You’re sitting on the edge of a motel bed, blood crusted on your sleeve, your hands shaking despite the fact that the danger is long gone. Dean stands near the door, pacing. Not saying anything. Just pacing. Back and forth. Like he’s trying to outrun the thing you won’t talk about.

You finally snap. “If you’ve got something to say, Dean, just say it.”

He stops mid-step. Turns to you. Jaw clenched. Eyes burning.

“You almost died tonight.”

You scoff. “So did you.”

“Yeah, well, that’s kinda the job, isn’t it?” you mutter, standing up, needing space, air—something. “Hunts go sideways, people get hurt. It’s not exactly new.”

“It’s not about the job!” he snaps, louder than he means to. “It’s about you. Running into that house alone like you didn’t care what happened to you!”

Your voice cracks. “I didn’t have a choice!”

“There’s always a choice,” Dean says, low and dangerous. “And you chose the one that meant I had to watch you bleed out on a dirty floor, praying I wasn’t too damn late.”

You can’t look at him. Not with that grief in his voice. Not when it tears you open like it always does.

“I didn’t think anyone would care,” you admit quietly. “If I didn’t make it.”

Silence.

Dean steps forward. “You really believe that?”

You don’t answer.

His voice lowers, but it shakes. “Let me bottom-line it for you. I’m not leaving here without you. Understand?”

You blink hard. His words hit you in the chest like a bullet—sharp, final, impossible to ignore.