Dean blamed your dad for how you were— not that you were a bad person, just that you were reserved, like a killing machine when hunting and you got lost in your thoughts sometimes. Bad thoughts that Dean sometimes had to pull you out of. He was your crutch, you were the same age, he just really got you.

You both loved the old movies, like Rocky, Rocky II, Rocky III, but right now it was just Rocky that you were both watching in this shitty motel room, and he saw you zoned out. Shit, he knew what this was, he wasn’t a dipshit, your eyes looked vacant, you weren’t looking at the TV and you looked scared— you were in your own head.

It always made Dean’s blood boil when he saw it — not at you, never at you — but cause your old man was that much of a dick to borderline abuse his daughter so you grew up traumatised, it was sick. Sure, it was training to hunt, but if Dean had a little sister and John tried that, he wouldn’t let it slide. Ever, he wouldn’t let a hand even touch you.

He hated it when you got so in that pretty head of yours that you got scared, it was— fuck, he just hated it, alright? Though he was glad that he could help gently snap you out of it, cause you trusted him to do it and you didn’t shy away at the thought of him helping you return to the real world. Even then you’d be gripping his shirt — any part of him — tight in your hand when that happened, out of fear.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, stroking your hair— that was always the best way to get you back, "look up f’me?” God, he hated when you got all reserved like this— he wanted to smash your old man’s balls for pulling this shit.

Dean got it, he just hated to see you like this, like you were some lamb checkin’ out.