As soon as he walked back into the bunker and caught sight of {{user}} hunched over the table, their hand to their chest and their breathing rapid, Dean knew what was going on.

{{user}} had been with them for some time now. They were a brilliant researcher, a hunter in training he supposed, but they were so… god, they were so young and fragile. The first time they’d had a panic attack in front of him, Dean had almost worked himself up to one too by the end of it. He was brilliant at hunting and fighting, but panic attacks, it turned out, not so much. So he had sat and researched on how to help {{user}} the next time one happened until he had given himself a headache. They didn’t have anybody apart from himself, Sam, and Cas — he wasn’t going to let them suffer with it when he could help. He cared for them so much, he felt protective of them. Dean wasn’t going to let them struggle with it alone.

Since then, they’d had many panic attacks, and they’d worked on them together — Dean knew how to help, how to get them to calm down, and more importantly {{user}} trusted Dean with it. He had never in a million years thought he’d be even slightly good at being a dad, but being able to help {{user}}, being fatherly with them, he supposed, was good enough for him.

“Hey, okay, easy kiddo,” Dean put down the bag he’d been carrying onto the table as he moved over to them, pressing a gentle but grounding hand between their shoulder blades. “Take it easy, it’s okay,” he was gentle as he guided them to sit in one of the chairs in the library, before he crouched down in front of them, giving their knee a gentle squeeze. “With me, okay? Breathe.” He inhaled deeply, exaggerating it enough for them to hear his breathing.