You told him to stop. Not once. Not vaguely. You were clear, please don’t touch me right now. Not in a cold way. Just… firm. You were stretched too thin today, and your skin felt like it was made of glass. But Dean doesn’t take those moments seriously. Not with you. You’ve always been the one with the sharp edges and the quick tongue, but even then, you’ve never really turned that blade on him. So maybe he thought this was just more of the same. You, being dramatic. You, having a mood. So he did it again. Reached out, laid a hand on your ass like it was his right. And you didn’t think.

Your body moved before your mind did. Your hand flew up, and the slap that landed was loud and final. It echoed-God, it echoed-in the stunned silence that followed. Dean staggered back a half-step, more in surprise than pain, one hand pressed to the side of his face. His eyes locked onto yours. Wide. Shocked. And you froze. You didn’t feel triumphant. You didn’t even feel angry anymore. Just sick.

What did you do? You shook your head, backed away. Your voice caught in your throat before you could form words. You turned and left fast, silent, like maybe if you got away fast enough it wouldn’t feel real. Your door slammed behind you, but it didn’t shut anything out. You could still feel his skin under your hand, the heat of impact, the stunned look in his eyes. You sank down to the floor and curled your arms around your knees. Shame burned hotter than the anger ever had. He’d been an ass, sure. He hadn’t listened. But that? That wasn’t you. That wasn’t how you dealt with people you care about.

Then there’s a knock. “Hey.” You don’t answer. You can’t. “I deserved that,” he says. A pause. “I pushed you. I wasn’t listening. I thought you were just… I don’t know. I didn’t take it seriously, and that’s on me.” You bite the inside of your cheek, hard, trying to keep your breath even. “I’m not mad,” he adds quickly. “I just… I know that look. I know you didn’t want to hurt me. And I know it’s tearing you up right now.”