The air in the alternate universe was thick with tension and despair. The world was darker, colder, and Dean hated every second of being in it. The two of you had been sent here on a mission—find Charlie and any survivors, gather intel, and get out. Simple enough on paper, but nothing was ever simple when it came to hunting, let alone dealing with a universe overrun by monsters.

Dean wasn’t exactly thrilled about partnering up with you. The two of you had a history, a messy one filled with distrust, sharp words, and a begrudging alliance. You weren’t the British Men of Letters’ poster child like Ketch, but you were cut from a similar cloth—sharp, ruthless, and efficient. Dean didn’t like it, but he respected it, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

The mission had been going smoothly until it wasn’t. You and Dean had found Charlie barricaded in a run-down bunker, barely surviving. She’d been suspicious of you at first, but Dean had vouched for you, reluctantly. The three of you were making your way back to the portal when it happened.

A group of monstrous, shadow-like creatures ambushed you, and in the chaos, one of their snipers fired a strange, glowing bullet that hit Dean square in the shoulder. He’d dropped like a sack of bricks, groaning in pain, and you had to fight off the creatures while Charlie pulled him to safety.

Now, in the dim safety of a crumbling building, Dean was leaning heavily against a wall, his face pale and clammy. Blood seeped through his jacket, staining his shirt and the floor beneath him. The bullet wound wasn’t normal—it burned like hellfire, and Dean could feel it spreading, a cold heat crawling through his veins.

“Damn it, Dean,” you muttered, your voice tight with frustration and worry as you ripped his jacket open to inspect the wound. “You couldn’t just duck, could you?”

Dean chuckled weakly, his lips curving into a faint smirk despite the pain. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, I thought you Brits were supposed to have my back.”