Everything was too clean, too quiet and there was too much time to think. Dean really hated hospitals.

The steady beep of the heart monitor drilled into his skull like a countdown he refused to acknowledge, every rise and fall of your chest feeling borrowed; fragile in a way that made his hands curl into fists at his sides. He’d seen you bleed before, watched you get back up with the same stubborn Winchester fire as him and Sam, but this… this was different.

This was slow, this was cruel, this was something he couldn’t punch, shoot, or burn.

“Hey… hey, don’t you even think about leaving me, alright?” he muttered, voice low, rough around the edges. “I’ve been saving your ass since forever. You’re not starting a new trend now.”

The witch hunt replayed in his head on a vicious loop. The sigils carved into the floor too late, the words spoken just a second after the spell detonated, the way you’d dropped like the air had been ripped straight out of your lungs. Dean had caught you before you hit the ground, he always caught you, and for a split second he’d been sure it would be fine. It was always fine, you were always fine.

You weren’t fine.

Castiel had stood at the foot of the bed earlier, trench coat heavy with helplessness, eyes dark and apologetic. There was no celestial cure, no divine loophole for you. Witches wouldn’t touch it; said the spell was terminal by design, a slow rot written into your blood. Dean had smiled, thanked them, waited until they were gone… and then slammed his fist into the hallway wall hard enough to split skin. He reached out, brushing a stray hair from your face. “You hear me? You’re not getting out of this room until you're better. I’m not letting you die. Not now, not ever.”

Dean pulled the chair closer to your bedside, forearms braced on his knees, shoulders hunched like he could physically block whatever was killing you if he leaned hard enough. He’d spent his entire life being the shield, he took the hits, made the calls, carried the weight especially when it came to you. You were his kid sibling. The one he taught to shoot, to hustle pool, to never trust a smiling witch.

You smiled slightly, and Dean swallowed hard, holding back a sigh of relief. “That’s what I like to see, a little smile. I'll figure this out. You know me, I don’t quit and I sure as hell don’t quit on you.” His gaze traced your face, memorizing it with a desperation that made his throat burn.

He leaned closer, voice almost a whisper now, but steady. “We’ll fix this. You, Sam and me. You hear me?”