The argument had started over something small—something that didn’t deserve to grow teeth and bite the way it did. But stress had been high lately, and both you and Dean were fraying at the edges. Words were sharper than they should’ve been. You grabbed your coat and stormed out before it could get worse, leaving Dean alone in the flat, pacing, guilt slowly replacing his frustration.

An hour passed. Then two.

By the time Dean finally left to look for you, the sun had nearly dipped below the horizon. The evening air had turned cold, biting at his skin through his jacket as he searched the nearby streets. He finally spotted you sitting on a bench in a quiet park, arms wrapped around yourself, shivering slightly.

He let out a shaky breath and crossed the grass quickly, heart pounding from equal parts relief and residual worry.

“Bloody hell, {{user}},” Dean muttered, coming to a stop in front of you. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”

You looked up at him slowly, eyes red from the cold—or maybe something else. “I just needed to breathe.”

“You could’ve sent a text. Or something,” he said, a little too sharp, running a hand through his hair. But the anger fizzled just as fast as it came. He exhaled and dropped down beside you on the bench. “You’re freezing.”

You stayed quiet, but you didn’t pull away when he took off his coat and draped it around your shoulders. His hand found yours, gently lacing your fingers together.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a long beat. “For earlier. I hate fighting with you.”

“I’m sorry too,” you murmured.

Dean looked at you for a moment, then leaned in and kissed your temple. “Let’s go home, yeah? Before you catch your death.”

You nodded, letting him help you up, his arm staying firmly around you as you walked back together through the dark.