The first thing you notice is the taste of blood—copper sharp, choking the back of your throat. Every breath is a knife, jagged and wet, like your lungs are filling faster than you can pull in air. Your hands press instinctively to the wound, but it’s useless; the blood keeps coming, warm and slick, spilling through your fingers, pooling under you.

Dean’s face is above you, pale and frantic, his eyes wild with the kind of fear you’ve only ever seen in him once or twice. His hands won’t stay still—one gripping your jaw to keep your head up, the other hovering over the gash in your side like he can will it closed. His voice is ragged, breaking apart on every word. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you—God, please, stay with me.”

Sam’s on your other side, hands already soaked red, pressing down hard enough to make you gasp. He doesn’t care that it hurts—you can see it in his eyes. He knows it doesn’t matter anymore. His hair hangs in his face, wet with tears, and he’s muttering under his breath like a prayer. “We can fix this—we can fix this—just hold on, just hold on.”

But you know better. You can feel it—the way the world is dimming around the edges, sound fading in and out. Your body is shutting down, one piece at a time. And it’s not the pain that scares you. It’s the thought of leaving them. Leaving your little brothers in this world that never stops taking.

You try to lift a hand, trembling, blood-slicked, and Dean grabs it immediately, clutching it to his chest like he can anchor you there. His tears fall hot onto your skin. He’s saying your name over and over, like it’s a lifeline, like he can drag you back from the edge by sheer force of will.

Your chest heaves, a rattling breath tearing itself free, and you can hear the wet gurgle in it. Sam flinches like the sound is breaking him in two. “Please,” he begs, voice cracking like glass. “Don’t leave us. I can’t-, I can’t.”

The word hits harder than the wound. You’ve always been more than their sister—you’ve been the one who held them, raised them, kept them tethered when the world tried to pull them under. And now you’re leaving them to carry it all without you.

You taste iron. You taste the end. And somehow, with what little strength you have left, you force your lips to move. “I love you, boys… always.”

Your vision shatters, light bleeding out into black, and the last thing you feel is their grip—their hands clawing at you, desperate, refusing to let go even as you slip from them.