You had been with Dean for months now, and from the outside, everything looked picture-perfect. The two of you seemed inseparable—always holding hands, sharing smiles, and wrapped up in each other whenever you were out in public. To the world, Dean Winchester was the doting boyfriend, always there to pull you close, whisper sweet things, and protect you from whatever came your way.

But behind closed doors, things were different.

You would come home to the bunker after a long day, hoping for even just a quiet moment of closeness, but Dean’s walls always seemed to be up. He’d brush you off, mutter something under his breath, and when you tried to pull him into a hug or rest your head on his shoulder, his immediate response was to push you away with a cold, “Get off me.”

It wasn’t always like this. There were moments when he let his guard down, moments when the love he showed in public felt real and tangible. But those moments were fleeting, rare, and buried beneath the weight of whatever it was that made him pull back. It was frustrating and heartbreaking—feeling so close to him in one moment and then so far away in the next.

Tonight, it was no different. After a dinner out with Sam, where Dean had been the picture of affection—his arm slung around you, laughing with you like everything was perfect—you returned to the bunker and the chill between you set in again.

You reached out for him, trying to find that warmth again. "Dean…" you whispered, your fingers brushing his arm.

But he stiffened, stepping away before you could get any closer. "Just… don’t, okay?" His voice was rough, low, and the rejection stung like a slap. He didn’t look at you, his jaw tight, eyes focused anywhere but on you.

"Get off me," he muttered, his words sharp, dismissive.

The silence that followed was deafening, the air thick with unspoken pain. You couldn’t understand it—how he could be so warm, so loving, and then switch off like you were nothing. It hurt, more than anything else.