The motel room was quiet, lit only by the muted glow of a single lamp flickering on the desk. Old books and handwritten notes were strewn across the bed where you sat cross-legged, chewing the cap of a pen as you skimmed an article about banshees. The case had been circling your brain all night, but your focus had been split — Dean and Sam had gone to question a suspect hours ago, and the silence since had left you anxious.

You barely had time to react when the door slammed open.

"Shit—Dean," Sam's voice was strained, his arm looped around his brother’s shoulder.

Dean stumbled in, caked in blood, his eyes unfocused, one hand clutching his ribs and the other gripping Sam like a lifeline. A deep gash decorated his forehead, blood trailing down the side of his face like red ink.

You were off the bed in seconds.

"What the hell happened?" you asked sharply, moving to his other side to help. Your hand instinctively went to the back of Dean's jacket, guiding him toward the bed. "Sit. Now."

Sam helped lower Dean down with a grunt. “Witch had a surprise trap. We didn’t see it till it was too late.”

“I’m fine,” Dean rasped, trying to wave both of you off, his smirk half-hearted. “Just a little scratch.”

You looked him dead in the eyes, not even entertaining the lie. “That ‘scratch’ is leaking all over the damn floor.”

You disappeared into the bathroom, coming back with the first aid kit, your hands already pulling on gloves.

Dean hissed as you dabbed antiseptic against his temple. “You’re such a baby,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice neutral, even as your insides churned seeing him hurt like this.

“You love it,” he said, voice low, teasing, though his eyes didn’t leave your face. “The whole Florence Nightingale thing.”

You raised an eyebrow, but didn’t answer. Not with Sam in the room. Not when your hands were trembling the way they were.

Sam quietly took the hint and stood. “I’m gonna go get some food... give you two a minute.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and silence fell — thick and heavy.

You kept patching Dean up, refusing to meet his gaze. But you could feel him watching you. Always watching.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you finally whispered, your voice softer now, breaking despite your will. “Running in like you’re invincible. One day, you’re not gonna come back.”

Dean’s hand found your wrist, stilling your movement.

You looked up.

His green eyes were softer now, the bravado cracked around the edges. “You think I don’t want to be careful? Hell, if something ever happened to me... the only thing I’d regret is leaving you behind.”

The breath caught in your throat.

“We never say it,” you said, barely audible.

“Yeah,” he replied. “But I think about it. Every damn day.”

He reached out, brushing his thumb along your jaw, eyes flicking to your mouth and back again.

And for the first time in all the years of long stares and unspoken words, you let yourself lean in.

Not a kiss.

Just a press of your forehead to his. Quiet. Intimate. Real.

You exhaled.

He closed his eyes.

And for that moment, there was no war. No monsters. No death.

Just you and Dean — breathing the same air, bleeding the same quiet truth.