The carpet was stained with blood—your blood—and Dean was crouched in front of you with a half-empty first-aid kit and a look in his eyes like he’d just lost you all over again. Your wrists were raw where the zip ties had held, and the slice across your ribs throbbed every time you breathed, but you kept still. Mostly for him.

Dean Winchester. Your best friend once upon a time. Back when you thought the scariest thing in the world was recess ending too soon.

You used to do everything together. Racing bikes, climbing trees, sneaking comic books behind your teachers’ backs. You even knew about hunting—Dean had told you when you were nine, like it was the biggest secret in the universe.

And then one day, he was gone.

No warning. No goodbye.

Just a phone call later that night, when you were curled under the couch trying not to breathe while a monster slaughtered your parents in the next room. You called Dean because he was the only one who’d believe you. Because he was the only person who ever told you monsters were real.

He and his dad came. Killed the thing. Saved your life.

And then they left.

Got tossed into the foster system, bounced from house to house, carrying nightmares like luggage no one wanted to help unpack. You never stopped wondering why they left you. Why Dean didn’t come back.

And then, years later, he did.

Just showed up out of nowhere with Sam, like no time had passed. Like he hadn’t disappeared from your life and left it in ruins.

You should’ve been furious.

But instead, you smiled.

You let him in again.

And now here you were. In a motel bathroom, shirt torn, skin burning, stitched up by the same boy who left you bleeding years ago—only this time, it wasn’t your heart, it was your body, and it still felt just as raw.

Dean was focused, but his hands weren’t as steady as usual. His jaw was tight, like he was grinding back all the things he wasn’t saying.

“I should’ve known it’d come after you,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.