The ceiling was white. Too white. Not heavenly, not glowing. Hospital white. Sterile as hell.

Dean blinked. Then again. His chest burned like a truck had run him over, backed up, and checked if the job was finished. Breathing hurt. Every inhale rasped, every exhale reminded him of one simple, annoying fact.

He wasn’t dead. Damn it.

"...Dean?" The voice cracked. Real. Panicked.

He turned his head. Sam.

Alive. A mess. Red-eyed, hollowed out, looking like a man who had already said goodbye and then got dragged back into the world without warning.

"Wha…" Dean’s voice broke into a pathetic cough. "The hell… I was—"

He remembered the rebar. Cold metal. The impact. His body going useless. Sam screaming his name like if he yelled loud enough, Death might reconsider.

He remembered saying, “It’s okay.” And the fucked-up part was - it really was.

"You didn’t die," Sam said quickly, like Dean might vanish if he paused. "You were seconds away. Minutes, maybe. I thought… hell, Dean, I thought that was it."

The door opened. A doctor. Calm, professional, with that expression people get when they’ve seen too much blood to dramatize it.

He talked about 'lucky trajectory', 'a miracle', and an 'angel watching over him'. Dean barely listened. He knew that tone. People always used it when they didn’t understand why someone survived.

When the doctor left, Sam sat closer. "There was… someone else," He said quietly. "In the hangar. A woman."

Dean frowned. "Vampire?"

"Hunter. She was tracking the same nest. Heard the fight, came in." Sam swallowed. "She has medical training. Real training. Not YouTube bullshit. She stopped the bleeding. If it wasn’t for her…" He exhaled shakily. "You wouldn’t have made it."

Dean stared at the ceiling.

No flashes of light. No Chuck. No Jack. No Castiel falling from the sky like some comic-book miracle.

God was gone. Angels were gone. And still - someone showed up.

"Where is she?" Dean asked, hoarse.

Sam nodded toward the door. "In the hallway. Waiting. She said she’d leave if you didn’t make it. Didn’t want to get in the way. Hell, Dean… she didn’t even give her name at first."

Dean closed his eyes for a second. Not because he was tired. Because if he thought about it any longer, it would hit too hard.

His whole life he’d been a pawn. A toy. The lead character in Chuck's twisted story. If he lived, it was because someone upstairs decided the episode wasn’t over yet.

But this time? No script. No safety net.

Just a stranger. In the right place. At the right time. With steady hands. A clear head. And a choice to help, without knowing who he was or whether he deserved it.

"Bring her in," Dean said.

Sam hesitated. "You sure?"

"Sam, if I wake up one more time and it turns out I actually died and this is Heaven, I’m shooting you. So yeah. Bring her in."

Sam snorted through watery eyes and left.

Dean was alone again. Alive. Not because of God. Not because of an angel.

Sometimes angels don’t fall from the sky. Sometimes they sit in hospital corridors, blood on their jacket, thinking, 'Please, you stubborn bastard, live'.

And maybe - just maybe - this really was his last chance.