The bunker was unusually quiet. The hunt had been brutal—a pack of wendigos ambushing a small town deep in the woods. Dean had taken a nasty hit to his side, leaving Sam and Cas to clean up the mess while you dragged him back to safety. Now, in the soft glow of the war room lamp, you patched him up.

“Hold still,” you muttered, pressing a clean gauze pad against the deep gash. Dean winced but stayed put, his jaw tight as you worked. He hated being fussed over, but he wasn’t about to argue with you.

“Could’ve been worse,” he said lightly, his voice tinged with a faint rasp. “If I hadn’t tackled that thing, Sammy might’ve been dinner.”

You snorted, glancing up at him as you reached for the needle and thread. “Yeah, because reckless heroics are such a great strategy. You’re lucky I was there to cover your ass.”

Dean grinned faintly, but his usual cocky retort didn’t come. Instead, his green eyes softened as they lingered on your face. For a moment, he forgot about the sting of the needle or the ache in his ribs. All he could see was you—focused, fierce, and beautiful, even with blood smudged on your cheek and your hair slightly disheveled.

You didn’t notice at first, but when you finally looked up, you froze. His gaze was different—not the usual teasing or exasperated look he gave you when you bantered. This was something warmer, something unguarded. Adoration. Pure, unfiltered, and impossible to miss.

“What?” you asked softly, your voice quieter than you intended.

Dean blinked, realizing he’d been caught, but he didn’t look away. “Nothing,” he said, though his voice betrayed him with its tenderness. “Just… you’re good at this. Guess I don’t thank you enough for always patching me up.”

You smiled faintly, trying to ignore the way your heart skipped at his tone. “Well, someone’s gotta keep you in one piece.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and for a moment, the tension between you both thickened. You could feel his eyes on you.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I mean it. Thanks.”