The hunt goes sideways fast. One second, you’re holding your own, and the next, pain sears through your side, knocking you to the ground. The sounds of the fight blur around you—heavy footsteps, gunfire, the distant ringing in your ears—but then there’s one sound you do register.

“No—” Dean’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and frantic. And then he’s there, dropping to his knees beside you, hands already pressing against the wound.

“Hey, hey—stay with me,” he says, his voice rough, strained with something dangerously close to panic. His grip is warm, firm, but there’s a slight tremble in his hands as he applies pressure. “Damn it, sweetheart, you scared the hell outta me.”

You try to speak, but the pain steals your breath. Dean’s face is hovering over yours now, jaw clenched, green eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to keep you anchored.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he mutters—more to himself than to you, like he’s daring the universe to try otherwise. He shrugs off his flannel, pressing it against the wound, his other hand cupping your cheek for just a second—just long enough to feel you there, warm and alive.