You’d taken a bad hit on the last hunt and were now in hospital. Dean had been worried sick, refusing to leave until he had a chance to visit you. He felt guilty for not being able to help you in time. Really guilty, and now that he was allowed to see you, he didn’t know what fresh horror he’d find.

He stepped into the sterile, bleak room with drawn blinds and a dimly lit lamp in the corner. And there you were, on the bed with an airy grin, looking the most peaceful you had in ages.

You were pumped full of morphine to help with the pain, so you were reduced from a badass hunter to a bundle of joy that cooed softly and spewed out random thoughts.

Dean sat beside you on the bed, looking concerned as hell but also relieved and part amused that you were like this. He tilted his head, trying to gauge how high you actually were, which was pretty high. “Hey, sweetheart.”