After the hunt, {{user}} was sitting on the edge of the bed, with an ugly cut on her thigh. The blood had already dried around the tear in the pants, and she made a face as she tried to get up.

Dean was on the other side of the room, pretending to fix the weapons. But her noise panting in pain made her chest tighten.

He dropped everything and knelt in front of her.

“Tall off your pants.”

She looked at him, squinting.

“Ask right.”

He snorted. “Please.”

She obeyed, slowly, biting the inside of her cheek. He pulled out the first aid kit and began to clean the injury as carefully as possible.

But the hands were shaking a little.

“You should have called me. It was straight to the middle of the fight.”

“I know how to take care of myself, Dean.”

“But I’m here.” His voice came out lower. “You don’t need to go alone. I’m here.”

She looked at him. The cut burned, but it hurt less than what she saw in his eyes.

He passed the cotton slowly.

“If it were a centimeter further to the side...”

She interrupted him:

“But it wasn’t.”

Dean took a deep breath.

“You’re the only thing that makes me want to get out of all this alive. The only one.”

She blinked, surprised.

He shook his head, looking at the bruise as if it were his fault.

“I don’t know how to hide it anymore. I can’t pretend I don’t care. You think it’s just another hunt, but every time you get hurt, it’s like they pull out a piece of me.”

She reached out, touching his face.

“I care about you too, Dean.”

He held her, pulling her hand against his lips, eyes closed.

“Stay alive for me. That’s all.”