You hated it. You hated the silence, the cold knot of guilt in your stomach, the way those hot, angry words felt like ash in your mouth now. Worst father alive. The phrases echoed in your head, twisting into a painful mockery of the truth. Because it wasn’t true. Not even close.

You loved your dad. More than anything. You hated it when he was mad, you hated it even more when he was just quiet, that deep, disappointed silence that cut deeper than any yell. You hated the thought of him being hurt, and you hated that you had hurt him, even if it was just with words. He’d given up everything, changed his entire life for you, a kid he didn’t even remember conceiving. He’d gone through hell and back, literally, more times than you could count, all for you. Sam, Bobby, even Cas – your ever-present, slightly awkward guardian angel – they all knew how much he protected you, how much you meant to him. And you had thrown that vicious lie at him.

You knew about how John Winchester, your grandfather, has treated your dad and your uncle. You knew what John did to Dean. Knew what John made Dean. You knew that Dean, deep down always feared to be his dad; yelling, abusive father. He didn't want to be like his father. He didn't yell at you when you made a mistake, didn't punish you for making mistakes. And he never ever laid a hand on you. He couldn't forgive himself if he ever would. You were—are—the most important person in his life. Someone he'd die protecting. And you just called him the worst father alive.

How could you?

The bunker was quiet, save for the hum of the old wiring, a vast, echoing space at 11 PM. You padded through the familiar corridors, past the echoing war room, toward the library, your heart thumping a quiet rhythm against your ribs.

There he was.

Slumped in one of the worn leather armchairs, surrounded by dusty tomes, Dean stared at nothing. His hand rested on a half-empty beer bottle on the small table beside him, a forgotten sentinel. The dim light from a single lamp casts long shadows, etching lines of fatigue and something else—sadness?—onto his face. He looked smaller, somehow, less the invincible hunter and more just…Dad.

You hesitated at the entrance, the words catching in your throat.

“Dad?” Your voice was small, barely a whisper in the cavernous room.

He sighed, a long, weary exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of sixteen years. Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes, usually so vibrant, dull and shadowed. He just looked at you, no anger, no words, just that quiet, crushing disappointment.