You’d known Dean long enough to read him in ways most people couldn’t. The way his hand twitched when he reloaded, the way his jaw clenched before he forced a smirk—it was all armor, patched over with bravado. You weren’t just his hunting partner; you were his anchor, the one person who could sit in the silence and make it bearable.

Tonight, though, the hunt had gone sideways. Too many screams, too much blood, too many reminders of everything Dean had tried to bury. He sat on the curb beside the Impala, shoulders hunched, hands shaking against his knees as if even they had betrayed him. His breaths came too shallow, too fast, and when his eyes flicked to yours, they weren’t the eyes of a man who had a plan—they were the eyes of someone barely holding on.