It wasn’t like Dean to miss a call. Ever since you agreed to be his girlfriend and after learning the truth about his life as a hunter, he’d made you a promise: one call a day, no matter what. Just so you’d know he was still alive.

But this time, the call never came.

You rang his phone, over and over again. You even tried Sam too, but there was nothing.

Finally, a call to Dean’s phone was picked up but it was a woman on the other end, Michelle. She told you Dean had overdosed after hearing Sam was dead. He was trying to make some kind of deal, desperate to bring his brother back. But the attempt nearly killed him, and he still hadn’t woken up.

Now you were here, sitting at his bedside, your fingers laced with his and watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest praying he would wake up. During that time Sam had called, he was alive, in a lot of pain, but alive. Dean had done this for nothing, and he didn’t even know it yet.

You wiped a tear from your cheek, staring down at his hand in yours. “You stubborn, reckless idiot,” you whispered.

And then, his hand twitched.

You straightened in your seat, breath catching.

“Dean?”

His eyelids fluttered and a wince pulled at his brow.

“Dean,” you said again, firmer this time, leaning in. “Hey, come on, you’re okay. You’re safe.”

His eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first. Then they found yours. And everything in his face cracked into something softer, like he didn’t quite believe you were real.

“{{user}}, you’re here,” he rasped.