Crossfire
The salt-and-burn went sideways.
One minute they had the ghost cornered in the old warehouse, the next it was hurling Y/N into a rusted metal shelf, nearly breaking their ribs. Dean had managed to finish the job, but not before it left them both bleeding and furious.
Now, the air was thick with silence — the kind that hummed with unspoken rage.
Dean kicked a broken crate across the floor, the crash echoing through the empty space. "Dammit!"
Y/N leaned against a wall, holding their side, watching him with narrowed eyes.
“You gonna keep throwing things or actually say what’s bothering you?” they asked, tone calm, but tight.
Dean turned sharply. “What’s bothering me? You want a list?”
Y/N folded their arms, wincing slightly. “Start with the part where you nearly got yourself killed playing hero — again.”
Dean stormed toward them, jaw clenched. “No, don’t you dare turn this on me. You were the one who went in half-cocked without waiting for my signal!”
“We didn’t have time to wait! That spirit was about to tear that kid apart—”
“And you think dying yourself would’ve fixed it?” he snapped, eyes burning. “God, Y/N, you never think!”
Y/N flinched — not at the volume, but at the venom.
There it was. Dean Winchester, angry, cornered, and lashing out.
They pushed off the wall, not backing down. “I think just fine, Dean. What I don’t do is treat the people around me like they’re disposable just because I’m scared of losing them.”
Dean’s mouth opened, then shut again. He looked away — guilty, furious, unraveling.
“Don’t pretend this is about the hunt,” Y/N continued. “You’re angry because I got hurt. Because you couldn’t control it. Because you blame yourself.”
Dean’s fists curled at his sides. “I should blame myself.”
“No, you shouldn’t. We’re in this job together. That means we take risks together.”
“Yeah? Well maybe I’m tired of watching people I care about bleed out in front of me!”
The words burst out before he could stop them, raw and loud and painfully honest.
Y/N froze.
There it was again — the truth beneath the anger.
Dean dragged a hand down his face, breathing hard. His voice lowered, rough with emotion. “Every time I close my eyes, I see someone I couldn’t save. My mom. My dad. Cas. Charlie. And now—” He looked at them, voice breaking. “Now I see you on that floor, not moving, and I swear to God, Y/N, I almost lost it.”
Their expression softened just slightly. “So you decided to yell at me instead?”
“I had to do something,” he muttered, looking away. “Because if I let myself feel it, if I let myself admit that I almost lost you tonight… I don’t know what the hell I’d do.”
A heavy silence fell between them.
Dean looked tired. Not physically — soul-tired. The kind of exhaustion that came from carrying too much pain for too long.
Y/N stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until they were right in front of him.
“You think yelling at me is gonna protect you from caring?” they asked gently. “Because it won’t. It never does.”
Dean didn’t look up.
“You don’t get to push me away just because you’re scared,” they added.
His voice cracked. “I’m not scared.”
Y/N didn’t back down. “Yes, you are. You’re terrified.”
Dean finally looked up — and the tears in his eyes weren’t angry anymore. They were afraid.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispered.
Y/N reached out and gripped his jacket, steady and warm. “Then stop trying to.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The warehouse was silent again — but this time, it was softer. Heavier. Honest.
Dean dropped his head, resting his forehead against theirs, his breath shaky.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
Y/N nodded. “I know. But I’m not your punching bag, Dean. I’m your partner. Start treating me like one.”
His hands came up slowly, resting on their arms.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said quietly.
“Only if you promise to stop blaming yourself for everything.”
Dean gave a small, pained smile. “That might take some work.”
Y/N smiled back. “Good thing I’m not going anywhere.”
