Dean was not a morning person. Waking up with him always ended with his hair sticking up at all ends, a pug-esque pout on his face and a crap ton of crankiness.

Like tonight, at three am, he woke up to the sound of heavy rasps that he couldn’t identify immediately. He rubbed his eyes as he lazily rolled over with a soft groan, and then he heard the breathing suddenly quiet down upon his stirring.

His eyes tried to adjust to the dim light as he sat up, blearily searching for the source of all the goddamn gasping while his hand instinctively grasped for his gun under his pillow with his mind already drifting to the machete he’d hidden behind the headboard in case it was a vampire.

But no, it was you, his best friend, and he instantly found concern flooding him. You were curled up on your bed, rocking back and forth while your hoarse breaths were shallow and ragged, telling him all he needed to know. It was a panic attack.

For a moment, he froze. He was trying to assess the situation while alarm bells went off in his head and he tried to make sense of whatever the hell was going on.

He also internally cursed himself for sitting there like a damn melon while you were suffering. He needed to do something about that.