She didn’t expect anyone to be up. It was late—way past midnight—and the bunker was mostly silent except for the hum of the lights. She rolled her sleeve back down quickly when the bathroom door creaked open, but not fast enough.

Dean froze in the doorway. “Hey, kiddo,” he said carefully, eyes narrowing as he saw the way she cradled her left arm. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” she mumbled, backing toward the sink, heart hammering.

Dean didn’t move closer, just stood there like he was afraid if he stepped wrong, she’d disappear. “Can I see it?” he asked, voice soft in a way that was rare for him. Not the gruff hunter tone. Just… Dean.

She hesitated, then slowly held out her arm.

His jaw tightened when he saw the fresh red marks. Still angry, still raw. He didn’t say anything for a long moment—just let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to hold it together.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s clean that up.”

They didn’t talk much. He pulled out the first-aid kit with practiced hands and crouched beside her like he’d done this a hundred times—but this wasn’t stitches from a hunt. It wasn’t a scrape from falling.

It was different.

Dean dabbed at the wounds gently, slower than usual. “You ever feel like this again, you come find me. No questions, no judgment. Just me, you, and whatever the hell you need. Got it?”

She nodded, eyes burning.

Dean didn’t hug her. He just stayed there, close enough, steady. Like a shield. Like someone who knew what it meant to break and still be here.

And for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel alone.