AN: Here's the next chapter! Enjoy! It's a bit of a heavy one...
Allison Venator strode through the woods like she was on a mission. She held out her gun as she stalked through the trees, the moonlight glinting on the barrel of the pistol.
The drive to Erie, Pennsylvania, had been long, the tension in the car thick enough to choke on. Sam and Dean had barely spoken since they left the motel, and Ali, sitting in the backseat, had started to feel like an afterthought. She wasn't stupid—she knew exactly why Dean was pissed. He didn't want her on this hunt.
She'd heard it all before.
"You're still recovering."
"You're not at full strength."
"You're going to get yourself killed if you keep this up."
Blah, blah, blah.
She pressed herself against a tree, eyes sharp, as she scanned the vicinity.
They only had a few weeks left before Dean's deal came due, and yet they were out here hunting some immortal freak instead of looking for a way to save him. It made her stomach twist.
Sam, ever the peacemaker, had tried to dispel the tension when they finally got checked in to the motel. "So… the bodies they found—hearts missing, no sign of struggle, no defensive wounds—sounds like Doc Benton, right?"
Dean had nodded. "Yeah. And if that son of a bitch is back, we need to put him down for good this time."
Ali had scoffed. "You really think this guy actually figured out immortality?"
Dean had exhaled sharply through his nose. "I don't care what he figured out. He's killing people, and we're gonna make damn sure he stops."
Immortality. If someone did find a way to beat death… what did that mean for Dean? Could there be a way out of his deal?
But she knew better than to bring that up. Dean wouldn't want to hear it.
She continued to press on through the trees, searching for the place she was looking for. The house they were investigating was probably old, probably nearly consumed by the forest around it.
Sam and Dean were searching for something more definitive, but she wasn't about to stand around waiting for them to call the shots.
She was sick of waiting.
Sick of Dean treating her like she was fragile.
Ali wasn't about to wait around for permission. She had ditched them at the motel, ready to go out on her own and take this guy down. So what if Dean got pissed at her? The job would be done, and they could get back to hunting Lillith.
She had followed a hunch—some old records they'd found on Doc Benton's past movements. If she was right, there was an old hunting cabin a few miles out of town that the doctor had been using as his real hideout.
The cabin was deeper in the woods, a hidden place with a rusted-out truck in the yard, overgrown with weeds just like she had suspected. It looked abandoned, but Ali wasn't fooled. It reeked of damp rot, decayed wood, and something worse—something metallic.
Blood.
The door was locked. She kicked it open.
Ali walked cautiously through the hallway, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of chemicals and something foul. Papers were scattered everywhere, shelves lined with old medical journals and jars filled with things she didn't want to look at too closely.
Then she saw it.
A metal table in the centre of the room, restraints attached to the sides.
She swallowed hard.
Then something creaked behind her.
Before she could turn, something hard slammed against her head.
The world spun.
She hit the ground.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
Ali woke up to cold metal against her skin.
Her arms were strapped down.
Her legs, too.
Panic surged through her as her eyes snapped open, her breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. She was in a dimly lit basement, the air thick with antiseptic, old blood, and decay.
And standing over her, calm and methodical, was Doc Benton.
He was old—his skin gray and waxy, his body stitched together in places where the flesh didn't match. His eyes, however, were sharp and focused.
"You woke up sooner than expected," he mused, his voice smooth and detached.
Ali struggled against the restraints, her heart hammering. "Let me go, you psycho."
Benton hummed as if he hadn't heard her. He reached for a scalpel, holding it up to the dim light, inspecting the blade. "Your body is in remarkable condition. Strong, healthy. You'll make an excellent donor."
Ali's blood turned to ice.
She pulled at the restraints harder, but they held firm. "Donor?" she repeated, her voice hollow.
Benton nodded, setting down the scalpel and selecting another tool—a long, thin needle. "Yes. Your liver, perhaps a kidney… oh, and I'll need a fresh heart soon. Yours will do nicely."
Her breath hitched.
No. No, no, no—
She yanked against the straps, her fingers clawing uselessly at the table. "You sick son of a bitch!"
Benton sighed. "You hunters never appreciate true medical innovation." He jammed the needle into her arm as she tried to jerk away. Her vision blurred, but whatever he gave her didn't knock her out. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. She tried to fight again against the restraints, but she was too weak. Too drowsy now from the sedative.
Then he picked up a scalpel.
Ali thought she might be sick.
"Stop," she breathed out pathetically, her voice slurred.
He pressed the blade against her abdomen. White-hot pain lanced through her as the scalpel bit into her skin.
She gasped, her body tensing against the restraints. The sensation was slow, deliberate—he was cutting into her like she was some kind of experiment.
Ali's vision blurred with tears.
She was going to die here.
Alone.
And no one was coming to save her.
Her body was trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps as blood trickled down her side. Benton hummed to himself as he worked, completely unfazed by her pain.
Her fingers curled into fists, but she couldn't stop the scream that escaped her lips. He continued, unfazed by her cries. She could smell the blood. Her blood. She could feel each cut of the blade, and she screamed through every one until she didn't have the energy to make any noise at all.
Ali felt herself lull into something not quite unconscious, but not fully awake either, like her mind was trying to escape the horror of the reality she was in.
The basement smelled like antiseptic and rotting flesh. The flickering overhead light cast eerie shadows across the grimy surgical table, the bloodstained instruments glinting as Doc Benton hunched over Ali's motionless form.
Her breathing was shallow now, her skin ghostly pale beneath the harsh light. Her hospital gown—no, not a gown, just a torn undershirt now soaked with blood—was peeled back to expose the area he was working on. His movements were precise as he cut deeper, exposing the first organ for harvesting.
The scalpel in Benton's hand gleamed.
"You'll thank me later," he murmured, steadying his hand to make the next cut.
BANG!
The basement door burst open with a violent crash, the hinges nearly ripping from the frame. Benton barely had time to turn before a gunshot rang out, the bullet tearing through his shoulder. He staggered back with an inhuman shriek, dropping the scalpel as he clutched the wound.
Sam and Dean stormed inside, weapons drawn.
"Get the hell away from her!" Dean bellowed, fury burning in his eyes as he fired another shot, forcing Benton to stumble further back.
Sam was already moving, his gun swinging toward the surgeon, but the only thing on his mind was Ali.
She was still on the table. Still bleeding.
Her chest rose and fell in weak, shallow breaths, her lips slightly parted, mumbling something too faint to hear.
"Ali," Sam breathed, his stomach twisting at the sight of her.
She didn't react.
Sam was at her side in an instant, pressing two fingers to her pulse. It was there—but barely.
Panic clawed up his throat.
"Dean, she's bad," he said, his voice sharp with urgency as he looked down at her exposed flesh.
Dean's attention snapped to them, his fury momentarily overshadowed by something far worse—fear.
Sam wasted no time. He grabbed Ali's limp hand and squeezed, his heart pounding. "Ali? Can you hear me?"
Her eyelids fluttered weakly.
"S-Sam?" Her voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and disoriented.
Relief flooded through him, but it was fleeting. She was still slipping away. She was so pale, her skin clammy with sweat as her blood pressure quickly dropped. He grabbed a swab and pressed it to the surgical wound, trying his best to ignore the sight of her exposed internal organs.
"Yeah, I'm here," he said quickly. "You're gonna be okay. We've got you."
She made a faint sound—maybe a laugh, maybe a sob, he couldn't tell—but she didn't say anything else.
Benton let out a pained groan from where he had collapsed against the wall. "You idiots don't know what you're ruining!"
Dean strode forward and shot him in the head without hesitation.
The surgeon crumpled to the ground, momentarily subdued.
Dean didn't spare him a second glance. He was already moving toward the table, eyes locking onto Ali's pale form.
"Sam, we gotta move," he said, voice tight. "Now."
Sam nodded and carefully scooped Ali into his arms, wincing at how light she felt. She let out a weak, pained whimper, barely conscious, her head lolling against his chest.
"It's okay, I got you," he murmured as he carried her up the stairs.
Blood dripped from her side, trailing down his arm.
Dean cleared the way ahead, leading them out to the Impala as fast as possible. He yanked open the back door, barely waiting for Sam to climb inside with Ali before slamming it shut again and running to the driver's seat.
The engine roared to life, tires screeching as he tore down the road.
Sam cradled Ali against him in the backseat, his hands pressing desperately against the wound on her abdomen in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. Warm, sticky blood seeped between his fingers, soaking into his jacket.
Her head rested against his shoulder, her skin cold and clammy.
"Ali, stay with me," Sam urged, voice tight. "Come on, you have to stay awake."
Her eyelids fluttered, her lips moving, but the words didn't make sense.
"Tyler…" she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper. "He was just here…"
Sam's grip tightened. His chest ached.
Dean glanced at them in the rearview mirror, his jaw clenched. "How bad is it?"
"Bad," Sam snapped. "She's lost a lot of blood—"
"No shit, Sam," Dean shouted. "You gotta keep her awake!"
"I know!" Sam barked back, shifting Ali slightly so he could press harder against the wound. She let out a soft whimper but didn't react much beyond that.
Dean swore under his breath, his grip tightening on the wheel. The Impala's speed climbed higher.
Sam gently patted Ali's cheek, trying to rouse her. "Hey, no sleeping," he said firmly. "I mean it, Ali. Keep your eyes open."
Her eyes blinked open briefly, glassy and unfocused.
"I don't… Tyler…" she mumbled.
"It's okay," Sam said quickly, trying to keep his voice steady. "Just hold on, alright? We're almost there."
But her eyelids kept drooping, her body growing heavier in his arms.
Dean saw it too. "Ali!"
Her breathing hitched. Then, suddenly, her entire body went slack, her limbs floppy as she fell unconscious.
Sam's stomach lurched.
"No, no, no—Ali!" He shook her gently, his hands trembling. "Come on, open your eyes!"
She didn't respond.
"Damn it!" Dean growled, pushing the Impala even faster.
Sam pressed two fingers to her neck, his heart hammering. Her pulse was still there, but weak. Too weak.
Dean's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his voice rough. "You keep her alive, Sam."
Sam swallowed hard and tightened his grip on Ali, his hand never leaving the wound as he whispered, "Just hold on, Ali. Please."
The hospital lights finally appeared on the horizon.
The tires screeched against the pavement as the Impala lurched into the emergency bay, Dean barely throwing it into park before jumping out.
"Help! Somebody get out here!" he roared, his voice raw with desperation.
The hospital doors burst open as two nurses and an ER doctor rushed toward them with a gurney. Sam was already out of the back seat, cradling Ali's limp body against him, her blood soaking into his clothes.
"She—she's lost a lot of blood," Sam stammered, barely able to find his voice. His arms tightened around her as if he could somehow shield her from the inevitable. "She—she needs—"
"Let's go, let's go!" The doctor barked orders as the nurses reached for Ali. Sam hesitated. His grip on her didn't loosen.
"Sir, we need to move her now," one of the nurses urged.
Sam swallowed hard and, reluctantly, let them take her. He laid her onto the gurney as gently as he could, but her body still jolted at the movement. She barely stirred.
Her head lolled to the side, and her eyes fluttered half-open. "S'm?" she slurred weakly, her breath rattling.
Sam's heart clenched. He grabbed her hand. "I'm here. I'm right here."
But then the hospital staff were moving, pushing the gurney forward, and her fingers slipped from his, her arm hanging limply off the trolley as she was pulled away.
Dean was at his side in an instant, his jaw locked tight, eyes stormy with emotion as they watched the gurney disappear through the emergency doors.
"Sir, are you family?" a nurse asked.
Dean snapped his gaze to her. "Yeah, we're family," he said, not hesitating for a second. "Now tell me what the hell you're doing to help her."
The nurse, unfazed by his harsh tone, gestured toward the waiting room. "She's being taken into resus to stabilise her, but she'd likely going to need emergency surgery. If you wait—"
Dean scoffed sharply. "Wait? That's all we can do?" He ran a hand over his face, pacing, looking as if he wanted to punch a hole in the nearest wall. "That bastard was cutting her open—she's lost so much blood, and you want us to sit on our asses while—"
"Dean." Sam's voice was quiet, but firm.
Dean turned, his eyes dark with frustration, but Sam shook his head. He looked just as wrecked, his face pale, his hands still covered in Ali's blood.
"She's needs surgery. We have to let them do their job."
Dean clenched his jaw, his breath coming heavy through his nose. His hands curled into fists at his sides, like he was forcing himself not to explode.
Sam swallowed, his throat thick. "She's alive, Dean. We got her here. That's what matters."
Dean let out a sharp exhale and stormed over to the chairs in the waiting area, dropping into one with a heavy thud. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands down his face.
Sam hesitated before sinking into the chair beside him. The waiting room felt suffocatingly quiet.
After a long moment, Dean let out a shaky breath and muttered, "She shouldn't have been out there alone."
Sam nodded slowly. "I know."
Dean's knee bounced anxiously, his fingers tapping against his thigh. He was quiet for a long moment before muttering, "I swear to God, if she dies…"
Sam tensed. "She won't." But the words barely convinced himself.
Dean huffed, shaking his head. "She's been reckless before, but this? Going out there by herself? What the hell was she thinking?"
Sam sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired face. "She wasn't."
Dean scoffed bitterly. "Yeah, no kidding."
They lapsed into silence, the weight of it pressing down on them both.
Then, Dean leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand down his face again. "You know she's gonna fight us on this."
Sam nodded. "Yeah."
"She's gotta stop, Sam. She's gotta stop before—" Dean exhaled sharply and shook his head. "Before we can't save her next time."
The words settled between them, heavy and real.
Neither of them spoke after that. They just sat in that waiting room, Sam still covered in Ali's blood, both of them praying that they wouldn't lose her tonight.
The hospital doors swung open with a harsh creak, and Bobby stormed in, his boots thudding against the tile floor. His face was a mask of barely contained fury, but beneath it, the fear was unmistakable. His eyes scanned the waiting room, landing on Sam and Dean, both slumped in their chairs, exhaustion weighing heavy on their shoulders. The second they saw him, they straightened.
Bobby didn't slow down. He marched right up to them, eyes flashing. "Where is she?"
Dean rubbed a hand down his face and exhaled. "She's in surgery."
Bobby's jaw tightened. "Surgery?" His voice was sharp, laced with something dangerously close to panic. "What the hell happened?"
Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. Neither of them spoke right away, but that only made Bobby's patience snap faster.
"What the hell happened?" he barked again, turning to Dean. "Where the hell were you?"
Dean's face barely flinched, but there was something like guilt flickering in his eyes. He opened his mouth, but for a moment, nothing came out. Finally, he swallowed and said, "Bobby, I'm sorry—"
Bobby shook his head, his nostrils flaring. "Sorry? Dammit, boy, 'sorry' don't mean squat when she's lyin' on some table fightin' for her life!" His voice cracked on the last word, his hands tightening into fists at his sides.
Sam stood, stepping between them. "Bobby, stop. This wasn't Dean's fault."
Bobby turned on him, his expression still dark, but Sam met his gaze evenly. "She went after Doc Benton alone," Sam said, his voice grim. "We told her not to. We told her to wait for us. But she—" He exhaled, his throat thick. "She went anyway. We couldn't stop her."
Bobby looked between them, his shoulders still tense. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling with barely contained emotion. For a second, he looked like he might still tear into them, but then his face twisted, and his expression cracked.
"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, his voice rough. He turned away from them, pressing a hand to his forehead. "She ain't got any sense in that thick skull of hers."
Sam and Dean didn't argue. They knew that was true.
Bobby let out a shaky breath, rubbing at his tired eyes. When he turned back, his voice was lower, but no less intense. "If she makes it through this…" He hesitated, swallowing hard before pushing on. "She can't keep doin' this. She's gonna get herself killed."
Dean looked away, jaw clenched. Sam exhaled, nodding.
There was silence for a long moment before Bobby straightened. The fire was back in his eyes as he looked at them both. "You boys need to go."
Dean frowned. "What?"
Bobby's gaze was sharp. "Doc Benton's still out there. You need to end that son of a bitch."
Dean stiffened. "Bobby—"
"No." Bobby's voice was firm. "I'll stay here. I ain't leavin' her, not for a damn second. But you two?" He gestured toward the door. "You finish this. That bastard nearly took her apart like a goddamn science experiment." His voice wavered slightly, but he quickly swallowed it down. "Make sure he don't get the chance to do it to anyone else."
Dean's lips pressed into a hard line. He looked at Sam, who was already watching him, clearly thinking the same thing.
Dean ran a hand over his face and exhaled. "Alright," he muttered. "Alright."
Bobby nodded. "Good. Now get the hell out of here."
Sam hesitated, glancing toward the hallway leading to the OR. His stomach twisted at the thought of leaving Ali here, hurt and alone. But Bobby was right. If they didn't stop Doc Benton now, someone else was going to end up like her. Or worse.
With heavy reluctance, Sam nodded. "We'll be back soon."
Bobby just waved them off, already turning toward the nurses' desk to get an update on Ali.
Dean lingered for half a second longer before sighing. "You call us the second she's out."
Bobby didn't even look back. "You idjits just do your damn job."
And with that, Sam and Dean turned and walked out of the hospital, the weight of the hunt pressing down on them more than ever.
The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room. It was late—hell, maybe early. Bobby wasn't sure anymore. The past few hours had blurred together into a mess of blood, fear, and exhaustion. He rubbed a hand down his face, the rough scratch of his beard a reminder that he hadn't shaved in too damn long.
Ali was still out, pale against the hospital bed, IV lines trailing from her arms, heart monitor rhythmically assuring him she was still breathing. That was the only thing keeping him grounded right now—the simple fact that she was still here, still fighting.
He'd seen too many hunters in hospital beds. Too many people he cared about, broken and bleeding, and he'd had to bury more than he'd saved. He wasn't sure how many more times he could do this.
The chair beneath him groaned as he shifted, rubbing at the tension in his neck. His bones ached with exhaustion, but there wasn't a chance in hell he was leaving until she woke up.
And then, as if on cue, he heard a quiet, pained inhale.
Bobby straightened, leaning forward as Ali's fingers twitched against the blanket. She sucked in another breath, her eyebrows furrowing, and then, slowly, her eyelids fluttered open.
For a moment, she just stared at the ceiling, her breath slow, disoriented. Then she turned her head slightly, her gaze landing on Bobby.
"Bobby?" Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
He exhaled, relieved beyond words. "Hey, kid," he said, his voice gruff but softer than usual. "Welcome back."
Ali blinked, wincing slightly as she tried to shift. The pain must've hit her all at once because her whole body tensed, a quiet curse slipping from her lips.
"Easy," Bobby warned, already pressing a hand lightly on her shoulder to stop her from moving too much. "You lost a lot of blood. Took some nasty damage before the boys got to you."
Ali swallowed, her throat dry. "Where are they?" she rasped.
Bobby sighed, leaning back in the chair. "Finishing the job."
Her brows furrowed, and she studied him, something unreadable in her tired eyes. "You look like hell," she murmured.
Bobby huffed a dry laugh. "Yeah, well, you try spending the last few hours wonderin' if you were gonna make it."
Ali's expression shifted, something uncertain in the way she looked at him. Then, softer, she asked, "What's wrong?"
Bobby hesitated. He could dodge the question, could brush it off. But he was too damn tired for that.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before looking her in the eye. "Just wonderin' how many more times I'm gonna be pickin' you up from a hospital bed," he admitted gruffly.
Ali blinked, caught off guard.
"This huntin' life…" Bobby shook his head. "I've seen a lot of people go down in it. Too many. And I ain't just talkin' about dyin'. Some get killed, yeah. But some just… lose themselves before the reaper even comes knockin'."
Ali looked away, staring at the ceiling.
Bobby's voice was quieter now, but firm. "You keep runnin' headfirst into the fire like this, and one day, I ain't gonna be here to pick you up after."
A heavy silence settled between them.
For a moment, Ali didn't say anything. Just lay there, her jaw tight, eyes distant. Then, finally, she let out a slow breath.
"I'm still here," she murmured.
Bobby studied her, something sad in his gaze. "Yeah," he said quietly. "For now."
Neither of them spoke after that. They didn't need to. The weight of his words lingered in the air, unspoken but heavy.
Bobby leaned back in the chair, rubbing his tired eyes. Ali turned her head slightly, staring at the wall, lost in thought.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence between them wasn't just exhaustion.
The space between them stretched out for a while, before Bobby mumbled something about getting a doctor and wandered out of the room.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Ali alone in the sterile quiet of the hospital room. The dim glow from the bedside monitor cast faint shadows against the walls, the rhythmic beeping the only sound now that he was gone.
She let out a slow, shaky breath, trying to steady the way her hands trembled against the stiff white sheets. Her body still felt heavy, weighted down by exhaustion and the dull throb of pain in her abdomen. The drugs in her system were doing their job, but beneath the numbness, she could still feel the raw ache.
Slowly, she shifted her arm, wincing as the IV tugged at the skin of her hand. Everything hurt, but it was the unease twisting in her gut that unsettled her the most.
Ali hesitated for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, before she finally worked up the nerve to move.
Her fingers gripped the hem of the hospital gown, hesitating only briefly before she carefully lifted it up, exposing the fresh bandages wrapped tightly around her midsection. Her breath hitched.
She swallowed hard. She didn't want to look.
But she had to.
With a deep breath, she hooked her fingers beneath the edge of the dressings and slowly began to peel them back. The adhesive tugged at her skin, sending sharp, stinging pain through her torso, but she kept going, jaw clenched tight as she forced herself to see the damage.
The second the wound was exposed, her stomach twisted.
A long, angry incision stretched across her abdomen, like a Mercedes-Benz logo, held together with rows of neat, black stitches. The skin around it was red and swollen, bruises blooming along the edges where the surgical tools had dug in. It wasn't just a cut—it was a reminder.
A reminder that she had almost died.
Ali inhaled sharply through her nose, a wave of nausea rolling through her as she stared at the wound. It didn't feel real, but the pain said otherwise. She ran her fingers lightly over the stitches, barely grazing them, but even the lightest touch sent a fresh jolt of pain shooting through her.
She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to keep breathing.
She'd had injuries before. Broken bones, cuts, concussions—hell, she'd patched up her own wounds more times than she could count. But this… this was different. This wasn't just a fight gone wrong or a scrape from a hunt.
She had been on that table.
She had felt the scalpel cut into her, had felt the cold metal against her skin while she was still awake, still conscious. She had been seconds away from dying, from having her insides harvested like she was nothing more than spare parts.
Her fingers curled into the sheets, gripping them tightly as she fought against the sick feeling rising in her chest.
She had been reckless. She had been stupid.
And this time, she had nearly paid the price.
Ali squeezed her eyes shut, letting her head drop back against the pillow.
She had gotten lucky. That was the truth of it. If Sam and Dean had been even a minute later, she wouldn't be here. She wouldn't have woken up in this hospital bed, wouldn't be breathing, wouldn't be anything.
She thought about Bobby's words, the exhaustion in his voice, the weight in his eyes when he'd looked at her just now.
"Just wonderin' how many more times I'm gonna be pickin' you up from a hospital bed."
Her throat tightened.
She had scared him.
Her hands shook as she pressed the bandages back into place, fingers lingering over the gauze.
She had to be smarter. If not for herself, then for him.
Because next time, she might not be so lucky.
The heart monitor continued to beep, filling the silence between them. The dim hospital light cast long shadows over the room, highlighting the exhaustion on Dean's face as he sat beside Ali's bed. She looked small in the hospital gown, her skin pale against the stark white sheets. The bandages around her torso peeked out from beneath the blanket, a grim reminder of how close she had come to dying.
Doc Benton was gone. Sam and Dean had made sure of that. They'd rushed back to the hospital as soon as they could, relived to see that Ali was out of surgery and awake.
Dean had been sitting there for a while, watching her in silence. He'd sent Sam out a few minutes ago to grab a coffee, and Bobby was still around somewhere. But now that they were alone, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were weighed down with something heavier than anger.
It was fear.
"Sam's giving us a minute," he finally said, his voice low but firm. "Because I need to talk to you, and I need you to actually listen for once."
Ali looked away, her jaw tightening, but she didn't interrupt.
Dean exhaled slowly, like he was trying to steady himself. Then, finally, he spoke. "I'm going to hell, Ali." She flinched at the bluntness of it, but Dean didn't waver. "And I need to know you're going to be okay when I'm gone."
Ali swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the blanket.
Her head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. "Dean—"
"No, shut up and let me finish," he cut her off, voice sharp. "I don't have time to sugarcoat this, Ali. I'm going to hell. We both know it. There's no getting out of it."
She swallowed hard, her hands gripping the blanket tightly.
"And when I go," he continued, voice quieter but no less intense, "I need to know that you're not gonna throw yourself into the fire just because I'm not around to pull you back." His eyes darkened, his tone unwavering. "I get it, alright? You're hurting. You think maybe if you just keep throwing yourself into danger, it'll stop hurting so bad. But it doesn't work like that. And it sure as hell isn't gonna bring Tyler back." He paused, running a hand over his face, his eyes darting away from hers. "And if something happens to you, if you get yourself killed being reckless, Bobby—" He shook his head, running a hand down his face. "Bobby won't survive that. You know that, right?"
Ali looked away again, staring at the IV in her arm, her throat working as she swallowed thickly.
Dean let the silence hang for a beat before leaning in closer. "I know you're hurting. I know you think you don't have anything left to lose. But you do." He tilted his head slightly, eyes burning into hers. "You've got Bobby. You've got Sam. And whether you like it or not, you've got yourself."
Ali let out a shaky breath, her fingers twisting in the blanket.
"I need you to promise me," Dean pressed, his voice firm. "I need to hear you say it. No more running headfirst into death. No more acting like nothing matters just because you're pissed at the world." His jaw clenched. "I need to know that when I'm gone, you're gonna keep going. That you're gonna live."
Ali's lips trembled, and for a long moment, she didn't speak. The fight in her—the stubborn, reckless fire—was still there, but so was the pain. The exhaustion. And deep down, the understanding that he was right.
Finally, her voice barely above a whisper, she rasped, "I promise."
Dean studied her, as if trying to decide if she meant it. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Good," he murmured. "Because I can't go out knowing you're just gonna follow me down."
Ali blinked rapidly, turning her head away to stare at the ceiling, her throat too tight to speak. Dean didn't push. He just sat back in his chair, the weight in his chest settling—maybe not comfortably, but enough.
For the first time in a long time, he felt like he'd actually gotten through to her.
AN: Hope you enjoyed the chapter, let me know what you thought x
Up next: Ali gets home for the hospital and finally faces her grief.