Written by: gooberlanes13

Edited by: KariGorsuch

"Dean, stop!" I screamed, my breath catching violently in my throat.

The silhouettes—Sam and Bri.

Bri was kneeling in the middle of the road, her arms wrapped around something—someone.

Sam. Motionless.

Dean slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching, spitting up dirt and gravel. My hands flew to my mouth as the pain vanished instantly, replaced by something far worse.

Dread.

"Oh my god," I gasped, eyes locked on Bri through the windshield. She was shaking, cradling Sam in her arms.

Her face—pale, hollow with shock.

Our eyes met. And in that moment, we didn't need words.

Dean and I moved as one.

The Impala's doors flung open. We bolted.

Dean rounded the front of the car, his boots hitting the pavement hard. I was right behind him.

Bri's breath was ragged. Her arms tightened around Sam like she could hold him together. Like if she let go, he'd slip away for good.

Her hands—slick with his blood.

Tears burned in my eyes as Dean dropped to his knees beside them. His face was already ashen.

Footsteps pounded behind us. Bobby.

"Bobby, stay back!" I barked, whipping around, catching the wide-eyed horror on his face.

Then—back to Bri.

She didn't even register us.

Her whole world was wrapped around Sam.

Dean's voice cut through the night—sharp, desperate. "What the hell happened?!"

Bri didn't answer.

She just shook her head, her lips trembling as she pressed a shaking hand to Sam's chest.

Whispering his name.

Like it could pull him back.

Like she refused to believe he was already gone.

I stood there, frozen.

My pulse hammered in my ears.

Bri's was pounding.

Dean's too.

And from Sam—

Nothing.

That awful, familiar emptiness. The kind that settled deep in the bones. The kind that told you it was too late.

I'd felt it before.When someone was too far gone to bring back—

Like me.

Before Bri's screams ripped through the chamber in Casper. And now—

Bri's whisper broke.

"Dean..."

Her fingers curled into his jacket, gripping like a lifeline. "I—I tried—"

But Dean wasn't hearing her. His whole world had shrunk to Sam.

His motionless, cold body.

Dean's hands trembled as he grabbed Sam's face, shaking him.

"C'mon, Sammy—wake up!" His voice cracked, his eyes wild, shining under the headlights.

Nothing.

"Wake the hell up!" he choked, shaking him harder.

I slowly pressed my hands over my mouth as realization crashed over me.

Bobby bolted past me, and I forced myself to move. I grabbed Bri, trying to pull her back, but—she fought me.

She wouldn't let go.

It took more strength than normal. More than I wanted to use.

But Bobby and Dean needed this moment.

Dean's hands clenched tighter, pulling Sam's limp weight against him.

He shook him again, harder, harder.

Like if he willed it enough, he could undo this.

He could take it all back.

I held Bri tight as she collapsed into me, her knees giving out completely. We hit the pavement hard.

Dean didn't even look up.

"Sammy..."

His voice—hoarse, broken, barely a whisper.

Bobby knelt beside them, his head dropping, shoulders shaking.

He took off his hat, pinching the bridge of his nose.

No one spoke.

No words could fix this.

The only sound was Bri's shaky, shattered breathing against me.

And the suffocating silence where Sam's heartbeat should've been.

He was gone.

Two days later, the rain hadn't stopped. I stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the streaks of water race down the glass. The tapping of the rain should've been comforting, but it wasn't.

There was nothing in my chest. Nothing but pain.

I barely noticed when I glanced over my shoulder—Bri was still on the couch. Sam's couch. The same one he always crashed on in Bobby's office.

Now she sat there like a ghost.

I turned away, moving into the kitchen. Tugging open the fridge, I grabbed a Mountain Dew and handed it to her as I dropped down next to her.

She took it without looking, silence echoing loudly.

Then—

"He..." Bri started, her voice flat, hollow.

I turned my head slightly, waiting.

"He was still warm, you know?"

I closed my eyes, sucking in a slow, deep breath.

"When I was holding him..." Her voice cracked. "He was still warm."

Something splintered in my chest. "Bri..."

"I should've done more." Her voice snapped like a live wire, like she was breaking apart piece by piece.

I turned to her, watching the way her fingers curled tight into the cushion.

She swallowed hard, her jaw locking.

"I should've saved him."

I exhaled through my nose, fighting my own emotions. "You did everything you could."

Lies. We both knew it.

Bri let out a bitter, hollow laugh, her lips trembling. "And look how that turned out."

I didn't speak. She needed this.

Needed to let it out—and she was safe to do it with me.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't know how to do this without him, Eve."

That hit deep.

I took her in—her body shaking, hands trembling, her entire self shrinking into the couch like she wanted to disappear.

She wasn't just Bri, the hunter.

She was Bri, the girl who just lost the love of her life.

I shifted closer, reaching for her hand. At first, she didn't react. But then—her fingers curled around mine, tight.

A heartbeat later, she caved.

Bri turned into me, curling up damn near into my lap, burying her face against my collarbone.

Her body shook. Her breath hitched once—then a sob tore through her.

All I could do was hold her.

Just hold her.

I barely stirred when I heard the front door open and close.

John had shown up not long ago after we'd gotten back. His boots hit the floorboards with a dull, heavy thud as he entered the office, moving with his usual rigid authority. He stopped just inside the door, his eyes scanning the room like he was trying to absorb everything at once. His expression? Completely unreadable. But the intensity in his gaze... That wasn't hard to decipher.

Dean appeared right after, his footsteps faltering slightly when his eyes landed on me and Bri. It was as if time had slowed down. His posture stiffened, his face paling just a fraction as the scene in front of him hit him like a punch. He froze, his gaze flicking between me and Bri. His entire world had shifted in that moment—we both knew it. He hadn't known what to do with it. With us.

Bri was shaking in my arms, struggling to breathe against my chest, and I pulled her tighter to me instinctively. My hold on her was all I had to offer in the moment—the only thing that felt real.

Dean's eyes locked with mine. A brief flicker of shared grief passed between us, both of us caught in the weight of the scene, neither of us knowing how to fix it. His jaw tightened, and for a split second, I saw his posture break, just a little. His shoulders were hunched, as if bracing himself for a blow he couldn't avoid.

But before either of us could speak, John exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze turning hard as it shifted between me, Bri, and then—finally—his son. His only son. It was like the air in the room thickened, the reality of it all sinking in deeper. The man had spent his life hunting things down, facing horrors unimaginable, but none of it had ever prepared him for this. For Sam being gone.

He didn't say a word for a beat, his eyes just lingering on the spot where Sam should have been. Finally, he grunted, his voice gruff but tight with frustration, "We need to talk." It wasn't an invitation—it was a demand.

I didn't hesitate. My voice cut through the air, sharp as glass. "Not now, John."

There was a brief flicker of defiance in his eyes, but he held back, the weight of what had happened—of what we were all feeling—keeping him from pressing further. His jaw set, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but he didn't move any closer.

Dean shifted silently, his expression unreadable, as he ran a hand down his face. His gaze lingered on Bri, his jaw tightening in an almost imperceptible way. He took a slow step forward, like every movement took effort, before lowering himself onto the couch next to her. He didn't say a word, but his presence was palpable—his eyes were red and raw, and they briefly met mine across Bri's distraught form.

"Bri," Dean's voice was soft, steady, but strained with something he wasn't willing to say. Bri didn't react at first, but I saw her breath hitch, a silent wave of grief choking her from the inside. Dean didn't push, just shifted slightly closer, his hand reaching out to place it gently on her shoulder. It was a small gesture, but in that moment, it was everything.

She choked on her breath, but Dean didn't pull away. Neither did I. We all sat in that heavy silence, the weight of the unspoken hanging between us.

The unspoken "I'm here." The silent "I get it." The "I know what it's like to lose someone you can't live without."

John shifted across the room, his presence suddenly too loud for how still the rest of us were. His arms crossed over his chest, his posture stiff, but he didn't speak. He just stood there, taking it all in with a look that was hard to decipher—an unreadable mask he wore all too well.

I watched Dean as his eyes flickered with something I couldn't place, a brief moment of raw emotion before he closed it off again. For a moment, there was nothing in the room but the sound of Bri's muffled sobs—the only sound that mattered now.

What seemed like hours later, Bri's muffled sobs gradually faded into uneven breathing, her chest rising and falling against mine. I found myself nodding off, my chin resting lightly on top of her head. Every breath she took seemed to pull at the raw part of me that was already aching. I bit back my own tears, helpless, but not wanting to break in front of her.

Eventually, Dean's hand slowly retracted from Bri's shoulder, and I felt the brief absence of comfort before he took my hand, the one resting on Bri's back, giving it a soft squeeze. Without saying a word, he rose off the couch, and I watched as John and Dean moved quietly into the kitchen. Bobby led the way, his footsteps muffled by the thick silence that hung between all of us.

With the shift of the cushion next to Bri, her eyes fluttered open. In an instant, she shot upright, her breath jagged.

"Come on," I cooed softly, my hand gently patting her back as I rose from the couch myself. "Let's get you to bed."

I outstretched my hand to her, but when she didn't take it, I rolled my eyes a little, trying to mask the sting of concern. Instead, I adjusted the pillow beside her, placing it more comfortably. "At least lay back down."

"I won't sleep." Her voice came out hoarse, so raw it felt like it could shatter if it were to be spoken any louder. My heart broke at the glossed-over emptiness in her eyes.

Despite her words, she eventually laid back down, her movements slow, almost defeated. She turned to face the back of the couch, curling into herself as I tugged the blanket over her shoulders.

I knew she needed space. The constant attention and the waves of emotion that came with it were only making things harder for her. I leaned over, pressing my lips to her temple, my breath shaky as I felt her soft sobs against my cheek, each one a silent cry I couldn't stop.

The pain in my chest tightened. I clenched my jaw, fighting the overwhelming urge to scream that I couldn't stand this—couldn't stand seeing her like this, and knowing I couldn't take away the pain, couldn't bring Sam back for her.

I glanced down at her fingers, still tightly curled around the fabric of the blanket. With a soft ache in my heart, I realized, through the haze of my own grief, that it was the same blanket Sam had used every night. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut.

With a hesitant, heavy chest, I stepped away from the couch, leaving Bri to her own thoughts. Normally, this would be the opposite of what anyone would need, but Bri wasn't like anyone else. She was her own medicine, her own kryptonite, her own sanctuary, and her own hell.

I made sure to stay close, though—just in case. I sank onto one of the last steps leading upstairs, letting the cool moonlight stream through the window, casting pale, silent shadows across the floor of the entryway.

But the quiet did little to soothe me. My chest tightened as flashes of Sam's motionless, bloody body flickered in my mind. Bri's absolutely heartbroken face. Dean, the weight of his grief pulling him down.

"Dammit, Dean, you're not thinking straight." Bobby's whisper pulled me back into the moment, his voice hushed but strained as it echoed from the kitchen.

I pushed myself off the steps and glanced into the office. Bri was still lying exactly where I left her, curled up, her body still but her thoughts undoubtedly storming.

I leaned against the railing for a moment, listening. I could hear the sharp rise and fall of voices—John's low and commanding, Bobby's harsh and frustrated, and Dean's clipped, barely controlled breaths.

"We're not doing this," John's whisper cut through the noise, low but undeniably sharp, the command clear in his tone.

I shifted, adjusting my hoodie, and finally pushed myself off the railing. I rounded the corner and stepped into the kitchen, my eyes briefly landing on Bri's slumbering, but pained figure before I faced the tension waiting for me.

The three of them stood, squared off, eyes locked in a silent battle.

Dean stood rigid, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack, his hands planted firmly on his hips as if holding himself together with nothing more than sheer will. The sight tugged at my heart as I leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching the familiar faces.

John, arms crossed, had a face like stone—hard and unreadable. But those eyes, usually filled with the bite of anger or resentment, now held something I'd never seen before: fear.

Bobby, on the other hand, looked like he was seconds away from tossing a book at someone—or someone through a wall.

Dean seethed. His glare was a tangible thing as he glared at both John and Bobby, his voice finally breaking through the tension, a low growl in his throat.

"I wasn't asking for permission," Dean said, his voice barely above a whisper, but the control in it was undeniable. The way his heartbeat pulsed quicker, how his chest rose and fell with each word, told me everything I needed to know. He'd already made his decision, and whatever it was, it was a choice he'd already set his mind to. Something big.

I knew that tone. I'd heard it before—the kind of tone that means there's no going back.

"Dean." John's voice was quieter now, almost pleading, as he pushed himself off the counter and gestured helplessly with his hands. "Don't do this. We can't—"

John cut himself off, his throat closing up for a brief moment, and for the first time, something like raw emotion flickered over his face. Something deeper than frustration or fear—something closer to pain.

The silence was eerie, thick enough to make my skin crawl, sending a chill straight down my spine. Dean let out a humorless laugh, his fingers raking through his hair in frustration. "Yeah?" His voice was bitter, dripping with sarcasm. "What's the alternative, Dad? Sit here and do nothing, huh?"

The room felt colder. The silence hung heavier than before, suffocating. Dean choked on the words, forcing them out with an edge of disbelief. "Just—just let Sammy be... gone?"

My stomach dropped, my breath catching in my throat at the implication of his words. I took a slow step forward, my presence drawing everyone's attention in the kitchen, but my eyes were locked on Dean's, refusing to look away. "Dean..." I whispered, my voice trembling as I tried to get through to him. I lowered my head slightly, my gaze heavy, searching for the right thing to say as Bobby's eyes flickered over my tear-streaked face.

Before any of us could process what was happening, Dean snapped. He stormed toward the door, grabbing my hand with a force that left no room for argument. He tugged me behind him, pulling me out of the heavy silence of the house. I barely managed to catch the door before it slammed shut behind us, the sound echoing in the still night air.

Dean's grip on my hand tightened as he led me out into the yard, his steps quick, urgent. The weight of everything—the grief, the loss, the raw pain—finally hit me all at once, and I stumbled off the last step of the porch. But Dean didn't let go. He didn't stop until we were in the middle of the yard, halfway between the front door and the Impala, as if he needed to put as much distance between the house and the chaos inside.

The night was still, impossibly quiet, the kind of silence that feels like it's pressing in from every direction. My eyes flickered to the stars above us, their cold, indifferent light mocking me, mocking everything we were feeling. I silently cursed them for continuing to shine, for existing while everything else had crumbled.

Dean finally released my hand, turning to face me. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his breath ragged, and his shoulders were taut, like he was holding a hurricane inside him. He didn't say anything, just stood there, his body like a taut wire, ready to snap. I could feel the storm in him, the emotions building up inside, but all I could do was stare at him, trying to process everything in the quiet between us.

I wanted to reach for him, to say something that would take away the unbearable tension, but the words wouldn't come. All I could do was beam at him, offering a small, broken smile, trying to hold it together.

I closed my eyes for a moment, and in the silence, I could hear it—the pounding of his heartbeat, hammering in my ears, as if it was the only sound left in the world. It broke my heart all over again, the rawness of it, the vulnerability. I flinched at the sound of it, the weight of it pressing against my chest.

"What the hell is going on, Dean?" I asked, my voice steady, but the dread creeping in, threading through every word as I watched him pull his keys from his pocket, glancing back at the Impala like it held all the answers.

Dean dragged a hand through his hair, exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders. He exhaled sharply, his gaze dropping to the ground for a long beat before it shot back to mine—sharp, intense, and filled with something I wasn't ready to face.

"I—" He hesitated, his words hanging in the air like they'd never been meant to be said. He dropped his gaze down my figure, his eyes scanning me like he was trying to find something to hold onto, before meeting my eyes again. "I'm gonna make a deal to bring Sammy back."

A cold knot formed in my stomach. The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I froze, my pulse hammering in my ears, as his confession sank in. The world felt still for a moment, and then it rushed at me. I couldn't process the weight of it, the finality of it.

"No." My voice barely scraped above a whisper, but the refusal was there, sharp, instinctive. My chest constricted again, suffocating under the rush of grief and panic that swirled with his words. I was seeing flashes of myself, of Bri in the same position, caught between losing someone and trying to bring them back—knowing the cost of it.

Dean's breath caught in his throat, a humorless laugh escaping, but it was full of pain, full of the hurt that was eating him alive.

"Eve," he scoffed softly, but the way his voice broke was enough to make my own chest tighten. He was fighting to hold it together, sniffling through his words. "What the hell else am I supposed to do?"

I blinked back the sting in my eyes, my chest tightening all over again. I couldn't believe this was happening. The anger, the helplessness, it all roared to life inside me. My own voice caught, shaking with emotion as I took a step closer to him.

"Literally anything else, Dean," I shot, my words a little too sharp, my voice rising in frustration. "You know—more than me—how this shit ends! You know the cost!"

He shook his head like he couldn't hear me, like acknowledging what I said would shatter him completely. I saw it in his eyes—he was on the edge, and the last thing he wanted was for me to pull him back.

"I don't care about the cost, Eve," he spoke tightly, his voice breaking in a way that almost tore me apart. I met his gaze with a force that threatened to make my knees buckle. His words, his resolve, it all cut deep, but I wasn't backing down.

My heart pounded as I closed the distance between us. My hand shot out, gripping the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer like I could physically stop him from making the worst decision of his life. The desperation in me was raw, fierce. My voice dropped to a whisper, but the anger was still there, thick and real.

"I do."

Dean swallowed hard, his eyes locking with mine again. For a split second—just a split second—I saw his walls crack. The raw vulnerability in his gaze pulled something deep from within me, and my eyes started to water, dredging up that same heartbreak I'd felt earlier. I did the only thing I could do—reach for him.

"Please, don't do this, Dean," I whispered, my voice shaking, the lump in my throat threatening to close off completely.

Dean's jaw clenched. For what felt like an eternity, he didn't move. Our eyes held in a silent battle of wills, the tension thick between us. Finally, his hands came up, trembling slightly as they cupped my face, his thumbs brushing over my jaw, his forehead resting against mine.

"Eve..." He whispered my name, so quietly, so desperately. "I have to."

"You can't," I whimpered, my voice faltering. "You can't."

Dean let out a sharp breath, his head shaking in frustration, eyes tightly closed for a moment as if he were trying to block me out. "Eve—"

"- No." I cut him off, stepping back, out of his grasp. The space between us felt suffocating. "You don't get to look me in the eye and tell me you're just gonna—just gonna throw yourself away like none of the rest of us matter."

Dean moved quickly, but with gentleness that I wasn't sure how to take, catching my wrists firmly in his hands. "It's not like that."

"Then what is it like, Dean?" I asked, my voice rising, the frustration welling up in me. My chest felt like it was closing in, my breath coming too fast. "What about—"

Dean's eyes flickered as I trailed off, his brows furrowing slightly in confusion, but he didn't speak.

"...What about us?" I finally managed to get the words out, my voice catching, but there was a surge of courage behind it. "What about me?" I leaned in, taking a step forward, searching his eyes, trying to make him see. "Bri, Bobby—hell, even John?"

Dean's grip tightened on my wrists, but his eyes were haunted now, like I'd just ripped open something he didn't want to face.

"Stop," he muttered, his voice a low growl that broke with pain.

"No." I jerked my wrists free, too angry and too hurt to care. "You're acting like Sam is the only thing that matters in all of this—like he'd want this." I could feel my voice pitch higher, almost desperate. "Would he want this, Dean?"

His head dropped slightly, his hands clenching at his sides, the keys to the Impala dangling in his grip like a lifeline. "Eve, don't—"

"Don't what?" I snapped, my voice louder, raw with emotion. "Don't make you face the fact that you're about to make the worst mistake of your life?"

Dean's eyes flashed with something—guilt, anger, pain—maybe all of it, as he shifted his stance, his shoulders taut with tension. "I have to do this," he said, his voice thick and strained. "I have to."

"No," I shook my head, barely able to catch my breath, but pushing on. "You don't."

Dean clenched his jaw, his body stiffening as he turned away.

Instinctively, I grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at me.

"Dean," I breathed, my voice trembling now, emotions crashing over me like waves. "We just—" I cut myself off, the words catching in my throat like shards of glass. "Do you even realize what you're doing to me?"

He didn't answer me, his silence louder than any words could be.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady myself, but it was no use. "To everyone? You think Bri's just gonna be fine with this?"

Dean's eyes slid away from mine, but for a split second, I caught a flicker of hesitation.

"Bobby?" I pushed on, my voice rising in desperation. "You really gonna leave him to clean up the mess? To—" My throat tightened, threatening to close as the weight of what I was saying hit me. "To bury you?"

I saw his body stiffen, his jaw tightening as my words sank in.

"Are you really gonna leave me to clean up the mess... to bury you?" I pressed, my heart pounding in my chest. I could feel the air between us crackling with all the things we weren't saying. "Goddammit, Dean. You think you're doing this for Sam, but you're not." My hands gestured helplessly, my voice rising in anger and pain. "You're doing this because you don't know how to live without him."

His eyes flickered briefly, and I watched him flinch as if my words had landed right where I wanted them to.

"If you do this, Dean..." I sucked in a sharp breath, trying to steady my racing pulse. "You're making damn sure the rest of us have to learn to live without you." I took a small step closer, my voice softer but still fierce. "You're making damn sure that I learn to live without you."

There was a long, unbearable silence between us as Dean's eyes darted anywhere but my face. He stared at the dark corner of the salvage yard, like it held answers that he couldn't find anywhere else.

I exhaled shakily, my voice almost a whisper. "Please," I pleaded, the word breaking as it left my lips. "Please, Dean... don't do this."

For just a second—just a second—I thought I saw something shift in him, like maybe he was finally hearing me. But then his expression hardened again, and my heart sank as I realized nothing had changed.

His voice was barely audible as he muttered, "I have to."

"Dean—" I started, my stomach churning in knots. I folded my arms across my chest, trying to hold myself together, but I could feel the cracks starting to show. "No, you don't. You're making a choice, and it's not just for Sam."

He reached out, his hand curling around the back of my neck, pulling me in close. The warmth of him wrapped around me like a blanket, his scent filling my senses, his touch grounding me. For a moment, I absorbed everything about him—his heat, his scent, his eyes, his touch—as if I could somehow hold on to all of it, knowing it might be the last time.

His forehead pressed against mine, his breath coming out shaky and uneven, and I could feel the weight of his words before he even spoke them. "If you care about me... at all..." His voice cracked, raw with emotion. "Then don't fight me on this."

Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision as I tried to choke them back. The weight of his words, the finality of them, crushed me. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing this was all just a nightmare. But when my heart shattered, I whispered, barely able to hold myself together, "That's a cruel thing to ask me, Winchester."

He let out a bitter, broken laugh that made my chest ache. "Yeah. I know."

I inhaled sharply, dragging a hand over my face, forcing the tears away. I had to get it together—I couldn't let Bri see me like this, not after what just happened.

Behind me, the porch creaked. I turned just enough to see Bobby and John standing there, their expressions unreadable. But John's eyes were burning through the night, locked on the end of the driveway, while Bobby's gaze was fixed on me.

"Eve..." Bobby started, his voice laced with something softer—maybe even pity.

I stepped up onto the porch, but the second he reached for me, I jerked out of his grasp, shooting a glare at John before pushing past them and through the front door.

"Fuck!" I gasped, nearly colliding with Bri.

I quickly swiped at my face again, regaining composure as her gaze flickered between me and the front door, searching. She was still wrapped in Sam's blanket, her red-rimmed eyes darting from me to the porch, to the driveway.

"Where did Dean go?" she asked, voice raw, broken.

"Out." The word came out sharper than I meant, but I didn't have the energy to soften it. I brushed past her, heading for the stairs. Halfway up, I paused, glancing down at her stiff figure, still peering through the screen door at the two men outside. She knew something was off.

"You coming?" I asked, forcing my voice to even out.

Bri hesitated. Her gaze flicked between me and the door, her fingers gripping Sam's blanket tighter around her shoulders. A second passed—maybe two—before she exhaled sharply and followed.

Silence stretched over us as we reached our room. I shoved the door shut behind us, the quiet pressing down.

"Eve." Bri's voice cut through the stillness—hoarse, but firm. "What's going on?"

"It's... It's nothing." I smirked, flat, detached. "It'd be better if you heard it from him."

I stalked to the dresser, yanked open the top drawer, and glared down at my clothes like they'd done something to offend me. My thoughts swirled—reckless, impulsive. The image of myself leaving, just like Bri had before, clawed its way into my mind.

I shoved it down.

Without another word, I grabbed a fresh pair of panties, a bra, pajama bottoms, and a tank top.

"I'm taking a fucking shower," I muttered, heading toward the adjoining bathroom. I made it two steps before Bri's hand clamped around my forearm.

"Eve, I'm not fragile," she said—quiet but firm. "I can handle it."

"No." I whispered, shaking my head as I pried her fingers off me. My chest tightened, rage coiling beneath my skin like a live wire. "You can't."

Bri's eyes flashed. "Eve, whatever you're keeping from me, we can handle it—"

"—together." I echoed, slamming my clothes onto the closed toilet lid, only to slam them down again on the sink. A bitter laugh tore from my throat as I glared at the shattered mirror. "You'd think that word would mean more than it does."

"Eve, that's not—"

"That wasn't a jab at you," I cut in, turning to face her.

Her shoulders tensed, and for a split second, her walls cracked. She shrugged off Sam's blanket, and I heard it land with a soft flop on her bed behind her before she followed me into the bathroom.

A heavy silence settled between us before I finally spoke again.

"What happened, Bri?" I asked, stepping closer, folding my arms. "In that other... place?"

She swallowed, shifting uncomfortably, the color draining from her face.

I sighed, softer this time. "You don't have to tell me now, but I'm here when you're ready."

Bri nodded stiffly, but before I could step away, she whispered, "How did you find us?"

I hesitated, then forced a weak smirk as I dropped onto the toilet lid, crossing my legs with a heavy sigh. "Let's call it a physical pull."

Her lips twitched, but the humor didn't reach her eyes.

I sat there, collecting my thoughts before filling her in—waking up in the diner, the suffocating nausea, the way I just knew where to go.

She listened, arms crossed around herself, her expression dark.

"So..." she muttered, pretending to think. "Cripple Creek on steroids. Got it."

A pause passed over us before she pushed again. "What's wrong now, then?"

I met her gaze, my throat tightening. I shook my head and lowered my eyes as a wave of pain, guilt, regret, disappointment, and betrayal crashed over me—it was too much to put into words anyway.

Bri's jaw clenched. "So I have to ask Bobby or John, don't I?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Bri," I said firmly, my voice steel.

Bri let out a short, humorless laugh. "You don't want to talk about it?" She rolled her eyes, her exhaustion giving way to frustration. "You're a piece of work, Eve. You dig and dig to get me to talk, but now you're the one shutting me out? Even after everything... even after Casper?"

My stomach twisted.

"After you told me what they did to you—" she cut herself off, pacing now, her thoughts racing faster than her mouth. "You ripped into me for leaving you guys on our way back from Florida—for shutting down and not talking to you—but now... this thing with Dean... whatever the fuck just happened, and suddenly you're the one that doesn't want to talk?!"

"Bri." I growled, a warning. My jaw clenched.

"No!" she snapped, her voice shaking. "I was there for you when Nick pulled all that bullshit in the Army. I warned you about that mother—" She bit off the word, forcing a breath before turning to face me fully. "But no! You insisted on giving him a chance, and look how that turned out!"

"Bri!" My voice shot up as I sprang to my feet. My pulse spiked—hers did too. I could feel it pounding in my ears.

"Dean beat the shit out of him in Cripple Creek—only for me to tear him apart in Casper after you went missing," she continued, arms folding tight against her chest. She took a breath, then glared. "And now—"

"Casper wasn't his fault!" I cut in, stepping forward. "It was mine." I clapped my hands hard against my chest, my breath hitching, my eyes burning again. "How long are you gonna keep blaming Dean for that?"

Bri's expression barely wavered, but I caught the flicker of concern when I finally took responsibility—for Casper, for my own turning.

"I'll keep on Dean until he makes good on our deal." She snapped, pointing toward the bathroom door behind her.

"What deal?" My breath slowed as I narrowed my eyes.

Bri let out a frustrated sigh, her fists clenching. "We beat the hell out of each other out there." She gestured over her shoulder, toward the yard. "And I told him—if he didn't take you on a proper date, I'd punch him."

Despite the weight pressing down on my chest, a snort escaped me. Bri's lips curled slightly too.

"I meant it," she added, chuckling lightly. "And it goes without saying that he also has to keep you happy, or else. Judging by how wrecked you look, I guess it's time for me to deliver on that promise." She turned to leave, but I grabbed her wrist.

"No, you don't."

She hesitated, her brows drawing together. "Then what the fuck is going on, Eve?"

I stood there, releasing her arm. My heart pounded, my tongue felt heavy.

Silent.

I couldn't tell her.

I couldn't tell her that Sam might be coming back.

I couldn't tell her that Dean was throwing his life away for all of it.

I couldn't.

"Did he—?" Bri started, but she cut herself off. Our eyes met, and I watched a realization settle in.

"I swear to God—"

"Bri, we both know how this job is." My voice came out low, tight. "Sometimes we come across things—situations—that we can't fix."

"Like Sam dying."

The words barely left her lips before her face crumpled. Her arms wrapped around herself like she could somehow hold herself together.

She swallowed hard, clenched her jaw, and turned on her heel.

She didn't announce the conclusion she'd reached. She didn't slam the door. She didn't yell.

She just left.

Me, on the other hand? I barely managed to shut the door, turn on the shower, and step inside before my knees gave out—before I finally broke.