Chapter Text
The summer heat didn’t bother Dean. It was better than the all consuming heat of fires that he had grown used to. He enjoyed that the crackling sounds that surrounded him were instead replaced by the buzz of cicadas and passive chatter coming from down the street. Fire had surrounded Dean his whole life, swallowing him and Sam whole. The kind of fire that didn’t just burn wood and walls, but the kind that burned entire worlds. When he was three, it swallowed his mother and the home they’d built, leaving nothing but ash and smoke in its wake. After that, John Winchester raised him and Sam with calloused hands and a single mission: be strong, be tough, be the kind of men who could stare down the flames. Maybe training his boys to fight the thing that killed their mother helped his dad heal. Dean figures therapy would’ve been better.
The station was quiet in that heavy, drowsy kind of way that always came with summer afternoons. The bay doors were rolled open halfway, and warm air drifted through carrying the smell of cut grass and exhaust from the street outside. Someone from Ladder 19 across the lot had propped open their door too, and the faint echo of a sports game filtered in. Dean liked that hum of background life—it made the place feel less like a tomb.
Sometimes, on days like this, the station reminded him of home. Not the house he grew up in, hell, he barely remembered that, but the one he’d built out of routines and people. The smell of grease and burnt coffee, the constant low buzz of conversation, the sound of laughter that carried a bit too loud down the hallway. It wasn’t family, not really. But it was close enough.
He glanced up at the wall of plaques near the garage doors, the older ones fading to the same dull bronze. Faces he recognized in some, others before his time. He always wondered what kind of men they’d been—if they’d been scared, if they’d gone home after long nights and stared at their ceilings like he sometimes did.
When Dean wasn’t on a call, he liked to keep busy with his hands. Maintenance, repairs, anything mechanical. It kept his brain quiet. The others teased him for it sometimes, but he didn’t care. Engines made sense.
Jo had tried to tell him once that it wasn’t normal, his needing to be constantly in motion, but he’d just laughed it off. Told her he liked keeping things running smooth. She didn’t believe him, simply pursing her lips and changing the subject. She knew better than to pry.
The firehouse dog, an aging mutt named Murphy, wandered past him with lazy steps, stopping to nose at Dean’s discarded jacket. He gave the dog a half-smile and reached down to scratch the top of his head.
The recent heatwave had the air sitting heavy, humidity creeping up and leaving sweat beads under Dean’s worn shirt. The pants of his turnout gear rested on his hips while he worked, the top being discarded onto a nearby table in the garage of the station. Beside him, the radio sang lowly, an early Led Zeppelin song barely rising over the whirr of the fire engine. It had been an easy day; the only call having been an old woman whose fire alarm wouldn’t stop going off, meanwhile there wasn’t a fire- or smoke -in sight.
Dean crawled out from under the truck, leaning against it with crossed arms and letting his eyes flutter shut. He let out a deep sigh and let the muted guitar solo flood into his ears. Jo was upstairs sorting through piles of paperwork, Benny laid sprawled out in one of the worn recliners, and it seemed as if the rest of the station (including Dean,) was half-asleep under the summer heat.
Jolting Dean out of his daze, the fire engine radio squawked, sudden and sharp. “Engine 42, Ladder 19, Ambulance 51 – multiple vehicle collision, intersection of Claremont and Fifth. Possible entrapment. Over.”
Dean groaned, snagging his jacket from the table and shrugging it over his shoulders. “So much for easy,” He grumbled as he made his way into the truck.
By the time they rolled up, the air reeked of gasoline and scorched rubber. Two cars sat crumpled in the middle of the road, glass shards littering the asphalt. An ambulance had arrived seconds ahead of them, and out of it emerged three people. Dean disregarded them, focusing on the wreckage in front of him instead. By the time he made it to the nearest car, a voice cut in from behind him.
“I need this driver extricated in under two minutes.”
Dean turned, brows pulling together. The voice didn’t belong to anyone on his crew– he was dressed in navy EMT gear, a reflective vest hanging loosely over his broad shoulders. He stood an inch or two shorter than Dean, and his messy brown hair stuck in every which direction like he’d run his hands through it too many times.
Dean bristled. “Yeah, thanks pal, but I’ll handle the metal.” He shot him a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You go handle your patient.”
The guy didn’t flinch. “If I can’t get him on a stretcher in under two– now one minute- you’ll be dealing with a body instead. Move.” He shoved himself past Dean without another word, getting to work.
Dean’s jaw flexed, but he shoved the Halligan into place, metal groaning under the force. The paramedic crouched beside him, steadying the injured man’s head and muttering low reassurances that sounded much calmer than the situation deserved.
They worked in sync without speaking, Dean prying the door free, the paramedic sliding in to check the man’s vitals. Once the man had been loaded into the ambulance, the paramedic looked at Dean for the first time.
“Winchester.” Dean introduced himself automatically, still catching his breath. The paramedic nodded once, seemingly scanning Dean’s face. “Novak.” He said after a moment, before climbing into the ambulance.
“Real ray of sunshine you are.” Dean mumbled under his breath, shaking his head lightly. A loud creak caught his attention and he turned, letting his eyes sweep over the mess with a brief, tired sigh. A tow truck idled nearby, its engine rumbling over the distant wail of sirens, winch groaning as it hauled the less-damaged car up onto its bed. The rear end was crumpled in on itself like a crushed soda can, glittering with the sharp edges of shattered glass. Bits of it clung to the seats inside, the rest scattered across the pavement, catching the late-afternoon sun like broken ice. Dean’s boots crunched over it as he moved closer, the smell of gasoline hanging heavy in the heat.
He looked to where the ambulance had disappeared down the usually busy city street. Novak. Didn’t ring a bell. The other paramedic he had recognized instantly as Anna Milton. They’d talked a couple times in between calls, quick chats while packing up gear. That’s how it usually went with EMTs and firefighters; familiar faces that stuck just long enough to get the job done.
They rolled the truck back into the bay, the smell of smoke and oil still clinging to Dean’s shirt. The rest of the crew peeled off toward the showers or the kitchen, voices echoing through the open space. Dean stayed by the engine, running his hands over the tools like muscle memory, making sure everything was back in its place. The encounter with the paramedic lingered in his mind, how when Novak’s eyes had met his they’d looked as if they were searching for something. Something Dean didn’t have. Fine by him.
“Thought you were clocking out earlier?” Benny said, tossing him a bottle of water. Dean cracked it open, drinking nearly half the bottle in one swig.
“I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.” He smiled, wiping his mouth.
Benny grinned, leaning against the bumper. “Or, you’re thinking about that hot paramedic. Don’t think I haven’t seen you check Milton out.”
Dean shot him a look. “I’m thinking of the half-dead guy we just pulled out of that wreck.”
“Uh-huh.” Benny’s smile didn’t falter. “And the paramedic.”
Dean muttered something under his breath and turned his attention back to the tools. He’d met plenty of new EMTs before — it was part of the job. Some were cocky, some were arrogant, some were barely memorable. But there was something about the way Novak had looked at him, like he was assessing him as much as the patient, that dug under Dean’s skin.
The sound of footsteps drew Dean’s attention toward the open bay doors. Anna Milton walked in, her gear bag slung over one shoulder. Novak followed a step behind, unreadable as ever, blue eyes sweeping the station in a slow, deliberate pass before landing briefly on Dean.
“Winchester,” Anna greeted with a short nod. “We’re doing a run-through with your captain. New hospital protocols.”
Dean leaned back against the truck. “Sounds thrilling.”
Anna smirked. Cas didn’t smile, just gave another of those short, sharp nods before following her deeper into the station.
Dean’s jaw tightened despite himself. “Ray of sunshine,” he muttered again, though this time it didn’t come with the same irritation as before.
By the time the day wound down, the heat outside had softened into a sticky dusk. Dean sat on the bench out front of his house, beer sweating in his hand, cicadas droning in the trees. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed, and he caught himself wondering if Novak was in that ambulance.
—
Dean’s apartment smelled faintly of motor oil and takeout. The oil was from the jacket he’d tossed over the back of the couch last night. He’d meant to clean it, but the bed had been closer. The takeout was from a Chinese place down the block that knew his and Sam’s orders by heart.
The morning light spilled in unevenly through the blinds, dust motes drifting lazy circles in the air. Dean sat at the small kitchen table, hunched over a bowl of cereal, letting the spoon stir absently in the milk. He wasn’t much of a breakfast person, but it was something to do with his hands while the silence stretched.
He scrolled through his phone mindlessly, nothing catching his attention for longer than a few seconds. Someone from high-school was pregnant with their third, a friend of a friend’s mom had died, some nobody was running for senate. Nothing Dean really cared about. Cautious, he typed Novak into the search bar. A few profiles popped up, one Meredith Novak, a Claire Novak, and so on until eventually he landed on a James Novak. No profile picture. No bio. Just one post: a grainy shot of a gray cat, curled tight in a patch of sunlight. Dean stared at it for a moment, then huffed out a laugh and set his phone back on the table.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head while the wood creaked quietly under his weight.
The kitchen was quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional car honk from the street below. He rubbed at the corner of his eye, already feeling the tightness in his shoulders from yesterday’s call. He stood and wandered over to the window, pulling the blinds aside just enough to see the street. A group of kids biked past, shouting and laughing, the kind of noise that used to drive him crazy but now just felt.. distant. He traced the shadows of the buildings, the way the morning sun hit the cracked sidewalk, and let himself breathe.
By the time he got around to making coffee, his phone buzzed. Dean ignored it. Instead, he went to the living room, flipped on the TV, and let the white noise fill the space. He thought about calling Sam, but figured he’d already left for work. He didn’t want to hear about Sam’s projects, anyway. He wanted quiet.
Still, Novak’s name kept nudging at him. James Novak. It wasn’t curiosity he liked — he didn’t care about Facebook profiles or who had what cat. But something about the way Novak had moved yesterday, it stuck. Dean shook his head. Don’t be a creep, he muttered under his breath, taking a sip of coffee. Too late, he thought.
He spent the next hour fixing a leaky faucet and reorganizing the top shelf of his kitchen cabinet, tasks that let his mind wander without forcing him to think. By the time Dean finally leaned against the counter, wiping his hands on a towel, he realized the morning had slipped away faster than he noticed. The apartment felt stifling, even with the windows cracked open. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. He needed to get out of the house.
He grabbed his keys, shoved his phone in his pocket and headed for the door. The walk was short, and he ended up at the corner store a few buildings down from his. He pushed open the door, the bell jingling. The air smelled of bread, coffee, and something sweet baking in the back. Dean started towards the shelves, scanning for something overly sugary to satisfy him for a while. He landed on a single pack of twinkies, pausing when a familiar navy shirt caught his eye.
The paramedic glanced up, blue eyes meeting Dean’s for barely a second before returning to the shelf he had been looking at. Dean cleared his throat, shaking off the need to be frozen in place. “Uh, hey.” He offered, trying to sound casual yet ultimately failing.
Novak didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, eyes still scanning the labels. “Winchester,” He said simply. No smile, no inflection. Just a fact.
Dean grabbed his snack, along with a soda, and muttered “Small world, huh, doctor?” He smiled. Novak looked up at this, his head tilting to the side slightly. It reminded Dean of a dog’s movements.
“Paramedics are not doctors. Doctors are physicians and receive residency training. I received emergency medical care training. I also cannot prescribe anyone medication.” Novak said, unblinking.
Dean stood and stared, dumbfounded. After a beat, he cleared his throat. “No, no, I uh — I knew that.” He had not known that.
He shifted from foot to foot, trying to think of something else to say. Anything. His fingers fidgeted with the soda bottle. “You come here often? Or, like, you live around here?”
Since when was Dean Winchester this awkward? He mentally scolded himself. Thank God Sam wasn’t here.
If Novak noticed Dean’s stumbling, he didn’t mention it. “Occasionally. I require some of the small things they sell here every now and then.”
Dean blinked. Of course he does. He cleared his throat again. “Right. Yeah. Food. Gotta stay healthy.” He shoved the Twinkies into his bag, trying to act casual.
The paramedic straightened, still silent for a beat before he spoke. “I do not believe we’ve formally met outside of the incident yesterday.”
Dean froze, half-smile flickering. “I wouldn’t qualify yesterday as being a proper meet and greet.” He laughed lightly at his own joke. Novak didn’t.
Dean shifted his weight again, running his hand through his hair. “So… you like, uh… this part of town? Shop for snacks here?” He gestured vaguely at the shelves, realizing how lame it sounded the instant it left his mouth.
Novak’s gaze met his, blue eyes steady. “It is within walking distance of my home and convenient.”
Dean blinked. Okay. Definitely not going to get small talk out of this guy. He stuffed the rest of the chips he’d been eyeing into the bag, muttering, “Right. Convenience. Makes sense.”
A pause stretched between them, filled only by the faint hum of the store. Dean’s brain raced — something about Novak’s precision, the way he didn’t give anything away, made him want to poke at the edges, see if he could get a reaction. And damn it, it was irritating.
“Anyway,” Dean said finally, hefting his bag, “I guess I’ll let you… continue your, uh… shopping.”
Novak inclined his head once. “Of course. See you around, Winchester.”
He nodded, flashing a smile at Novak. “Dean. My name is Dean.”
Novak nodded. “Castiel.”
Deciding not to prolong the awkwardness of the encounter, Dean made his way to the register, catching himself sneaking glances over his shoulder. Castiel had already moved down the aisle, deliberate and unhurried, and Dean felt a small, stubborn itch in his chest. He needed to figure this guy out.
–
Later, after Dean’s less than impressive exchange with Novak– Castiel –Sam had stopped by his apartment for a beer. Or three.
Sam leaned against the doorframe of Dean’s cramped apartment kitchen, nursing a half empty beer. “So, how’s work been?”
Sam had been with County EMS for a few years now, running the training program like he’d been born for it. He coordinated drills, signed off on certifications, and somehow managed to keep a revolving door of medics and trainees from tripping over each other. Dean liked to tease him about “playing teacher,” but he knew Sam took the work seriously. He made sure every medic out there was sharp enough to save a life. It wasn’t exactly the path John had raised them for, but Dean figured it was close enough. John was dead now, and if he was rolling in his grave about it, Dean couldn’t bring himself to care.
Dean shrugged, twisting the cap off his own. “Same as always. Fires, dumb calls, guys who still think duct tape is an acceptable medical tool.”
Sam smirked. “Sounds about right.”
Dean hesitated before adding, “Got a new paramedic rotating in from County. Novak.” He let the name hang there a moment. “Bit… stiff. Talks like he’s grading your performance even when he’s not.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t like him?”
Dean took a long drink. “Didn’t say that. Just—he’s different.” He set the bottle down with a soft thud. “Don’t know what to make of him yet.”
“You’re so untrusting dude,” Sam teased lightly. Dean rolled his eyes. He knew his brother was just poking at him- hell, it’s all they did to each other -but part of his stomach twisted. John had raised them to be strong, tough, whatever. That included being cold, untrusting, and focusing only on what mattered; saving others.
-
A few days later, the station smelled like burned coffee, motor oil, and the faint tang of old gear that had seen too many calls. Dean was sprawled across the worn couch in the common room, boots kicked up on the coffee table, flipping through the fire logs for the week. Benny was in the corner, meticulously polishing the chrome of the engines, wiping off every fingerprint like it was a crime scene, while Jo sat at the counter, tapping away at her laptop.
“Morning, sunshine,” Jo said without looking up. “You’re supposed to be on gear check, not drooling on the couch.”
Dean grunted, tugging the edge of the log across his lap. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get to it. Just… finishing my coffee.”
Benny snorted. “Finishing your coffee, huh? That’s what you said three hours ago.”
Dean shot him a glare, which softened when Benny laughed. He tossed the log onto the table and stretched, cracking his neck. “Alright, fine. Gear check it is.”
As he walked the bays, checking hoses and tightening valves, a thin layer of sunlight caught the dust in the air, casting long, shifting shadows across the trucks. For a moment, one of the shadows looked off, like it belonged somewhere it shouldn’t. Dean didn’t have time to focus on it before Benny walked past him, humming a tune that sounded oddly cheerful for a weekday morning. Dean blinked, used to Benny’s quiet demeanor, but didn’t comment. Jo glanced up from her laptop, frowning at the sudden humming.
He ignored it, just bent to coil a hose, and it stubbornly sprang back, refusing to sit right in the rack. He muttered under his breath, twisting and yanking until it finally cooperated. The minor annoyance lingered, making him double-check the other gear as he moved down the aisle.
By mid-morning, the smell of brewed coffee had been replaced by the tang of fresh hose water. Dean leaned against the bumper of Ladder 19, stretching, while Benny wiped down the chrome one last time. Through the open garage doors, a faint breeze swept in, ruffling his hair. It was brief and unusual, given how still the morning had been. Dean adjusted his over shirt, noting the tiny shift in the air, and went back to his rounds. “Bit cold, Winchester?” Benny smirked.
Dean rolled his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. “Why? Want me to warm you up?”
Jo rolled her eyes but stayed silent, smiling to herself.
Dean smirked and shook his head. There was a comforting chaos in the station, a flow of small, meaningless competitions and little jokes that made long days feel shorter. He let himself take a beat, leaning against the truck, sipping coffee, and listening to the hum of the engines, the clink of tools, and the occasional murmur of conversation. For a while, he just let himself be here, in the rhythm and warmth of the station, grounded by the noise and the routine that always seemed to hold.
Dean leaned back against the bumper, taking another sip of coffee, when the radio crackled to life. The familiar static was followed by the dispatcher’s voice, clipped and urgent.
“Engine 42, Ladder 19 — report to intersection of Maple and 8th. Possible structure fire. Over.”
Dean straightened, setting his cup down with a soft clink. “Finally,” he muttered, tugging on his gloves. Benny was already moving toward the bay doors, and Jo had her laptop tucked under her arm. The rhythm of the station shifted instantly: chatter turned to commands, casual movements to practiced urgency.
As they climbed into the truck, Dean’s eyes swept the bay one last time. Sunlight streaked through the open doors, glinting off polished chrome and worn gear. For a moment, the station felt suspended. The calm before the storm. Then, the engine roared to life, and Dean felt that familiar surge in his chest: adrenaline.
The most alive he felt was when he was walking into a fire. The flames had never scared him. Not the fire that roared through his childhood home, swallowing Mom, swallowing everything, leaving only ash and memory. Not the fire he ran toward now, knowing it could take him at any moment. Sometimes, in the heart of the blaze, under the debris and smoke, he imagined letting it. Letting the flames claim him, letting the smoke fill his lungs, letting the world blur into heat and red and black. He’d been raised on this. On the idea that fire could kill.
He felt the heat crawling through his turnout gear, like invisible claws clawing at his skin. Flames licked the walls, smoke stinging his lungs, but it didn’t matter. He would haul people out of burning buildings, dragging them from the fire with every ounce of himself, because saving a life was worth any cost. Losing his own didn’t register to him. Or matter.
He remembered his father’s eyes, hard and unflinching, always watching, always demanding. John had shaped him and Sam to be strong, to be fearless. And Dean had obeyed, over and over, until the fire wasn’t just outside—it lived inside him. It made him steady, it made him relentless, it made him almost indifferent. Almost ready, if he had to be, to step into the blaze and not come back.
The roar of the engine pulled him back to the present. Heat radiated from the tires, carrying the city’s humidity with it, but it was nothing compared to what waited at the intersection. Dean gripped the wheel tighter, letting the familiar tension settle in his shoulders. Every siren, every wail of the approaching trucks, sharpened his focus, snapping him fully awake.
Smoke curled above the rooftops ahead, thin and gray at first, then thickening as they drew closer. The acrid scent of burning wood and gasoline drifted toward them, and Dean’s pulse matched the rhythm of the pounding engine beneath him. He didn’t flinch. Couldn’t flinch. This was the life he’d been built for, shaped for, raised into. The part of him that had once been three years old, helpless and afraid in a burning house, now roared to life with precision and instinct.
The fire was worse than the dispatcher had made it sound. Flames licked the sides of a three-story apartment building, smoke curling into the sky in thick, black plumes. Sirens still wailed in the distance.
Dean jumped from the truck, boots crunching over scattered debris, and scanned the scene. Neighbors were pressed against the sidewalks, pointing, shouting, panic etched into every face. A child’s toy rolled into the gutter, half-melted from the heat. Dean ignored it, focusing on the building, the people trapped inside.
“Ladder 19! Engine 42!” he barked, voice cutting through the roar of the blaze. “Form up! We’ve got reports of someone on the second floor!”
The smell of smoke was almost tangible now, thick and choking, curling into his throat and making his stomach twist. But he didn’t hesitate. Gloves clenched, Halligan in hand, Dean moved toward the entrance, eyes scanning for weak spots in the structure, for anyone signaling from windows, for the safest path to reach them.
He felt the heat press harder against his gear, sweat stinging his eyes. And still, beneath it all, that quiet pulse thrummed: he didn’t care if he didn’t make it out. Not really. All that mattered was getting the people inside out alive.
Dean rounded a corner of the building, Halligan raised, when a sharp crack split the air. He froze for a heartbeat, then realized the second-floor balcony had started to sag, the supports groaning under the heat. A woman’s scream cut through the roar of the fire, and through the flames he could make out the outline of a person.
“Get that balcony stabilized!” Dean shouted to a teammate, his voice barely audible over the flames. He could feel the heat pressing in from all sides, crawling along his skin through the gear, but he ignored it, eyes fixed on the terrified woman.
Smoke stung his lungs, and sweat poured into his eyes, but he didn’t slow. He slid a strap under her arms, calling out instructions as he pulled her toward safer ground. The railing shuddered beneath her weight, sending a shower of sparks into the air, but Dean’s grip didn’t falter. One of his teammates – Mike? –appeared at his side, slipping his hands under the woman’s armpits and lifting her into his arms. “I’ve got her, Winchester.”
Dean nodded solemnly, and continued on throughout the building. He approached a closed door, quiet sobs muffled behind it. “Look out!” He ordered before kicking down the door, smoke billowing into his face and over his frame. Heat hammered against his chest, the walls trembling as the fire ate through the floors above. He coughed, wiped soot from his mask, and moved quickly down the narrow hallway, searching for the source of the crying.
Another faint cry drew him to a doorway. Inside, a small boy huddled beneath a table, eyes wide and terrified, smoke curling around him like tendrils. Dean dropped to his knees, voice low and steady. “Hey, buddy, I’ve got you. We’re gonna get out of here.”
The boy whimpered but didn’t move, paralyzed by fear. Dean crawled closer, placing a firm hand on his shoulder, feeling the child tremble. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Just as he lifted the boy, the ceiling above creaked violently. Plaster and charred wood rained down around them, and Dean froze for a split second before sprinting toward the hallway. Every step burned with heat, every breath a battle against the smoke for the young boy.
Outside, the sirens outside seemed farther away, the chaos more distant, as Dean focused only on the small body in his arms. He continued to run, pushing through the debris and smoke with the boys head cradled into his chest.
Finally, he got the boy outside. He set him on the curb, placing a steady hand on his small back. He shook with silent sobs, taking shallow, rapid breaths while he looked around wildly.
“Hey, Buddy, you got a name?” Dean asked, voice gentle despite the roar of commotion surrounding them. The kid looked up at him with wide, blue eyes, and gave a small nod.
“‘S Jack.” He sniffed quietly. “Where’s my mom? Is she okay?”
Dean’s mouth opened, then closed. The truth pressed sharp against the back of his teeth. He rubbed Jack’s back instead, keeping his tone steady. “Everything’s gonna be okay, bud. I promise.”
It wasn’t an answer. But Jack clung to it anyway, staring down at his scraped knees while the fire raged behind them.
A medic came over, kneeling beside them, but Dean didn’t move his hand from Jack’s back until the kid was safely in their care. He stood slowly, the rush of adrenaline ebbing into a hollow throb in his chest. Smoke clung to his gear, to his skin, the stench sinking deep.
He turned toward the building. Flames still licked at the windows, the heat pressing against his face even from here. Somewhere inside, the rest of his crew worked through the wreckage. Dean pulled in a long breath, the taste of ash coating his tongue, and waited for the call that it was over.
When it finally came, it wasn’t triumphant. Just tired voices over the radio, a signal to pack it in.
By the time they made it back to the station, the weight of the night had settled in his bones. The fluorescent lights inside felt too bright after the dark chaos of the fireground. Gear clattered to the floor in the bay, heavy with sweat and soot.
Bobby was already at the whiteboard, jotting down times and notes from the call, his pen scratching over the paper with impatient precision. A couple of guys muttered to each other near the coffee pot, their voices low, not quite ready to joke yet.
Dean dropped into a chair, the vinyl creaking under his weight. His gloves sat on the table in front of him, blackened and stiff. He stared at them for a long moment before Bobby’s voice cut through.
“Kid alright?”
Dean nodded once. “Yeah. Scared, but he’ll be fine.”
Bobby studied him for a beat, like he wanted to ask more, then just grunted and went back to writing.
Dean stared forward, mind racing. Somewhere down the hall, a shower hissed to life, water hitting tile in a steady rhythm.
He kept seeing the kid’s face — soot streaked, eyes too big for how small he was, breath caught somewhere between panic and hope. The way Jack had kept glancing at the door, shoulders tense like he was bracing for bad news. Dean knew that look. Knew the way it stuck to you, even years later.
Someone laughed faintly in the bunkroom, the sound too far away to touch the heaviness sitting between his ribs. Dean curled his fingers around his wrist, letting the heat bleed into his skin. He needed a shower. And sleep.