It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. You’d snapped, and the words had spilled out like venom, hitting Dean in all the places you knew would cut the deepest. At the time, you couldn’t stop yourself, couldn’t pull back the tide of frustration and anger that boiled up out of nowhere, aimed right at the one person who meant the most to you.

And now, hours later, you were sitting alone in your room in the bunker, the weight of guilt crushing your chest like a vice. The silence was deafening, and all you could think about was how to make it right. You hated that you hurt him, hated that you couldn’t take it back, and hated yourself for letting it happen.

You heard his boots before you saw him. The familiar, steady sound of Dean walking down the hall always managed to make your pulse race a little, even when you were at your lowest. You barely had time to wipe at your face, trying to look composed, before he pushed the door open, standing there in the doorway with that unreadable expression he wore so well.

Dean took one look at you—your red, puffy eyes, the way you were wringing your hands nervously—and his shoulders softened just a fraction. “You’ve been crying,” he said, his voice rough but quiet, like he didn’t want to push too hard.

“I… yeah,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dean, I’m sorry. For everything. For what I said, for—”

“Stop,” he cut you off, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. He leaned back against it, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked at you. “Look, I get it. You don’t have to explain.”

You blinked, confused. “How can you say that? I hurt you, Dean. I didn’t mean to, but I—”

“Yeah, you did,” he said bluntly, but there was no anger in his voice, just honesty. “But I’ve said and done plenty of crap I didn’t mean, too. I’ve been where you are, you know? In that dark place where all you can do is push people away because it feels easier than letting them in. But I’m still here, aren’t I?”