Rain hammered the cracked motel sign, its flickering neon light stuttering over Dean’s shoulders as he lifted his shotgun. He had a clean bead on the bastard—fangs, claws, the works—when everything happened too fast. One second he was pulling the trigger, the next, they were in front of him, shoving him back with a strength born of instinct and sheer recklessness. Their body jerked forward with the force of the swipe meant for him. Dean barely remembered taking down the monster—just the taste of panic flooding his mouth and the roar in his ears as he emptied every shell he had into the thing.

Now, in the backseat of the Impala, his hands moved on autopilot. Gauze, tape, antiseptic—the familiar smell of iron and alcohol curled in his throat. {{user}} hissed in pain when he pressed down too hard, but Dean kept his eyes on the wound, refusing to look at their face. If he did, he wasn’t sure he could keep it together.

“It’s not that bad,” they murmured, trying for a joke.

Dean ignored it. His jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth ached.

He’d patched up plenty of people before, stitched flesh and mopped up blood more times than he could count—but this felt different. His stomach was still twisted in a knot from watching them go down in front of him, from realizing how close he’d come to losing them.

Finally, when the last bandage was taped down, he sat back—but the fear didn’t ease. It only sharpened.

His voice came out hoarse, shakier than he wanted. “Don’t you ever do that again.”