The room was dim.

Lights low, curtains drawn halfway to keep the sun from bothering a man who hadn’t opened his eyes in hours. Bobby lay still in the hospital bed, tubes and wires tracing paths over his body like the aftermath of a war he’d already fought.

And lost.

You sat beside him, fingers wrapped around his calloused hand. It was warm—but not him. Not the grip that had once steadied you after hunts, or clapped your shoulder when you did good, or yanked you out of danger without hesitation.

Dean stood near the window, arms crossed, gaze fixed anywhere but the bed. He’d been like that all evening. Guarding. Holding himself upright through sheer stubbornness.

Sam lingered near the door, quiet. Respectful. Giving you space.

The doctor’s words from earlier still echoed in your head: There’s been no improvement. His brain activity is… minimal.

You leaned forward, resting your forehead against Bobby’s hand.

“Hey, Dad,” you whispered. “It’s me.”

Your voice shook despite how many times you’d said it already.

“I know you can hear me. You always said you could hear everything, even when you were sleeping.” A small, broken laugh escaped you. “Guess now’s not the time to prove you wrong.”

Nothing.

The machines continued their soft, steady beeping.

You swallowed hard. “You can stop fighting if you’re tired. I’ll be okay. I promise.”

That was when the monitor faltered.

Just a little.

Dean turned sharply, eyes snapping to the screen. His jaw clenched, the color draining from his face.

“No,” he muttered. “No, no—”

The flatline came a second later.

The sound was unbearable.

You froze, breath stolen from your lungs as nurses rushed in, voices overlapping, hands moving fast. Someone gently pulled you back, guiding you away from the bed.

You didn’t remember crying at first.

You just felt arms around you—solid, familiar—before the grief finally broke loose.

Dean held you tightly, one hand firm at your back, the other cradling your head against his chest. His heart pounded hard beneath your ear.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly, even though it wasn’t. “I’ve got you.”

Your body shook as sobs tore free, grief ripping through you in waves you couldn’t stop. You clutched at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing completely.

“He didn’t even wake up,” you cried. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Dean pressed his cheek to your hair, eyes burning, jaw trembling despite his efforts to stay steady.

“He knew,” he said softly. “Bobby knew.”

The nurses stepped back. The room went still again—too still.

Dean didn’t let go.

He stayed exactly where he was, breathing slow and steady, grounding you even as his own composure frayed. You felt it when his breath hitched. When his grip tightened just slightly.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “You’re not doing this alone.”

For once, he didn’t try to joke. Didn’t try to deflect.

He just held you, quietly falling apart with you, as the man who raised you—who raised all of you—slipped away without ever opening his eyes.

Outside the room, the world kept moving.

Inside, everything changed.