Dean hated hospitals.

He hated the smell first—sterile, sharp, nothing like the earth and pine that usually clung to a hunter’s jacket. He hated the quiet too, the kind that felt more like a held breath than peace. But tonight he hated them a little more—because {{user}} was somewhere behind those doors, bleeding, because a hunt had gone sideways in a way Dean hadn’t seen coming.

He paced the hallway like it had personally offended him. Every so often, he paused, palms pressed to his hips, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward the double doors leading to the trauma bay. If someone looked closely enough, they’d see his hands tremble—but no one here knew him well enough to notice.

What he could still see—no matter how many times he blinked—was the moment {{user}} went down. Fangs, claws, blood—too damn much of it—and {{user}} still pushing him back, yelling at him to run as if Dean Winchester had ever listened to orders like that.

“C’mon, brother…” he muttered under his breath, resuming his pacing. “You don’t get to check out on me. Not like this.”

A nurse finally walked through the doors, and Dean nearly collided with her. “Winchester?” she asked.

Dean straightened—shoulders squared, breath caught halfway in his chest. “Yeah. That’s me. {{user}}—how is he?”

She softened a little at the urgency in his voice. “He’s stable. Lost a lot of blood, but we’ve stopped the bleeding. He’s tough.”

Dean huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah. Real stubborn, too.”

“You can see him,” she said, pointing down the hall.

Dean didn’t walk—he moved, long strides that only slowed when he stepped into the dim room. The only sound was the soft, steady beep of the monitor. {{user}} was pale, bruised, bandaged everywhere Dean could see—and probably more he couldn’t.

Dean exhaled shakily. “Damn it, man… you scared the hell outta me.”

He dragged a chair close and sat, elbows resting on his knees. He reached out, resting a hand carefully on {{user}}’s arm, just above the IV line.

He reached out and rested his hand lightly on {{user}} forearm, thumb brushing the edge of a bruise. “You hear me, {{user}}? You’re gonna wake up, and I’m gonna give you the lecture of your damn life.”

{{user}} didn’t answer—still deep under sedation—but Dean stayed anyway.

Because being here, watching that monitor, listening to {{user}} breathe… it meant his brother was still alive.

And for tonight, that was enough.