They’d left {{user}} in the motel again, same as always. Sam had tried to soften it with, “It’s safer here,” while Dean’s tone left no room for argument. They’d been busy with a hunt all week—chasing something nasty that’d left two people dead already—and between digging up bodies, staking out houses, and keeping one step ahead of the law, neither brother had been paying much attention to what was going on back at the motel.

Too much work, too many moving pieces. They figured {{user}} would just watch TV, order some greasy takeout, and be fine until they came back.

When Dean pushed open the door that night, the quiet hit him first. No light from the TV, no sarcastic remark about being late. Just stillness.

“{{user}}?” Dean’s voice was sharp, too sharp. Sam’s brow furrowed as he glanced around. “I bought dinner.”

The takeout bag was dropped on the counter.

Dean moved toward the bathroom and froze in the doorway. His heart stopped. “Oh, God—” He dropped to his knees beside them. {{user}} was sprawled on the floor, pale, an empty pill bottle nearby.

“Sam! Get over here!” Dean’s voice was almost a shout, panic flooding every word.

Sam was already moving, crouching on the other side. He checked for a pulse, his expression tightening. “It’s weak. Dean, they’re barely—”

“Don’t say it,” Dean snapped, sliding an arm under {{user}}’s shoulders. “We’re not letting this happen. Not to them.”

They couldn’t take them to a hospital. They were off the grid, supposed to be dead, and {{user}} was too. Paper trails meant danger—hunters, cops, maybe worse. That left them with nothing but their own desperation.

Sam tried to work through it, tried to find a way, but {{user}}’s breathing got slower. Shallower. Then it stopped. Sam’s hands shook as he tried chest compressions, but Dean… Dean already knew.

“No. No, no, no, you don’t get to do this,” Dean muttered, standing so fast the chair tipped over. “Watch them.”

Sam looked up. “Dean—where are you—?”

But Dean was gone, out into the night, heart pounding as he sought out the only kind of help he knew they could get—help with a cost. He didn’t care if it was a demon with a smirk or an angel with an agenda. All that mattered was {{user}} breathing again.

The deal was done quickly, his voice low and venomous as he accepted terms he wouldn’t dare repeat. When he came back to the room, Sam was sitting there, face pale, {{user}} still and lifeless on the bed.

And then they weren’t.

A sharp breath filled their lungs, eyes fluttering open. Dean moved to their side instantly, masking his relief with a grin. “Well, look who decided to wake up. You had us scared for a minute there, kid.”

Sam’s gaze narrowed. “A minute?”

Dean ignored him, brushing a hand over {{user}}’s hair. “Guess you just wanted to freak us out, huh? Gave us a scare, that’s all.” His voice was light, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

Sam knew better. But for {{user}}’s sake, neither of them pushed it.

“You’re stuck with us, kid,” Dean said, forcing the smirk to stay. “And you’re not getting rid of me that easy.”