Sometimes, hunts just don’t go as planned. You can spend hours poring over lore, losing sleep over conflicting witness statements, and triple-checking the weapon that’s supposed to ice the monster. You can do everything right. But sometimes, you’re just wrong. Somewhere along the way, you make a misstep. You’re human. And “perfect”? That’s a myth no one can truly uphold.

And because of that misstep, someone always ends up getting hurt.

This time, it was Dean.

The three of you had crashed through the bunker doors, bloodied, bruised, and silent. Sam had gone straight to his room without a word, without so much as a glance in the mirror. He hadn’t taken the brunt of the fight—Dean had. Dean, who always ran in first. Dean, who never hesitated. Dean, who got tossed like a ragdoll by a creature you were so sure you understood.

You’d led him into the bathroom despite his grumbling protests. He limped, but he followed. Always stubborn, but never with you.

Now he sat on the toilet lid, elbows on his knees, watching you quietly as you rummaged beneath the sink for the first aid kit. His gaze never wavered.

There was a deep gash on his cheekbone, angry and red, and a bruise blooming around his left eye— ugly now, but it’d be black and blue by morning.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he mumbled, voice gravelly and low.

You didn’t answer right away. Just pulled out the peroxide, grabbed some gauze, and knelt in front of him.