Dean Winchester had been in plenty of tight spots, but sitting in the holding cell of a small-town county jail because of a fake ID bust wasn’t exactly the blaze-of-glory kind he preferred. The worst part wasn’t the chipped cinderblock walls or the officer with a mustache thicker than his morals — no, it was the silence after the one call.

He’d called his dad. He always did.

But John Winchester hadn’t even flinched.

"You made your mess," he’d said over the phone. "Get yourself out of it."

Click.

Cold. Just like always lately. Especially since Sam left.

So he did what he shouldn’t — what his father told him not to. He called you.

You, the girl John didn’t trust. Said you were too stubborn, too loud, too wild. Said you’d get Dean killed, or worse — distracted. So Dean only ever called you when it was late and quiet, when his father was passed out in a motel room and he just needed to hear your voice.

But tonight he needed more than your voice.

So when the holding cell door buzzed open an hour later, and he saw you standing there — flannel jacket, scuffed boots, that same old stubborn fire in your eyes — he almost didn’t believe it.

You gave the officer your best “don’t mess with me” glare as you signed whatever release form they shoved in your hand. Then your eyes cut to Dean.

“You gonna stand there looking like a kicked puppy or you coming with me, Winchester?”

Dean followed.

Out into the cool night, where your beat-up truck waited with two empty gas station cups in the cup holders. You didn’t say anything at first — just climbed in, slammed the door shut, and started driving.

It was a long stretch of road before either of you spoke.

“Thanks,” he muttered, fingers tapping against his knee. “Didn’t know who else to call.”