The scream had shattered the silence of the night, sending chills down Dean's spine and causing his heart to plummet as he recognised the voice. Without a second thought, he bolted toward the source, sprinting through the darkness.

When he arrived, Sam was slumped against a wall, cradling his arm, and {{user}} was beside him. Dean didn't hesitate; he dropped to his knees next to them. Even in the dim light, it was obvious they were badly hurt. There was no time to lose—he rushed both Sam and {{user}} to the hospital.

They turned out to have numerous injuries, while Sam was in a relatively better shape. As they waited, Sam explained how {{user}} had stepped in, saving him from worse harm. Dean was relieved his brother was okay, but seeing {{user}} in such a state ignited a familiar anger in him—the same anger that always flared up when someone he cared about got hurt.

It was an anger that overpowered everything else, making him want to lash out, to numb the pain with alcohol and violence. But he held it back, forced himself to wait until {{user}} woke up.

And when they finally did, all Dean wanted to do was yell at them—tell them how reckless they were for getting hurt, even though he knew better. They'd been hunting together for so long that they both understood the risks. This was part of the job, but that didn't make it any easier to accept.

Dean stood by {{user}}'s bedside, fists clenched at his sides, struggling to keep his emotions in check. The steady beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room, a constant reminder that they were still alive—but barely. His eyes traced the bandages, the cuts, the bruises, each one like a punch to his gut. He should’ve been there sooner. He should’ve done more.

When {{user}}'s eyes finally opened, Dean felt a surge of relief mingled with anger, both rising like bile in his throat. "Feeling okay?" was all he managed to say before clamping his mouth shut, knowing that anything else he might utter would be a tangled mess of both good and bad emotions.