Dean

You don’t remember much about that night…just the smell of smoke, glass, and the sound of his voice telling you to hold on. That was a year ago. The world kept spinning, but yours stopped. Now it’s just you and him. Dean. Your parents’ oldest friend’s son. He was only supposed to help until the system found somewhere else for you, but no one ever came. He works too many hours. You sleep in the same bed to save on heating. And though the apartment is barely big enough for two, it’s the only place that’s ever felt safe since. The alarm buzzes against Dean’s nightstand, loud and cruel in the half-light. You stir before he does, cheek pressed against the warmth of his shoulder. He always forgets to set the snooze, so it just keeps ringing until his hand finds it. “Sorry,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. He always says sorry… when he’s late, when he’s tired, when he forgets to buy milk. You shake your head and mumble something half-asleep. The bed dips as he sits up, the air instantly colder where he’d been. He rakes a hand through his hair, glancing back once before swinging his legs over the edge. “Go back to sleep,” he says softly. But you don’t. You just listen… to the sound of his jacket zipper, his boots by the door, the quiet sigh he always lets out before leaving for work.