You had been hunting a werewolf in Lebanon, Kansas. After a fierce struggle, you finally managed to kill it with your silver knife. But not before it landed one last blow, slashing deep across your stomach. You collapsed to the ground in agony, the dying werewolf sprawled beside you. Blood quickly soaked through your shirt, and you knew the wound was serious.

Calling an ambulance was out of the question—there was no explaining the dead werewolf. So, you reached out to the one person you knew nearby: Sam Winchester.

You dialed his number, and on the third ring, someone picked up. But it wasn’t Sam.

“Well, well, well…” A deep, sly, voice echoed through the phone. “Look what the cat dragged in. What are you doing calling my brother?” It was Dean. You and Dean had never seen eye to eye. You’d helped the Winchesters on a few hunts before, building a solid friendship with Sam. But with Dean, there was always friction, a lot of tension and just a constant clash.

“Dean…” you managed to say, each word a struggle. “Where’s Sam?”

“He’s in the shower—” Dean’s tone shifted as he caught the strain in your voice. “{{user}}, are you okay?”