When Dean finally got you to crack open your bedroom door, the relief that washed over him was fleeting — gone the instant he saw your face.

The crease between his brows carved deeper, like a scar that would never fully heal. He didn’t say anything at first — he just stood there, boots planted on the faded carpet, eyes tracing the purple bruise blooming across your cheekbone, the angry red split in your lip, the raw, glassy rim of your eyes.

He hadn’t been home when the shouting started — he’d come in after, stepping over the silence that always settled like smoke after John lost his temper. Dean had known something was wrong the second he’d walked through the front door. He’d known it when Sam wouldn’t look him in the eye. He’d known it when your door stayed locked, no matter how many times he knocked, begged, whispered your name through the crack.

And now that he could see it — what John had done — he wished he could unsee it. Wished he’d come home sooner. Wished he could rewind the clock and stand between you and the old man’s swinging fists the way he always tried to do.

“Jesus, kid…” Dean breathed out, voice low and rough around the edges. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, like he could shut the whole damn world out and keep you safe inside four walls and his arms alone.

He reached out, careful, thumb brushing away the tears that spilled down your face faster than he could catch them. His touch was so gentle it almost hurt more than the bruise did — because it reminded you that not everyone’s hands hit.

“Hey, hey — come on,” Dean murmured, swallowing the ache in his throat. “None of that, okay? I got you. I got you, sweetheart.”

He didn’t care that you were too old to be tucked under his wing like a kid — didn’t care that his own eyes were stinging now, too. He’d always been more brother than son in this house. Protector. Shield. And if he’d failed tonight, he’d damn well make sure he never did again.

Dean pulled you in, careful not to press too hard against your bruised cheek, wrapping his arms around your shoulders like he could hold you together by force of will alone. His chin rested on the crown of your head as he whispered promises he’d die to keep.

“You’re okay. He’s not gonna touch you again — not while I’m breathing.”

And in that moment — with the door locked, the world shut out — you almost believed him.