Dean sat on the opposing hospital bed, face sketched with worry as he looked at you.
Sam was filling him in; a car accident apparently, hit and run as you walked back to the bunker from a case you did solo, but Dean wasn’t really listening. He could only look at your bruised and broken body, the steady beeping of the heart monitor attached to you the only reminder that you were still alive. He should have been there. He was supposed to have been there.
“…surgery soon.” Sam was explaining. He looked over at Dean who had put his head in his hands. “Dean. Are you okay?” He asked.
“I should have been there.” He bit from behind his hands. “I should have been there.”