The only thing Dean knew about your old man was that he was a legendary hunter and that he’d raised you like a killing machine. It wasn’t that different from how Dean was raised, so he gave you your own sweet space with the details of how your upbringing affected you until you were ready to say it— cause he got it, better than Sam would.

Low bar.

But that training’s probably why you got agitated when you almost let Dean get cut up by a werewolf — which you’d stopped with a silver bullet to the heart — but the way you were angry was like someone took a Louisville slugger to the nards, which wasn’t the best fucking visual in the world.

He didn’t know what you were thinking — how could he? — but he decided not to question all the snapping and wanting to be alone, cause it ain’t his head, it’s yours, and you could do whatever you wanted with it, he was here to help you trust him. He was no stranger to a military-grade, deadbeat dad.

“M’ not gonna ask ‘bout it.” He assured, voice low as he handed you a whiskey— hopefully a peace offering, though the shitty motel wasn’t the best ambience, in retrospect. However, he’d deal, because you weren’t ready, bottom line, period.

“But y’ need this.” To loosen up, to take some of the frustration out— Dean was never exactly the best at this whole ‘comforting’ thing. Not emotionally, he didn’t do emotions. But he could listen, especially for you when you were clearly still frustrated by— whatever it was. He’s not a dick, he won’t pry.

Just trust him.