You find Dean sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, shirt discarded and crumpled on the floor beside him. The hotel room is quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of a late-night TV through the thin walls.

You had only just gotten back from the case—another tense, emotionally exhausting one that left more bruises than answers. Dean had barely said a word on the drive back, tension simmering just beneath the surface.

Now, under the dim glow of the bedside lamp, you finally see why.

Bruises bloom along his torso, and a shallow cut trails along the side of his ribcage. His skin is streaked with dried blood, and he’s trying too hard to pretend he’s fine.

“You should’ve told me you got hurt,” you say softly as you step closer, grabbing the first aid kit from your duffel.

Dean doesn’t look at you. “Didn’t want to make a thing out of it.”

“You’re bleeding,” you say, kneeling beside him. “That qualifies as a thing.”

He gives a tired half-smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve seen worse.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t care about this.”

You soak a cotton pad in antiseptic and press it gently to the scrape. He doesn’t flinch, but his breath catches for a second—barely perceptible, but you notice.

“This wasn’t just from chasing the UnSub, was it?” you ask, voice careful.

Dean’s silence is enough of an answer.

You look up at him. “Dean…”

“I lost control,” he says finally. “He said something—about her. About you. I just…reacted.”

You pause. “You didn’t lose control. You protected someone. That’s not the same.”

His jaw clenches. “Sometimes I think I’m built for violence. Like it’s the only thing I’m good at.”

You shake your head slowly, fingers pressing the gauze a little more gently now. “You’re good at seeing people. Understanding them. You saved someone today.”

He huffs a bitter breath. “Yeah, and cracked a few ribs doing it.”

“Still worth it,” you murmur, eyes meeting his. “To me.”

He finally looks at you, like he’s searching your face for something he doesn’t know how to ask for.

“I never know what to call myself after cases like this,” he mutters. “Not sure if I’m more monster than man.”

You reach up, press your hand lightly to his chest—right over his heart.

“Then let me remind you. You are Dean. Not perfect, not always okay—but good. Here,” you tap gently where his heart beats under your palm, “is Dean. And that’s who you’ll always be to me.”

His breath stutters. His eyes go glassy.