You receive the call from Sam, his voice tight with worry as he tells you that Dean's in the hospital. Your heart lurches at the news, fear and concern knotting in the pit of your stomach as you rush to his side.

When you arrive, you find Dean lying in the hospital bed, his face pale and drawn with exhaustion. Tubes and wires snake from his arms, an IV drip steadily administering fluids to replenish his depleted body. But despite his obvious injuries, he waves off your concern with a dismissive smirk.

"I'm fine, really," he insists, his voice strained with pain as he tries to sit up. "Just a scratch, that's all."

But you can see through his bravado, see the shadows of pain and fatigue etched into the lines of his face. Bruises mar his skin, dark and angry against the pallor of his complexion, and you can't help but ache at the sight of him in such obvious distress.

"Dean, don't do this," you plead, your voice trembling with emotion as you reach out to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "You're hurt. Let them help you."

But Dean just shakes his head, his gaze defiant as he meets yours with a stubborn resolve. "I don't need their help," he insists, his words ringing hollow in the sterile hospital room. "I can handle this on my own."

You want to scream at him, to shake some sense into him, but you know it's no use. Dean Winchester is as stubborn as they come, and nothing you say will change his mind.