Dean didn’t know how to help you.

You were on your bed, writhing in pain - or whatever it was - crying out for help. Any help, and he didn’t know what to do. You’d been hit by this thing on a witch hunt and the symptoms started in the Impala, and Sam was trying his hardest to figure out what the hell was up with you and if he could help.

“Sweetheart.” Dean murmured, sweeping his hand down his mouth as he leaned on the doorway. He had no clue what to do. How to do. If this stuff was lethal, but it seemed like it with how you were squirming on the bed like you couldn’t find a comfortable spot,

Dean cleared his throat, averting his eyes as if that would stop the struggling. It didn’t, not one bit, and he only heard your whines and desperate cries out for him to help or do something. But he had no clue what, and it killed him. He was Dean Winchester, he always had a plan.

At least, maybe, he could figure out how to soothe the pain. “How do you feel, darlin’?” Dean asked, tormented at seeing his - well, not his but you get the idea - sweet girl in pain. He wanted to do something, anything at all. He’d do anything to make you better.

Anything.