the basement was a suffocating cage of damp concrete and the sharp, metallic tang of monster blood. dean’s flashlight flickered, the beam dancing over the peeling grey paint before landing on {{user}}. she was leaning against a rusted water heater, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. the air between them felt thicker than the shadows, heavy with the things they never said when sam was in the room.

"check your shoulder," dean rasped, his voice rougher than usual. "did that thing nick you?"

{{user}} shifted, her hand hovering near the tear in her flannel shirt. "i'm fine, dean. it's just a scratch."

dean didn't listen. he never did. he stepped into her personal space, the leather of his jacket creaking in the silence. he smelled like gunpowder, cheap whiskey, and the familiar, comforting scent of the impala’s upholstery. he reached out, his calloused fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the fabric away from her skin to inspect the shallow red line on her shoulder.

his breath hitched. up close, the distance between them wasn't just physical; it was a cliff they were both leaning over. he could see the pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat. his hand didn't pull away once he saw she was okay. instead, his thumb grazed the curve of her arm, his touch lingering with a heat that had nothing to do with the basement's humidity.

"dammit, {{user}}. you can't... you can't be reckless like that," he muttered, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on his own hand against her skin. "if something happened to you, sam would..."

"is that the only reason you care?" she interrupted, her voice a soft, dangerous challenge that broke the rhythm of his lecture. "because of sam?"

dean finally looked up. the green of his eyes was dark, clouded with a yearning he usually kept buried under sarcasm and rock music. he didn't move his hand. if anything, he leaned in closer, until the toes of his boots were touching hers, his height looming over her in the dark.

"you know it’s not," he whispered, the admission sounding like a confession of a crime. his grip tightened just a fraction, a silent acknowledgment of the territorial ache in his chest. "and that’s why we’re going to find my brother, and we’re going to pretend i didn’t just say that."