It had been hours. Hours of sitting by Sam, watching his chest rise and fall with the steady rhythm of an unshakeable pulse that felt both like a lifeline and a slow torture.

Dean hadn't left Sam's side either, but it was different. He was here, physically, but his eyes were filled with grief. Anger. A sense of helplessness that made him all the more distant, like there was no place in the world for his pain to land.

The silence between you was thick, punctuated only by the occasional murmur from Sam's still form, nothing more than the sound of his shallow breath. You held Sam's hand the whole time, fingers laced together. But Sam's hand felt cold. Too cold.

It didn't feel right. Nothing about this felt right. The betrayal from Castiel, the war within their ranks, the impending doom—it all felt like a betrayal. Sam had fought so hard. He'd suffered so much, and now... now he was just here. Unconscious and silent.

You looked up at the ceiling, silently cursing Castiel. You then felt a familiar presence hover beside you. Dean.

As much as you all had your differences—Sam and Dean had their brotherly fights, and you and Dean had your own history—there was always something that remained constant: the unspoken understanding.

"Hey," Dean said quietly, sitting down beside you. His voice was softer than usual, but still heavy with the weight of this situation. He didn't ask what you were feeling, didn't demand anything, just... sat with you.

You didn't respond. Didn't look at him, didn't even acknowledge his presence for a long moment. The tight knot in your chest hadn't loosened, and it was hard to breathe past the frustration, the grief, the helplessness.

Then, Dean's arm settled around your shoulders, pulling you closer. It was unusually careful and gentle, like he wasn't sure if his proximity would make things worse or better. "I know you're pissed. Hell, I am too. But... I'm here. We're both here. Sam's gonna wake up. He always does."