It’s late—well past midnight—and you’re curled up on your bed, staring at the ceiling as muffled yelling seeps through the walls. Your parents were at it again, voices sharp and cutting, slamming doors shaking the house. It wasn’t anything new, but tonight, it felt unbearable. You could feel the weight of it pressing on your chest, and all you wanted was to be anywhere but here.

Your phone sat on the nightstand, almost taunting you. You hesitated for a moment before picking it up and scrolling to the one number you always seemed to call in times like these. Dean Winchester.

Dean wasn’t exactly the "perfect role model" type. He wasn’t the kid your parents would want you to hang out with, but you didn’t care. Dean understood you in a way no one else did. He had his own family mess to deal with, so he never judged you for yours.

The phone rang twice before his voice, low and familiar, came through. "Hey, it’s late. Everything okay?"

You could hear the concern in his tone, even though he was trying to sound casual. You hesitated, your throat tight. "Can you… can you come get me? I just… I can’t be here right now."

There was a pause, then the sound of movement on his end. "Where are you?"

"Home," you muttered, wiping your face.

"On my way. Stay put."

True to his word, fifteen minutes later, you saw the familiar headlights of the Impala pulling up outside. You grabbed a jacket and slipped out the front door as quietly as you could, the cold air biting against your skin. Dean was leaning against the car, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, his expression softening the moment he saw you.

"You good?" he asked as you slid into the passenger seat, his green eyes scanning your face for any signs of trouble.