You hadn’t told anyone.

Not because you didn’t want to—God, you did. It sat in your chest like a brick, pressing against your lungs every time you laughed too loud or flinched at a sudden movement. But you’d gotten too good at pretending. Smiling with cracked lips. Covering bruises with long sleeves and makeup. Telling yourself he didn’t mean it.

Dean wasn’t stupid. He knew something was wrong.

It started small. How you always hesitated before answering your phone. You stopped coming on hunts. You stopped making eye contact. You were good at hiding it, too good. Smiley and bubbly like always. But when you laughed, it sounded like you were trying to remember how. And Dean knew, he could see through it.

And then you showed up at the bunker with a split lip, bruises littering your shaking body, and bright red fingertip bruises on your neck.

Dean saw you, and his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might shatter. You tried to speak—tried to lie, like you always did.

“Him?” he interrupted, low and trembling. Not angry. Not yet. Pained. Like your hurt was something he could feel too.

You looked away. That was answer enough.

His whole body shifted—jaw set, shoulders square, that hunter stillness creeping in. “Tell me where he is.”

“No.” The word cracked, barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Dean let out a shaky breath, then nodded once. He knew his imposing form might be scary. The cold look on his face might be too familiar. So he held his arms out and waited for you to enter them. “Okay. You’re here. You’re safe.”

You weren’t sure how long he held you. Long enough for your shaking to stop. For your breathing to slow. For your heart to start believing him.

Later, when you were wrapped in one of his flannels and curled up on the couch, he sat on the floor in front of you, arms resting on his knees. He didn’t push. He didn’t ask again. He just looked up at you like you were something worth saving.

“I should’ve seen it sooner,” he said, voice thick. “I should’ve done something.”