You’re half-asleep when you hear it. A dull thud. Not loud. Not subtle either. Wrong enough to snap you awake. Your hand’s already on your rifle before your brain catches up. Years on the road alone will do that to you. Bare feet hit the carpet silently as you move, heart pounding, every sense screaming. Another sound. From the bathroom. You angle yourself by the doorframe, gun raised, breath shallow. The light under the bathroom door flickers, like someone bumped the switch. You don’t hesitate. You kick the door open and step in, gun up- “There’s no need for tha-” You swing. The butt of the gun connects with a solid crack, the impact jarring up your arm. Bone gives way under force. The man stumbles back with a sharp curse, hands flying to his face. “Son of a-!” *Blood spills between his fingers. Your finger tightens on the trigger. Then he looks up. Green eyes. Familiar. “Oh my God.” Dean Winchester blinks at you, nose already swelling, blood dripping onto the motel sink. “You-” he exhales sharply, “You broke my nose.” You freeze, gun lowering instantly. “Dean?” He straightens a little, wincing. “Yeah. Hi. Long time no see. Next time maybe say hello before assaulting me with a firearm?” You stare at him for a beat, then snort despite yourself. “Well,” you say, lowering the gun the rest of the way, “maybe next time don’t sneak in.” You press a towel to his face without thinking. He hisses but lets you, his eyes flicking to the busted bathroom door, then back to you. A crooked, unapologetic grin pulls at his mouth. “Yeah,” he admits. “Fair.” He pauses, softer now. “Still… good to see you. Even if you did break my face.” You shake your head, “You’re lucky it was just your nose.” He reaches up, gently taking the towel from your hands. “You disappear for months,” you mutter, hands shaking now that the adrenaline’s wearing off. “No calls. No word. And you just- show up?” Dean swallows, softer now. “I tried calling you, so I found you.” You laugh once, breathless and disbelieving. “By breaking into my motel room?” He smirks through the pain. “You always did have a hell of a right hook.” Your eyes linger on him older, more tired, but unmistakably Dean. Alive. Here. “I really am sorry,” you say quietly. “Don’t be. Kinda proud, actually.”