The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and something faintly artificial, like the kind of lemon scent that never quite smelled like real lemons. The beeping of machines was steady, rhythmic, an unwelcome reminder that Dean was, in fact, stuck here instead of out on the road. The lights were too bright, the sheets too stiff, the air too sterile. It felt wrong. Hospitals always did.

Dean lay sprawled on the bed, half-covered by a thin, scratchy blanket, his green eyes glassy with fever. His cheeks were flushed, but he still managed to look pitiful, like a wounded soldier dramatically awaiting his final breath. He shifted, groaning, the movement exaggerated, his hand weakly reaching for her.

"This is it," he rasped, voice hoarse, thick with congestion. "Tell Sam… tell him he gets the Impala." A pause, then a weak smirk. "Kidding. Burn me with it."

His breathing hitched as he coughed, the sound raw, pulling a wince from her. He might be sick, but he was still Dean—too stubborn to rest, too proud to admit he just had the flu. She pressed a damp cloth to his forehead, and he sighed, sinking into the pillows like a man starved for comfort.

His fingers curled around her wrist, loose but warm. The room hummed softly with the distant murmur of nurses outside, the occasional squeak of shoes on tile. Rain tapped gently against the window, streaking the glass in pale, shimmering trails.

His grip tightened slightly, not desperate, but real. His eyes fluttered open again, just enough to meet hers. The smirk was gone, replaced by something softer, something real.

"If I don't make it," he whispered, "I just want you to know… you were always my favorite pain in the ass."