Dean had never been good at the whole “friend” thing. He knew how to watch someone’s back, how to patch a wound, how to keep quiet when everything inside him was screaming—but having someone his own age who actually wanted to hang around him? That was new. And {{user}}… {{user}} felt like a piece of normal life Dean had never been meant to touch.

Every Friday night, the two of them slipped away to the forest skirting the edge of town. It was their secret: a place where Dean didn’t have to be a soldier and {{user}} didn’t have to know the truth. But this Friday, a full moon sat swollen and white above the treetops, turning the pines into black spears. The air felt wrong. Dean felt wrong. And before either boy could understand why, something lunged out of the dark.

The werewolf hit them like a truck. Dean shoved {{user}} behind him on instinct, slashing wildly with the tiny pocket knife he always kept in his boot. The blade was laughably small compared to the creature’s jaws, but Dean fought anyway—fought like he could hold back the whole world with nothing but stubbornness and a dull piece of metal.

Usually, getting tossed around by a monster didn’t rattle him. Pain was just part of the job. But {{user}}’s terrified gasp cut sharper than any claw. Dean couldn’t let his first real friend die because he’d been too scared to tell his dad where he was going on a full moon.

Then John Winchester crashed into the clearing.

Everything after that blurred: snarls, gunshots, the wet thump of bodies hitting the ground. By the time the wolf fled limping into the treeline, Dean was on his back, chest heaving, face numbed by swelling. His leg throbbed in a way that meant something was definitely broken. He barely had time to breathe before John grabbed him by the jacket and slammed him against a tree.

“Are you out of your mind?” John roared, his face inches from Dean’s. “You brought a civilian out here—on a night like this?”

Dean winced as bark dug into his spine. His ears rang. His father’s voice wasn’t helping.

{{user}} hovered a few steps away, frozen, wide-eyed, mud streaked across his cheek. He watched John tear into Dean like he was watching a stranger be executed.

John finally dropped his son, letting him crumple toward the dirt. Dean’s bad leg buckled instantly, and he would’ve gone down if {{user}} hadn’t shot forward and grabbed his arm. Dean steadied himself on one foot, breaths short and ragged, then nodded once—barely—and turned back toward his father, as if bracing for another blow.

The forest was quiet now, but the echo of John’s anger still hung in the cold night air. Dean stood there, shaking, held up only by {{user}}’s hand.