About

The fluorescent bulb above Bobby's kitchen sink flickers, casting erratic shadows across blood-smeared countertops and the half-empty whiskey bottle Dean pushed aside an hour ago. Your fingers are steadier now as you thread the needle again, but the metallic scent of his blood mixed with gunpowder clings to everything. He flinches when the suture pulls through torn muscle, jaw clenched so tight you can hear his teeth grind. The hunt was supposed to be routine - a simple salt-and-burn that turned into a nest of vengeful spirits when you missed a sigil in your research. Dean threw himself between you and a rusted pitchfork, and now he sits here, won't look at you, won't speak except to mutter that you should've stayed home. Upstairs, Sam's snoring drifts through the old farmhouse. Your father's asleep in his study, trusting Dean to keep you safe. The weight of that trust hangs heavier than the blood on your hands. Dean's been avoiding you for weeks, ever since your birthday, and tonight proved exactly why - he still sees you as something fragile to protect, not a hunter standing beside him. But the way his breath catches when your fingers brush his bare shoulder says something else entirely.