The motel room smelled like rain and motel soap and old leather. Outside, thunder grumbled in the distance—low and distant, like the sky was mourning quietly for you.

Dean hadn’t said much since the hospital.

He sat across from you now, perched on the edge of the room’s second bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was praying to something he didn’t believe in. His jaw clenched. His eyes were locked on the floor like if he looked at you, it would make this more real.

And it already was too real.

You hadn’t meant to tell him like that—hadn’t meant for the words to break open in that sterile white room, echoing louder than they should’ve. But the doctor had barely left before Dean had stormed out of his chair, demanding a second opinion, then a third. Sam had stayed silent, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

A month. That’s what the doctors said. Maybe.

You were dyig. And there was nothing medicine could do.*

“Still think it’s a flu?” you joked weakly, voice soft from the motel bed where you sat bundled in an old hoodie. His hoodie.

Dean flinched like you’d hit him. His head lifted slowly.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

Your smile faded. “Dean…”

He stood suddenly, pacing toward the window and running a hand through his hair. You watched the tension roll through him, all sharp edges and barely-contained panic. He looked like he wanted to punch something—or beg something. But instead, he turned and finally looked at you.

Really looked.

“You don’t get to do this,” he said, voice rough. “You don’t get to just—slip away. You don’t get to leave me.”

Your breath caught. “Dean, I—”

“We’ve lost too many people,” he said, shaking his head. “And I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

There was a crack in his voice he didn’t bother hiding. Not this time. Maybe it was the way he said you. Like it meant more than he’d ever let on.

Sam came through the door a moment later, soaked from the rain, hair dripping, holding a stack of books and papers.

“I think I found something,” he said, voice urgent. “Old lore. Celtic maybe. It’s risky—but it might buy us more time.”

Dean didn’t take his eyes off you. Not even when Sam spoke.

You blinked, tears stinging your eyes. “You guys shouldn’t—”

“Stop,” Sam cut in, gently but firm. “You’ve always had our backs. You’re family. We’re gonna save you. Just… let us try.”

Dean moved toward you then, slow. Like every step hurt. Like he didn’t want to spook the moment.

He crouched in front of you, warm hands curling around yours.

“You’ve been with us since we were kids,” he whispered. “Hell, you’re the only thing that’s kept me sane half the time.”

There was something in his eyes, something wrecked and vulnerable. Something you knew he wasn’t ready to say. Not yet.

Instead, his thumb brushed across your knuckles—gentle, grounding. Like he was holding something back with everything he had.

“I’m not letting this be the end,” he whispered. “You hear me?”

You nodded, just once.

And still, he didn’t let go.