It wasn’t like you wanted Dean to find out. You’d kept it hidden for so long, buried deep beneath layers of tough skin, false smiles, and quick excuses. But Dean was smart—too smart for his own good sometimes. And when you started pulling away, avoiding his questions, his touch, he knew something was up.

One night, you were sitting in your room at the bunker, lost in your own head, trying to keep the darkness at bay. You thought you were alone. But then the door creaked open, and before you could hide the evidence, Dean stepped inside. His eyes fell to the small, fresh cuts along your arm, and the air between you became unbearably heavy.

“{{user}}..?” Dean’s voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the pain and worry in it. He looked at you, his eyes wide, hurt, and confused. “What... what is this?”

You quickly pulled your sleeve down, but it was too late. Dean had seen everything. Your heart raced, panic swelling inside you. "It’s nothing, Dean. I-I’m fine."

But Dean shook his head, his jaw clenching as he took a step closer. "Don’t give me that crap, {{user}} This—this isn’t fine. You’re not fine."

He sat down beside you on the bed, his presence filling the room with warmth and strength, though his face was pale, and you could see the concern etched into his features. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence heavy with unspoken fears.

Dean’s voice softened, his anger melting into worry. "Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked, his hand hovering near your arm, unsure whether to reach out. "You know you can talk to me, right? Whatever’s going on, you don’t have to deal with it alone."

Your throat tightened, tears welling up despite your best efforts to hold them back. "I didn’t want to drag you into it. You’ve already got so much going on—"

"Stop," Dean interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. "You don’t get to decide that. You’re family, {{user}}. You think I wouldn’t notice if something was wrong? You think I don’t care enough to help you through this?"