Dean sat with his elbows on his knees, forearms tense, eyes fixed on the heart monitor like he could will the numbers to stay steady. The hum of machines filled the room, steady and cruel. Hospitals had a smell. Clean, sharp, and unnatural. He hated it. Always had. Places like this made everything feel too quiet, too still, like the whole world was holding its breath and waiting for bad news.

He reached over to adjust {{user}}’s blanket, brushing a strand of hair away from their face with the back of his fingers. The smallest touch, barely there, but it grounded him. They looked pale, weaker than he’d ever seen them, and it twisted something in his chest. They weren’t supposed to look breakable. Not them. Never them.

The plastic knife from the cafeteria tray sat between his fingers, cutting through an apple that had seen better days. He didn’t even know why he brought it, habit, maybe. Something to do with his hands when the silence got too loud. The slices lined up neatly beside the tray, but he didn’t eat any. He couldn’t.

“Didn’t even call me,” he muttered finally, his voice low and rough, carrying that distinct Chicago edge that made everything sound like a confrontation. “You crash a raid, get yourself caught in the middle of it, and you don’t even call me.”

He wasn’t really angry. Or maybe he was, he just didn’t know where to put it. His words came sharp because softness was harder. Because if he let his voice break, he might not be able to stop it.

His gaze shifted from {{user}}’s still hand to the faint pulse in their neck. “You know I’d’ve been there,” he said quieter, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I always am.”

The knife slipped against the apple for a second, slicing deeper than he meant to. A hiss escaped him, not from the cut but from the realization underneath it, the helplessness. He hated that feeling more than anything. They were out there chasing monsters with a badge, and he was here, watching them pay for it.

“Being an agent’s gonna get you killed,” he said, voice rougher now, each word landing heavy. “And I’m supposed to just sit here? Pretend it’s fine? Pretend it doesn’t eat me alive every damn time you walk into something you might not walk out of?” He exhaled hard, leaning back in the chair. The metal creaked beneath his weight. His hand, still holding the knife, trembled once before he set it down.

“You should quit.” His tone softened, but his eyes didn’t. “Do something that doesn’t end with you bleeding out somewhere I can’t reach you.”

The monitors kept beeping. {{user}} kept breathing. And that should’ve been enough, but it wasn’t.

He pressed his palm over his mouth, dragging it down his jaw like he could scrub the ache off his face. “I can’t keep watching this,” he said under his breath. “You think I’m built for this, but I’m not. Every time that phone rings, I wonder if it’s gonna be the call.” He leaned forward again, elbows on the edge of the bed, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for them. “You don’t get it, do you? You go, and there’s nothing left for me to protect.”

“I’d burn the whole damn city before I let it take you too.”