The cold concrete pressed against Dean's back, his chest heaving as he clutched at the gash along his side. Blood seeped between his fingers, staining his flannel and pooling beneath him. He could barely lift his head when the warehouse door creaked open, boots echoing off the walls.

“Great,” he muttered, voice raw. “You here to finish me off, sweetheart?”

{{user}} stepped into view, her silhouette sharp in the dim light. She looked him over, a hint of disgust flashing in her eyes, though it wasn’t clear if it was aimed at him or the mess he’d gotten himself into.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Winchester,” she shot back, kneeling beside him. Her tone was curt, all business, but the way her hands immediately went to assess his wound betrayed her annoyance. “You’re not worth the bullet.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Dean grunted, wincing as she pressed a cloth to his side. “Always knew you were my biggest fan.”

Her lips twitched—almost a smirk—but she caught herself. “Shut up and let me work.”

Dean hissed as she tightened the makeshift bandage, her movements precise but not exactly gentle. “You know, if you’re trying to save me, you might wanna ease up. Feels like you’re trying to kill me.”

“Don’t tempt me.” She glanced at him, her eyes narrowing. “What the hell were you even thinking, taking on three vamps alone?”

“Didn’t know you cared,” he said, flashing her a weak grin.

“I don’t.” The lie was obvious, even to her, but she didn’t let it show.

For a moment, there was silence, save for Dean’s labored breathing and the distant hum of the warehouse’s flickering lights. She finished tying off the bandage and leaned back on her heels, her eyes meeting his.

“Why are you really here?” Dean asked, his voice softer now.