. "I’m fine, thanks," he grumbled, but his voice lacked its usual bite. His face was pale, and a thin line of sweat had formed along his forehead. "Been through worse."

"Yeah? Well, maybe I don’t want your corpse on my hands tonight," you replied, reaching out to steady him despite yourself.

Dean scowled, but he didn’t pull away. "Thought you’d love the idea of not having me around anymore."

“Wouldn’t want to make it that easy for you,” you muttered, guiding him to a nearby bench. "Let me check the wound. For once, stop being so stubborn."

A strange silence settled between you as you crouched down, inspecting the gash on his knee. Dean watched you, that usual smirk replaced by something you couldn’t quite read. And as your fingers brushed against his skin, you felt his gaze soften just a bit.