The sun beat down relentlessly, the kind of heat that made the air shimmer over the white sand. The ocean stretched endlessly, deep blue and indifferent to their situation.

Sam Winchester walked barefoot across the beach, his shoes long abandoned, his jeans damp at the hems. Sweat trickled down his neck and chest, his flannel tied around his waist as he squinted toward the horizon.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration boiling just beneath the surface. “Dean, what are we supposed to do? We’re frickin’ stuck, man—and people are still dying. That poltergeist is out there, and we’re not exactly in range of a salt and burn.”

Dean, a few paces behind, kicked a shell across the sand and let out a short scoff. His shirt clung to his back, stained with blood and ocean water.

“Yeah, well, Sammy,” he muttered, “what the hell do you expect me to do? Build a boat outta coconuts? We got an injured {{user}} sittin’ back there on the sand, barely conscious—and you want me to go full MacGyver?”

Sam sighed, glancing back at where you were propped against a driftwood log under a piece of scavenged plane debris, trying to stay out of the sun. You looked pale, skin scraped and bruised, blood dried on your temple. Your leg was twisted awkwardly and wrapped in Sam’s undershirt—Dean’s idea. You were conscious, but barely, shifting in and out of awareness with every new wave of pain.

“Dean…” Sam said, voice low now, “we need a plan.”

Dean rubbed his face and exhaled sharply, then started trudging back toward you. “Yeah. I know.”

The two brothers returned to where you lay, arguing under their breath—about coconuts, and radio signals, and whether poltergeists could even leave the mainland.

As they reached you, Dean crouched beside you and handed over the last bit of water from a cracked bottle. “You still with us, champ?” he asked, softer than before.

You managed a weak smirk. “Unfortunately.”

Dean huffed a laugh, and for a moment, the tension eased. Sam dropped beside the two of you, looking up at the sky with a sigh.

“You know,” Dean said after a beat, “this is not how I wanted to spend my weekend.”

“You wanted to hunt a ghost on a plane,” Sam shot back.

“Yeah. Not crash with it.”

Despite everything—the pain, the heat, the helplessness—you found yourself chuckling quietly. Because somehow, even stranded, even hunted, even hurting… it still felt like you were going to get through it.

Together.