Ali lay in her bed, finally managing to have regained enough strength to sleep upstairs. She stared up at the ceiling, but she wasn't really seeing it. The dim glow from the lamp barely reached her, shadows stretching long across the room. It was late—too late—but sleep wasn't coming. Every time she closed her eyes, she was back there.

Strapped down. Cold metal against her skin. The sterile, suffocating stench of chemicals and rotting flesh.

Her fingers twitched, curling into the blanket as the phantom pain crept over her, like her body remembered even if her mind tried to push it away. A sharp slice across her abdomen—too precise, too slow. The unbearable, white-hot agony of her skin parting under the blade. She sucked in a breath, but it wasn't enough, just like then.

The memory of it was suffocating. The way she couldn't move, couldn't fight. The way her body betrayed her, weak and helpless beneath his hands.

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

You'll make an excellent donor.

That's what he'd said. Like he was doing her a favour. Like cutting into her, stealing pieces of her, was some kind of mercy.

She swallowed hard, her throat raw.

She'd begged. She hadn't meant to, but when the pain had overwhelmed everything else, when she felt her body failing, slipping away, she'd pleaded for it to stop. For someone to help her.

But no one had been there.

Just him and the slow, excruciating sound of flesh tearing.

Her stomach clenched violently. Her fingers dug harder into the blanket. She could still feel it, that unnatural pressure inside her body where something had been cut and something else had been left bleeding.

Her breath hitched.

She'd thought she was going to die.

No—she'd known. There had been a moment, trapped in that nightmare, where she was sure it was the end. Her body too broken, her mind slipping into the kind of darkness that there was no coming back from.

And she'd been so scared.

Not of death itself—she'd danced too close to that line too many times before. But of dying like that. Alone, in pain, nothing left of her but some repurposed parts in a monster's collection.

Her ribs ached as she forced in another breath.

You're safe. She heard Sam's voice in her mind from the other night, where he'd managed to calm her down.

It wasn't true. Not really. The threat was gone, Doc Benton was gone, but the fear—the raw, clawing terror—still lived under her skin.

She squeezed her eyes shut, jaw clenched. She didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to remember.

But her body did. The pain, the fear, the desperate, animalistic will to survive.

She wasn't sure which was worse—the fact that she was alive… or the fact that some part of her still felt like she shouldn't be.

Ali pressed a shaking hand against her chest, forcing out a slow breath.

In for four. Hold. Out for four. Sam's voice in her memories guided her.

She repeated the steps, counting in her head, trying to push away the lingering terror gripping her lungs. The memory of pain still clung to her skin, an echo of something she couldn't shake. But she wasn't there anymore. She was here. In her room. Safe.

Her breathing evened out, but sleep still felt impossible.

And even when the fear of Doc Benton's cabin had subsided, the crushing guilt of Tyler would replace it, and the fear of losing Dean would rush in, almost overwhelming her.

With a quiet sigh, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, moving carefully. The last thing she needed was to have another panic attack, and maybe rip her stitches again. The ache in her abdomen was dull but constant, a reminder of what had been done to her. What had almost been taken.

She pushed the thought away and padded out of the room, making her way downstairs. The house was silent, save for the creak of the old wooden steps under her feet. She took extra care to keep her movements quiet as she slipped into the kitchen, flicking on the small lamp by the sink.

Tea. Tea was good. Tea meant something to do with her hands, something to focus on.

She filled the kettle, setting it on the stove, watching the blue flame flicker to life beneath it. The quiet hum of the burner filled the silence, grounding her just a little.

A few minutes later, she wrapped her hands around the warm mug and made her way toward the living room. She flicked on the light—

And nearly dropped the tea.

Dean was sitting there in the dark.

She exhaled sharply, heart pounding as she gripped the mug tighter. "Jesus, Dean," she muttered. "You scared the crap out of me."

He didn't respond right away. Just sat there, slouched forward, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. It was already half empty. His knuckles were white against the glass.

Ali hesitated, suddenly feeling like she was intruding on something she wasn't supposed to see.

Dean Winchester didn't do this.

Didn't sit in the dark, drinking himself into oblivion. Didn't let people see him vulnerable.

Something about it made her uneasy.

"You okay?" she asked, cautious.

Dean let out a low, bitter chuckle, but there was no humour in it. He didn't look up at her. "Yeah," he muttered. "Peachy."

Ali shifted, debating whether she should just leave him alone. But something kept her rooted in place. She stepped further into the room, lowering herself carefully onto the couch across from him.

Dean finally lifted his gaze. His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles carved deep beneath them.

He was drunk.

And not in the usual, let's-have-a-good-time kind of way. This was something else. Something heavier.

Ali didn't say anything. She just let the silence stretch.

Dean exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Then, after a long moment, he said, "I'm dying."

The words landed like a punch to the gut.

Ali stiffened. "Dean—"

"I made a deal, Ali." His voice was rough, tired. He let out a humourless laugh. "Thought I was doing the right thing. Saving Sammy. But now—" He shook his head, staring down at the bottle in his hands. "Now I've got a few days left, and that's it. Game over."

Ali swallowed hard. She didn't know what to say.

Dean wasn't the kind of guy who talked about this stuff. Sure, he'd brought it up at the hospital, but that was for her benefit – to convince her into snapping out of her recklessness.

But this, tonight? This wasn't about her. It wasn't about anyone else but himself. If he was telling her this now, it meant the weight of it was too much to carry alone.

And that scared her.

Dean took another drink, grimacing as the whiskey burned down his throat. "I keep telling myself it doesn't matter," he muttered. "That it was worth it. But—" He broke off, his grip tightening around the bottle. "I don't wanna go."

Ali's chest tightened.

He wasn't saying it, but she could hear it anyway.

I'm scared.

Dean Winchester, scared.

She didn't know if she'd ever seen him like this before. Maybe no one had.

Ali leaned forward slightly, still cradling the warm mug between her hands. "We'll figure something out," she said quietly. "We won't let it happen."

Dean snorted, shaking his head. "You sound like Sam."

"Maybe Sam's right."

He didn't respond to that. Just let out a slow breath, staring at the floor like he was trying to find answers in the worn-out wood.

After a long moment, he finally spoke again. "I'm worried about him."

Ali frowned. "Sam?"

Dean nodded. "He's not… He's not gonna handle this well." His voice was strained, like just admitting it was painful. "He thinks he can fix everything. Thinks if he just tries hard enough, he can find a way out of this. And when he can't—" He swallowed hard, shaking his head. "I don't know what he's gonna do."

Ali's throat felt tight.

Dean turned his gaze to her, eyes sharper now, intentional. "I need you to watch out for him," he said. "When I'm gone."

Ali's breath caught.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Dean clenched his jaw. "I mean it, Ali. Someone's gotta keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

Ali felt something twist inside her. This wasn't just Dean asking a favour. This was him making peace with the inevitable.

Her stomach churned.

But she nodded anyway. "Yeah," she murmured. "Of course."

Dean studied her for a moment, like he was making sure she really meant it. Then he exhaled, nodding slightly.

The room was heavy with something unspoken.

Ali tightened her grip on her mug, her fingers cold despite the warmth.

She had never seen Dean like this before. Never seen him crack.

And she hated it.

Dean took another long swig from the bottle, his expression unreadable.

Ali sat there, silent, watching the man in front of her—watching the weight he carried, the fear he refused to name.

And it scared the hell out of her.

The silence between them stretched, thick with things neither of them wanted to say out loud.

Dean sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, rolling the whiskey bottle between his hands. His jaw was tight, like he was holding back something heavier than words.

Ali didn't know what to do with this side of him.

Dean wasn't supposed to break.

He was the one who always had some smart-ass remark, who took hit after hit and still got back up. He made hard decisions like they didn't scare him, threw himself into danger like it didn't matter, because he'd always be fine.

And now here he was, sitting in the dark, admitting he was afraid.

It unsettled her.

She shifted, gripping the mug in her hands, searching for something—anything—to say. But what the hell could she say?

Don't worry, Dean, we'll save you? She had no idea if that was true.

It's gonna be okay? No, it wasn't.

The truth sat like a stone in her stomach. She didn't know how to fix this.

And Dean wasn't asking her to.

He just wanted her to listen.

So, she did.

She leaned back, pressing her lips together, and just let him sit in it.

Dean let out a slow exhale, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted, voice rough. "Living with a damn expiration date. It's like… like I'm already dead, and I'm just waiting for the clock to run out."

Ali's fingers tightened around the ceramic of her mug.

His laugh was bitter. "You ever think about what it's gonna be like?" He glanced at her then, and she wished he hadn't—because for once, there was no mask, no bravado. Just raw, unfiltered fear. "Burning for eternity?"

Her stomach twisted violently.

No. No, she didn't think about it.

Didn't want to think about it.

Ali swallowed hard, pushing past the lump in her throat. "We're gonna stop it," she said, her voice quieter now, but steady.

Dean shook his head. "Yeah? What makes you so sure?"

Because she had to be.

Because the alternative was too fucking much.

She stared down at the tea in her hands, watching the steam curl into the air. "Because I know Sam," she murmured. "And I know you." She forced herself to look at him then, meeting his tired, bloodshot eyes. "You don't just die, Dean. That's not how this ends."

Dean huffed, shaking his head like he didn't believe her, but something flickered in his expression—something that looked a little like desperation.

Ali felt like she couldn't breathe.

She wasn't used to seeing him like this. She wasn't used to seeing any of them like this.

But Dean didn't say anything else.

Just leaned back against the couch, exhaling slowly, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the weight of the conversation.

Ali followed suit, sinking deeper into the worn cushions, staring at the darkened TV screen across the room.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Eventually, Dean lifted the bottle of whiskey again, pausing for a second before tipping it back.

Ali sighed, rubbing her temple. "You should probably get some sleep."

Dean let out a low, dry laugh. "Yeah. I'll get right on that."

She rolled her eyes but didn't push.

Eventually, she drained the rest of her tea and set the mug down on the table, glancing back at him. "You gonna sit in the dark all night?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What, you offering to tuck me in?"

Ali snorted, standing up carefully. "Yeah, sure. Want me to sing you a lullaby too?"

Dean smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nah. I think I'll live."

Ali hesitated, watching him for a second longer before sighing and heading for the stairs, knowing full well that Dean would remain exactly where he was until the morning.

She didn't know what she had expected when she came downstairs tonight. But it sure as hell wasn't this.

Still, as she climbed the steps, she couldn't shake the weight pressing against her ribs.

Dean Winchester was scared.

And for the first time, she wasn't sure if he was going to make it out of this one alive.

Ali trudged downstairs, exhaustion weighing on her like a lead blanket. She hadn't slept, and by the look of him, neither had Dean.

He was standing at the counter, back tense, pouring himself a cup of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

She hesitated in the doorway, unsure if he even remembered their conversation from the night before. But then he looked up, met her eyes, and something passed between them.

A flicker of recognition.

A quiet understanding.

Neither of them said anything.

Ali moved to grab her own mug, keeping her head down. She wasn't sure if she wanted coffee, but she needed something.

Footsteps creaked on the stairs, and Bobby and Sam entered the kitchen. Bobby looked sharp and focused, already locked into the problem at hand. Sam, though—he looked about as worn out as she felt.

Bobby dropped a folder on the table with a heavy thud. "Found her."

Dean straightened. "Lilith?"

"New Harmony, Indiana." Bobby flipped open the folder, revealing maps, notes, and printouts. "Omens, people dropping dead, pets going missing. It all lines up. She's there."

Dean exhaled sharply. "Then we go. We take her out."

Sam frowned. "Hold on—"

"No, you hold on," Dean cut in sharply. "We don't have time to sit around on our asses."

Sam clenched his jaw. "I'm not saying we wait, Dean, but we can't just go in blind. With no weapon."

Dean's expression darkened. "We don't have a choice."

Sam took a breath, steadying himself. "Yes, we do. We need Ruby's knife."

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "No."

"Dean, come on."

"I said no."

Sam threw his hands up in frustration. "Dean, be rational. Her knife is the only thing that we know can kill Lilith. What the hell is your plan without it?"

"We'll figure something out."

Sam let out a humourless laugh. "Like what?"

Dean didn't answer. He just stared Sam down like sheer stubbornness would be enough to win the argument.

Ali sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Dean… we need the knife."

His gaze snapped to her, sharp with betrayal. "Not you too."

"I don't trust Ruby either," she admitted, "but Sam's right. Unless you've got another way to kill Lilith, we don't have a choice."

Dean clenched his jaw, shaking his head. "Not happening."

Sam exhaled sharply. "Dean, if we don't use the knife, we might not win."

Dean glared at him. "And if we do use it, we might just be playing right into Ruby's hands. You ever think about that?"

Sam set his jaw. "This isn't about Ruby."

"The hell it isn't," Dean shot back. "You've been drinking up her lies like Kool-Aid since day one, and I'm not gonna let you drag Ali and yourself down this hole."

Ali bristled. "I can think for myself, Dean."

"Yeah? Then think about this—Ruby's not our friend."

"No one's saying she is," Ali argued.

"This is not happening." Dean's voice was firm, absolute.

The room fell silent for a long moment.

Dean took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I get it. I do. You guys wanna win. But I am not summoning Ruby." He pointed at Sam. "And neither are you."

Sam clenched his fists. "You're being stupid."

Dean stepped forward, his voice like steel. "No. I'm being smart."

Bobby, who had been silent up until now, sighed heavily. "Look, boy, I get why you don't wanna deal with her. But we don't have many options."

Dean shook his head, unmoving. "We go in without her. End of discussion."

Sam looked furious, but Ali could see the exhaustion in his face, the helpless frustration in his eyes.

Dean had made up his mind. And no amount of arguing was going to change it.

Ali had just settled onto the couch with Sam's laptop to continue the research, exhaustion weighing her down, when raised voices cut through the bunker.

Shouting.

She tensed, her body reacting before her mind could catch up.

Sam and Dean.

Her stomach twisted. It wasn't exactly uncommon for them to fight, but something about this felt different. More heated.

With a quiet groan, she pushed herself upright, pressing a hand against her abdomen as she stood. The stitches ached, but she ignored it. She followed the noise, taking slow, careful steps down the basement stairs.

The argument got louder.

"—don't get to make that choice for me, Dean!"

"Like hell I don't! You have no idea what she's doing to you, Sam! She's poisoning you!"

Ali reached the bottom of the stairs just in time to see Dean gripping Ruby's knife, his knuckles white. His whole body was coiled tight, barely restrained.

Ruby stood off to the side, arms crossed, smirking slightly. Sam stood in front of her, his own posture tense, defensive.

Ali didn't hesitate.

"Alright, enough."

Her voice wasn't loud, but it was sharp enough to cut through the noise.

Dean's glare snapped to her, still simmering with anger. "Stay out of this, Ali."

She ignored him, stepping further into the room. "You need to cool off."

Dean let out a bitter laugh. "Cool off? Cool off? My own brother is siding with a demon, and you want me to cool off?"

Sam clenched his jaw. "This isn't about Ruby, Dean."

"Like hell it isn't!" Dean took a threatening step forward, but Ali moved between them before things escalated.

Her stitches burned, but she forced herself to keep her voice steady. "We are not doing this right now."

Dean's jaw clenched so tight she thought he might break a tooth. His grip on the knife tightened for a split second—then, with a sharp exhale, he turned on his heel and stormed past her.

Ali winced as she turned to follow, one hand clutching her abdomen. She didn't look back at Sam or Ruby.

This wasn't over. Not even close.

Ali followed Dean up the basement stairs, each step making her stitches throb. She clenched her jaw and pushed through it, keeping her focus on the man in front of her.

Dean's whole body was rigid, his shoulders squared with barely contained frustration. He didn't slow down, didn't wait for her, just kept moving until they were both in the main room of the house.

Then, suddenly, he stopped.

His back was still to her, but his hands were gripping the edge of the table, his breaths sharp and uneven.

Ali hesitated, feeling like she was toeing the edge of a cliff. "Dean—"

"Don't." His voice was low, warning.

She exhaled, shifting her stance. "I get it. You're pissed."

He let out a dry, humourless laugh. "Oh, do you?" He turned to face her, his expression hard. "Because last I checked, you were agreeing with Sam, too."

Ali didn't look away. "I think he has a point."

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "Of course you do."

Her patience frayed slightly. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Dean turned fully, stepping toward her, his expression dark. "It means I can't trust either of you to see what's right in front of your damn faces."

Ali clenched her fists at her sides, keeping her voice steady. "We're trying to save you."

"No. You're trying to do it your way, and I'm not letting Sam fall deeper into whatever the hell Ruby is pulling him into just to make that happen."

Ali inhaled sharply, swallowing back her immediate response. She understood why he was angry. He was scared. But she was tired—tired of fighting, tired of watching everything fall apart while time ran out.

She looked at him, really looked at him. The dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the exhaustion beneath all that anger. He wasn't sleeping. He was barely holding it together.

"Dean…" Her voice was quieter now. "I know you don't want this. I know you don't want to trust Ruby, and I'm not saying we should. But we've got the knife now. You can't say that Sam summoning her was a bad idea."

Dean's expression flickered—just for a second. Then it was gone. His defences snapped back up, and he let out another short, bitter laugh.

"You really think it's that simple?" He shook his head. "It's not just about the knife, Ali. It's about what happens next. What happens when I'm gone."

The words hit harder than she expected.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Dean exhaled, running a hand over his face. "Just… drop it, alright? I'm done talking about this."

He turned away before she could say anything else, leaving her standing there, jaw tight, pulse thrumming in her ears.

"After everything, I thought you'd be smarter than to trust her," he mumbled as he walked towards the door.

Ali's frustration boiled over. She took a step forward, ignoring the sting in her abdomen.

"Oh, come on, Dean," she snapped. "You really think I trust Ruby? That I'm just gonna sit back and let Sam go full dark side when you're gone?"

Dean stopped in his tracks, his shoulders going stiff.

Ali let out a sharp breath, her anger keeping her upright. "I'm not just gonna let that happen. So don't act like I'm some idiot who doesn't see what's at stake here."

Dean turned slowly, his expression unreadable. "Then see it," he said, his voice lower now, rougher. "See that trusting her—even for a second—is how it starts. She gets her hooks in. And then, one day, it's too late."

Ali shook her head, her hands tightening into fists. "Sam isn't some idiot who's just gonna let her lead him around. I won't let that happen."

Dean studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes. Then, just as quickly, he shook his head.

"Yeah?" He huffed out a humourless laugh. "You think that's enough?"

Ali didn't hesitate. "Yeah. I do."

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The air between them was thick with tension, unspoken fear and frustration tangling together in ways neither of them could fully articulate.

Then, finally, Dean exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. "Just… drop it, Ali."

It wasn't dismissive, exactly. More exhausted.

Ali clenched her jaw but didn't push further. Not because she agreed—but because she knew she wouldn't get through to him tonight.

So she let him walk away.

For now.

The tension in the house was still palpable an hour later. Dean grabbed his jacket, slinging it over his shoulders as he headed for the door. Sam was right behind him, his expression tight, resigned.

Ali stood near the kitchen table, arms crossed, already bracing for the fight she knew was coming.

Just as Dean reached for the door handle, Bobby stepped into his path.

"And just where the hell do you think you're goin'?" Bobby asked, levelling Dean with a look that could cut through steel.

Dean huffed. "Where do you think? We're gonna find Lilith."

Bobby snorted. "Oh, we are, huh? And by we, you mean just you and Sam?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Bobby—"

"No, don't Bobby me," he cut in. "You really think we're just gonna let you two idjits run off and get yourselves killed?"

Dean's jaw clenched. "It's my fight."

Bobby's expression darkened. "Oh, bullshit."

Dean's eyes flickered with something dangerous, something desperate. "This isn't your problem."

"Family don't end with blood, boy."

The room went still.

Dean swallowed, looking away. His fingers flexed at his sides like he wanted to throw a punch but had nowhere to aim it.

Finally, he exhaled sharply. "Fine," he muttered. "You wanna come? Be my guest. But Ali isn't."

Ali straightened, narrowing her eyes. "Excuse me?"

Dean turned to her, already set on digging his heels in. "No way. Not a chance in hell."

Ali took a step forward, ignoring the dull ache in her abdomen. "Dean, I am coming."

"No, you're not."

"Yes. I am."

Dean scoffed. "You can barely stand, Ali! What do you think you're gonna do, huh? Fight Lilith from the damn backseat?"

Ali's jaw tightened. "I'm not sitting this one out."

"You need to," Dean snapped. "This isn't just some random hunt, Ali, this is Lilith. You could get killed."

Ali set her shoulders. "So could you."

Dean's face darkened, but before he could fire back, Bobby cut in.

"She's comin'," Bobby said simply.

Dean turned on him. "Bobby—"

"Nope." Bobby held up a hand. "Not arguable."

Dean clenched his jaw so tight Ali swore she could hear his teeth grinding.

Sam, who had been silent through the whole thing, finally spoke up. "Dean… let's just go." His voice was tired, quiet.

Dean exhaled sharply, then turned back to Ali. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that made her stomach twist.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked out.

Sam hesitated for a beat, then followed.

Ali let out a slow breath, steadying herself.

Bobby shot her a look. "You sure you're up for this?"

Ali nodded. "I'm sure."

Bobby studied her for a moment, then grunted. "Alright then. Grab your stuff. We'll follow 'em in my car."

Ali nodded again, already moving. Her ribs burned with every step, but she ignored it.

One way or another, she wasn't letting Dean do this alone.

The drive to New Harmony, Indiana was tense. Ali barely said a word to Bobby during the journey. She didn't know what to say. No amount of small talk would take their minds off what was about to happen.

The tension in the car was suffocating. The weight of what was coming settled over them like a storm, thick and heavy in the air. Dean's deal was down to its final hours, and this was their last chance to stop it.

Ali sat in the passenger seat of Bobby's car, staring out the window at the darkened road ahead. Her fingers curled into her jacket, gripping it tight as if it could somehow ground her. Bobby was focused on the drive, his jaw clenched, knuckles white on the wheel. He hadn't said much since they left, but she could feel his concern radiating off him in waves.

She knew they didn't want her here. She knew she should still be resting. But she also knew that if she stayed behind and something happened—if Dean died and she wasn't there to stop it—she wouldn't be able to live with herself.

She wasn't sitting this one out.

Not when Dean was about to be dragged to Hell..

As they neared the house where Lilith was hiding, the reality of the situation was setting in.

Bobby pulled up a short distance behind the Impala, cutting the engine. Sam and Dean stepped out of their car, and Ali forced herself to move, even as pain still lingered in her abdomen. She wouldn't show it. Wouldn't give them another reason to doubt her.

Dean's eyes flickered to her as she shut the door. "Ali, I still don't think—"

"I'm coming," she cut him off, her voice firm. "I can do this."

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose but didn't argue. There wasn't time.

Instead, he turned to Sam. "You ready for this?"

Sam nodded, though his expression was tight. Determined.

The house was a few blocks away, nestled in an average-looking suburban neighbourhood—completely unassuming, just like Lilith wanted. The plan was simple: Sam and Dean would go inside to confront Lilith, while Ali and Bobby worked on the sprinklers, turning the entire water system into a holy water trap to keep demons from escaping.

It wasn't much. But it was something.

Ali watched as Sam and Dean moved toward the house, their silhouettes sharp in the dim glow of the streetlights. Her chest tightened, and she hated the gnawing feeling settling in her stomach—like something was wrong.

She reached out, grabbing Dean's arm before he could take another step. He turned, brow furrowing as he looked at her.

"You kill that bitch," she said, her voice firm, unwavering.

Dean held her gaze, his jaw clenched, his expression a careful mask. But she saw it—the fear buried just beneath the surface. The part of him that knew how this was supposed to end.

After a moment, he nodded.

Without thinking, Ali grabbed him, pulling him into a tight embrace. Dean stiffened for half a second before his arms wrapped around her, gripping her back just as fiercely. The pressure against her stitches was brutal, sending sharp pain radiating through her ribs, but she didn't care.

She squeezed her eyes shut. "I'll see you soon, alright?"

Dean pulled back just enough to look at her. His hands lingered on her arms.

"See you soon," he echoed. But his eyes told a different story.

Ali swallowed hard, but before she could say anything else, Dean let go. He stepped back, turning away as if breaking eye contact would make it easier.

Sam caught her gaze just before he followed, giving her the barest nod.

And then, they were gone.

Ali stood frozen as she watched them disappear into the house, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her chest ached, not just from her wounds, but from something deeper, something heavier.

Beside her, Bobby shifted. "C'mon, kid," he muttered, voice softer than usual. "Nothin' we can do now but wait."

Ali exhaled sharply, forcing herself to move. But as she followed Bobby to the car, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had just watched Dean walk to his death.

Ali's breath came fast, shallow, burning in her throat. She stood rigid beside Bobby, staring at the house, pulse hammering against her ribs. The waiting was killing her. Every second that passed, every distant sound from inside, sent another jolt of panic through her system.

They had one shot. The holy water rigged into the sprinkler system was their best chance to cut down the demons circling in the dark like wolves closing in on a kill. Bobby stood beside her, just as tense.

"You know Dean," he muttered, voice low. "Stubborn as a damn mule, but he—"

Ali cut him off, sharp and unforgiving. "I'm not doing this right now."

Bobby sighed but didn't argue.

The demons prowled closer. Ali's nails dug deep into her palms. She wanted to move. Needed to move.

Bobby gritted his teeth, waiting for just the right moment—then, with a sharp turn, he twisted the control valve.

The sprinklers kicked on.

Screams erupted as holy water rained down, burning through flesh and bone. The demons shrieked, their bodies smoking as they collapsed, writhing in agony. Ali clenched her jaw, ready to move.

"I'm going in," she said, stepping forward.

Bobby grabbed her arm, holding her back. "Wait."

Her whole body was taut, her heartbeat a deafening roar in her ears. The wait was unbearable.

Then—suddenly—a flash of white light exploded from inside the house.

Ali flinched, shielding her eyes. "What the hell?" Her breath hitched, panic clawing its way up her throat. She turned to Bobby, heart hammering. "Bobby, what was that?"

Bobby's face was grim. "I don't know."

That was all she needed to hear.

She tore herself free from his grip and ran.

"Ali, dammit!" Bobby yelled after her, but she didn't stop.

Her boots slammed against the pavement as she sprinted toward the house, lungs burning. The second she burst through the door, the scent of blood hit her like a physical blow.

Thick. Heavy. Drenched into the walls.

Her stomach twisted.

"Sam! Dean!" she called, voice hoarse. No answer.

Silence.

Ali moved deeper inside, her hands shaking. The house felt wrong—like the air itself had been ripped open and left bleeding.

Then she saw him.

Sam.

Sitting on the floor, his back to her, motionless.

Relief crashed over her like a wave. "Sam," she exhaled, stepping forward, the tension in her chest loosening. "Thank God—"

Then she saw what he was staring at.

Dean.

Lying motionless on the floor.

Something inside Ali snapped.

Her breath caught, sharp and painful. The relief turned to ice, spreading through her veins. Her steps slowed. The blood. There was so much blood. It pooled beneath him, dark and endless, soaking into his clothes, his skin. His chest—torn open, a wound too deep, too final.

His eyes—open. Staring. Unseeing.

Dead.

A low, strangled sound escaped her throat.

No.

Her knees nearly gave out, but she forced herself forward, dropping to the floor beside him.

"Dean," she choked out, reaching for him, but her hands hovered uselessly over his body. What could she do?

Nothing.

There was no fixing this. No patching him up. No last-minute save.

Her hands were trembling violently. She pressed them against his chest—against the blood, against the ruin of him—but he didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Ali's body caved in on itself. Her whole frame shook as the reality crashed down, crushing her.

He was gone.

A sob wrenched out of her, raw and broken, as she rocked back onto her heels.

She covered her mouth, trying to stop the sounds, trying to stop the trembling, trying to stop feeling—but she couldn't.

The brother she never had but somehow still did. The man who had fought for them, bled for them. Who had promised her he'd see her soon.

And now—

Now he was nothing but a body cooling on the floor.

A noise behind her—footsteps pounding, then stopping suddenly. Bobby.

Ali didn't look up.

She felt him freeze in the doorway, felt the moment he took it all in. The blood. The silence. Sam sitting hollow on the floor.

"Dammit," Bobby muttered, and the word carried the weight of everything. Exhaustion. Defeat. Grief.

Ali turned away. She couldn't look at Dean anymore.

Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms, grounding herself in the sting. It wasn't enough. It didn't stop the shaking.

Dean was dead.

Dead.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bobby approach Sam. Carefully. Gently. He crouched beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Sam flinched. Shrugged him off like the touch burned.

Ali swallowed hard.

Sam looked hollow. His face was blank, empty—but his hands, resting on his knees, were trembling.

Ali tried to speak, but her throat was raw.

She had to say something.

"Sam—"

The word barely came out. Weak. Useless. She cleared her throat, tried again.

"Sam."

Nothing. No reaction. He didn't blink. Didn't move. Didn't even acknowledge she was there.

Ali felt something crack inside her chest.

She had no idea what to say. No way to fix this.

So she just stood there, fists clenched, struggling to breathe.

Because for the first time in a long time, she had no idea how they were supposed to come back from this.

Dean Winchester was dead.

AN: And that's a wrap on Season 3, and Dean has gone to hell :(

Next up: A significant time jump... how do you think the dynamics will have changed after Dean's death?

Let me know what you thought x