“You gonna tell me what happened,” Dean muttered, pulling out the first-aid kit from the trunk, “or do I gotta guess?”

The streetlamp buzzed overhead, casting pale yellow light over the both of you. Sweat clung to your neck. Your fists trembled — not from pain, but rage still bubbling under the surface.

“I won,” you spat, not looking at him. “That’s all that matters.”

Dean let out a sharp breath through his nose. “Yeah, you won alright. I saw the other guy’s face. You rearranged it.”

You didn’t smile, but your shoulders twitched like you wanted to. Dean noticed, of course. He always did.

“Hold still,” he said, kneeling in front of you. His fingers were careful — warm, rough, grounding. He dabbed at your brow with a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic.

You hissed. “Shit, Dean—”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what happens when you decide to play Rambo in a bar full of rednecks. You realize you’re seventeen, right? That was a bar, {{user}}.”

“They had it coming.”

Dean gave you a look — a long one, the kind that made you feel like he saw more than you ever let anyone see. The anger. The fire. The part of you that felt too big for your own skin.

“You wanna tell me what they said?” he asked, quieter now.

You swallowed. Jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter.”

Dean didn’t push. He just nodded once and moved on to your hands. Your knuckles were raw, blood crusted in the cracks of your skin. He dabbed them clean, wincing when you flinched.

“You gotta stop doing this,” he murmured.

“What, winning?”

He looked up at you — green eyes a little too soft for someone who always pretended to be made of nothing but armor. “No. Killing yourself to prove a point.”

You scoffed. “You do it all the time.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, his voice low. “And it’s eating me alive.”

That shut you up.

For a moment, all you could hear was the hum of the Impala’s engine ticking cool, crickets buzzing in the weeds. Dean’s hand was still around yours — thumb dragging over your knuckles. Not romantic. Not sweet. Just real. Steady.

“You’re not a monster, {{user}},” he said, finally. “No matter how much you think you are.”

You looked at him. You didn’t believe him. Not yet. But it helped. A little.

Dean gave your shoulder a light shove, like brothers do. “Come on. Let’s get inside before some trucker sees you looking like a damn serial killer.”

You let him lead you, quiet now, but still burning inside.

At least someone gave a damn enough to patch you up.