Dean stood behind the crumbling remains of a brick wall, his breath ragged, ears ringing from the last explosion.

The plan had been simple. Get in, salt and burn the spirit’s bones, and get out. But the vengeful ghost turned out to have a few tricks up its sleeve, and now they were separated. {{user}} was somewhere inside the abandoned factory, and Dean’s gut churned with the thought of you being alone in this deathtrap.

“Where are you?” he called, his voice echoing in the empty space.

Dean’s chest tightened. He couldn’t lose you. Not {{user}}. He had lost too many people already. He didn’t need another name on that damn list. The thought of finding them slumped against the concrete, eyes blank, made his jaw clench.

He rounded the corner, shotgun raised, and froze. There they were, on the floor, one hand clutching their abdomen, blood seeping between their fingers. Blood, too much of it, pooled beneath them, staining the cracked cement.

“Hey! Hey!” Dean’s voice cracked as he dropped to his knees beside them, the weapon clattering to the ground. He tore his flannel off, quickly balling it up and pressing it firmly against their side.

“Don’t. Don’t move, alright? Just…stay still.” His tone softened, though the desperation in it was unmistakable.

Dean’s hands trembled as he pressed harder on the wound. The blood didn’t seem to be stopping, and that terrified him more than he wanted to admit. He had seen wounds like this before. Hell, he’d patched up his fair share of injuries. But this was {{user}}. They weren’t supposed to be the one lying on the floor, pale and bleeding.