Sam hated hospitals.

He hated the smell first—sterile, sharp, nothing like the warm, familiar scent of old books and leather that usually clung to a hunter’s gear. He hated the quiet too, the kind that felt more like a held breath than peace. But tonight he hated them more than usual—because {{user}} was somewhere behind those doors, bleeding, because a hunt had gone sideways in a way Sam should’ve anticipated.

He paced the hallway in long, restless strides. Every so often he stopped, pressing his palms to his hips, jaw tight, eyes locked on the double doors leading to the trauma bay. If someone looked closely enough, they’d notice the tremor in his hands—but no one here knew him well enough to catch it.

What he could still see—no matter how hard he tried not to—was the moment {{user}} went down. Fangs, claws, blood—too damn much of it—and {{user}} still shoving him back, yelling at him to run, like Sam Winchester had ever been the kind to abandon someone he cared about.

“Come on, man…” he murmured under his breath, resuming his pacing. “You don’t get to do this. Not tonight. Not like this.”

A nurse finally pushed through the doors, and Sam nearly collided with her.

“Winchester?” she asked.

Sam straightened immediately—shoulders squared, breath caught somewhere tight in his chest. “Yeah. That’s me. {{user}}—how is he?”

She softened a little at the urgency in his voice. “He’s stable. Lost a lot of blood, but we’ve stopped the bleeding. He’s a fighter.”

Sam exhaled, something between a shaky breath and a relieved laugh. “Yeah. Stubborn as they come.”

“You can see him now,” she said, pointing down the hall.

Sam didn’t walk—he moved, strides long and purposeful, only slowing when he stepped into the dim room. The soft, steady beep of the monitor filled the space. {{user}} was pale, bruised, wrapped in more bandages than Sam wanted to count.

Sam’s breath left him in a slow, uneven rush. “Damn it, {{user}}… you scared the hell out of me.”

He dragged a chair close and sat, elbows braced on his knees. He reached out, resting a hand carefully on {{user}}’s arm, just above the IV line.

His thumb brushed the edge of a bruise. “You hear me? You’re gonna wake up, and the second you do, I’m laying into you for pulling that stunt.”

{{user}} didn’t answer—still deep under sedation—but Sam stayed anyway.

Because being here, watching the monitor, listening to {{user}} breathe… it meant he was still alive.

And for tonight, that was enough.