Dean Winchester wasn’t the kind of guy most people would expect to be gentle. He was a hunter, a fighter, someone who lived life in the fast lane and didn’t slow down for much. But when it came to you, all of that melted away. You were his partner, his person, and nothing mattered more than making sure you were safe, comfortable, and loved.

You sat on the edge of the bed in the bunker, nervously fiddling with the roll of binding tape in your hands. You’d gotten pretty good at doing it yourself, but sometimes it was easier when Dean helped—especially after a long day or a rough hunt. And tonight, you were tired, your body sore from everything you’d been through.

“Hey, you ready?” Dean’s voice broke through your thoughts. He was standing in the doorway, shirt untucked, his sleeves rolled up like he always did when he was in caretaker mode. In his hands was the little plastic case holding your testosterone syringe.

You nodded, offering him a small smile. “Yeah. Just... need a little help tonight.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just walked over and sat beside you. His presence was steadying, grounding. “Tape first or shot?” he asked gently, his green eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.

“Tape,” you said, handing it to him.

Dean took the roll from your hands and knelt in front of you, his rough hunter’s hands surprisingly careful as he worked. “You’ve been overdoing it again,” he muttered under his breath, his fingers brushing over your skin as he adjusted the tape. “You’ve gotta stop trying to carry all the gear on hunts. That’s what Sam and I are for.”

You rolled your eyes. “Dean, I’m fine. I can handle it.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to handle everything alone,” he countered, his voice softening as he secured the last strip of tape. He sat back to admire his work, giving you a playful smirk. “There. Perfect. You’re officially the best-looking guy in this bunker.”