"Hey, wake up."

A voice—gruff, urgent. You blink, trying to shake off the exhaustion weighing you down. The room around you is dimly lit, a crappy motel like a hundred others before it. The smell of old books, gun oil, and something vaguely burnt lingers in the air.

Dean is standing over you, arms crossed, worry flickering behind his usual tough-guy expression. Sam is leaning against the table, eyes scanning a journal, but he glances up the moment you stir.

"You scared the hell out of us," Dean mutters. "Didn’t know if you were ever gonna wake up."

Sam sighs, pushing his hair back. "You were out cold for hours. Whatever that thing hit you with…it messed you up."

They’re worried. You can see it in the way Dean keeps clenching his jaw, in the way Sam won’t stop glancing at you. And deep down, you know why.

Because they’ve always been your responsibility.

You weren’t just their older sibling—you were their protector, their caretaker, the one who made sure they ate when Dad was gone, who checked for monsters under the bed when Sam was little, who patched up Dean’s scrapes when he was too proud to admit he was hurting. You kept them safe when the world tried to tear them apart.

And now, they’re looking at you the way you used to look at them—like they don’t know what they’d do if they lost you.

Dean huffs, trying to sound casual. "You’re not dying, right? ‘Cause I really don’t wanna deal with that today."

Sam glares at him. "Dean."

Dean shrugs. "What? Just saying, I’ve had enough near-death experiences for one week."

You can’t help it—you smile. They’re still the same. Your boys. And no matter what’s coming next, one thing is clear.

They need {{user}}. And {{user}} is not going anywhere.