ramblings-in-imagination

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Their Worst Nightmare

The youngest Shaw sat cross-legged at her coffee table, her laptop open and surrounded by printed documents — all pulled from a file Colter had dropped off just two nights ago.

“Trail permit discrepancies,” he’d said. “Someone’s using restricted access to move cargo. I want your eyes on the patterns.”

Of course he did. Even if Colter didn’t say it aloud, he trusted her gut more than anyone else's.

She sipped lukewarm coffee and traced her pen along the mapped paths. Something didn’t add up.

That’s when the knock came.

Three raps. Too fast. Too rhythmic.

She froze.

Then — CRASH — her front door exploded inward, wood splintering off the hinges.

She was already moving, flipping the coffee table and grabbing the baton stashed under it — a holdover from her last self-defense refresher with Russell.

The first man was through the door, and she met him with a swing to the ribs, the crack satisfying — until the second guy tackled her from behind, slamming her face-first into the wall.

She gasped, stars spinning.

But adrenaline surged.

She elbowed him in the throat, rolled out from under his grip, and shoved the broken leg of the coffee table into his thigh.

The third man grabbed her by the hair and punched her in the side of the head.

Everything turned fuzzy.

Still, she swung wildly — fist to jaw, kick to knee.

“YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHO I AM!” she shouted, blood in her mouth.

The men didn’t care.

One kicked her in the stomach, then again — harder. She fell to her knees, coughing, bile rising.

Another fist to the cheek, splitting her lip.

Her vision blurred.

Still, she tried to crawl.

“Colter Shaw’s baby sister,” one of them sneered. “Let’s see how loud he screams when he hears you beg.”

She looked up, rage in her eyes — even as blood trickled from her nose, even as her knees buckled.

“Go to hell.”

A cloth pressed to her mouth. Chloroform. Strong.

She thrashed. Bit. Scratched. Drew blood.

Then her arms weakened.

Everything tilted.

And the world slipped into black.

Colter’s phone rang. The ID was scrambled — a redirect from the silent alarm on her home system.

He picked up on the first ring.

Colter didn’t speak.

He just listened.

And when the alert audio finished playing — crash, scream, fight, silence — his face went dead still.

Russell looked up from across the room.

“What is it?”

“They took her,” Colter said, standing already. “They broke into her house.”

Russell was grabbing his bag before the sentence finished. “Who?”

The front door hung from one hinge.

Colter Shaw didn’t bother stepping over the wreckage. He stormed straight in, revolver drawn, eyes slicing through the dim, trashed hallway. Russell followed right behind him, shotgun in hand, his jaw clenched so tight it looked wired shut.

The house was a warzone.

Furniture overturned. Cabinet doors ripped from hinges. A shattered lamp flickered from its wire like a dying heartbeat. But the worst part—

The blood.

Colter spotted it first. A wide splash across the tile floor by the coffee table, another trail smeared toward the hallway, as if she’d been dragged.

He stilled.

Then crouched.

“Still tacky,” he muttered, touching two fingers to the floor.

Russell’s nostrils flared. He scanned the room again — walls dented from impacts, drywall peeled, one photo frame shattered near the stairs.

A picture of her with all three siblings.

Their youngest sister’s smile cracked beneath a web of broken glass.

Russell bent to pick it up carefully.

“She didn’t go easy,” he said.

Colter’s phone was already to his ear.

Dory answered on the third ring.

“Hey, I just got off shift. What’s up?”

Colter didn’t sugarcoat it.

“She’s gone.”

Silence.

“Gone?” Dory repeated. “What do you mean gone? Gone where?”

“She was taken,” Colter said, voice low, lethal. “House is trashed. There’s blood on the floor. Drag marks. Photos smashed. Whoever it was didn’t just want to scare her. They meant it.”

He heard the breath catch in Dory’s throat.

“I—” she started. “No. No, I talked to her this morning. She was fine.”

“I need you here. Now,” Colter said. “We’re going to track her down.”

Dory’s voice broke. “I’ll be there in ten.”

The lights of Dory’s truck cut through the trees as she came flying down the dirt road, brakes squealing as she skidded to a stop. She practically fell out of the driver’s seat, sprinting across the yard with her badge still clipped to her belt.

“Where—” she choked. “Where is she?”

Russell caught her before she got to the porch.

“She’s not here.”

“Let go of me!” Dory shoved at him, trying to get past, but he held on tight.

“Dory, listen,” he said, gripping her arms. “She’s not here, but we are. And we’re going to find her. You know we will.”

She was shaking.

“They hurt her, didn’t they?” Her voice was thin. Cracked. “I can smell the blood from outside.”

Russell just nodded.

Colter stood in the living room, flipping through a scorched file folder their sister had been working on. The papers were half-burned, but one of them had a name he recognized.

Briggs.

This wasn’t random.

This was retribution.

Dory stepped inside, her hand flying to her mouth when she saw the bloody trail leading down the hallway.

“Oh my God…”

She knelt beside a piece of shattered glass on the floor — another photo. Just the two of them, arms around each other at the lake. It was cracked right down the center.

Russell crouched beside her.

“We’re gonna get her back.”

Dory didn’t look up.

“I should’ve been here.”

“No,” Colter cut in. “They wanted her alone. They planned this. They knew our schedules. This was about us — not just her.”

Dory finally looked up at him, her eyes blazing.

“Then they picked the wrong damn family.”

Russell rose to full height, loading a round into his shotgun.

“This isn’t about revenge anymore,” he said. “This is blood.”

Her head was pounding. Rhythmic. Deep. Like a war drum inside her skull.

When she opened her eyes, it wasn’t darkness — it was haze. Fluorescent, buzzing, cold. Concrete floor. Zip-tied wrists. Bloodied lips.

She tried to move and pain screamed through her ribs. Bruised, cracked, maybe worse.

“Look who’s awake,” a voice sneered. One of the men — dark hair, rotting teeth, stitched scar down his neck.

She didn’t respond.

Not out of defiance.

Her jaw wouldn’t move properly.

“Ready to talk now, sweetheart?” he asked, crouching low. “Because we’re getting real tired of asking.”

She didn’t break.

She just spit blood onto his boot.

The backhand knocked her sideways.

Her inner voice kicked in — the one Colter drilled into her since she was ten.

Pain doesn’t mean weakness. Weakness is quitting. And Shaw blood doesn’t quit.

Another man leaned in — thicker neck, long knife. “Tell us what Colter knows. What files he has. What he found in Nevada.”

She stared straight ahead. Focused on the tiny crack in the floor by her knee. One focal point. One place to breathe into.

He drove the tip of the knife into her shoulder — just skin-deep — enough to hurt. Enough to bleed. Enough to scare.

But she didn’t scream.

Her voice only came when they backed off to regroup.

It was soft.

Fractured.

“Please find me,” she whispered. “Colter… Russell… Dory…”

Her eyes blurred.

“Please.”

Colter paced in the glow of a dozen spread-out folders, maps, and profiles. His laptop screen flickered, open to a VPN-protected server where files from old jobs were being dumped into a new search string.

“Briggs had connections to paramilitary gun-runners in Nevada. Mercs that didn’t give a damn who they worked for. Same crew I tagged five years ago near the Fallon base perimeter.”

“You think he sold her to them?” Dory asked, voice raw.

“No,” Colter said. “He’s holding her. But he wants something. Something he thinks I know.”

Russell looked up from where he was scouring a military grid map.

“He’s trying to use her to smoke you out.”

Colter nodded. “Exactly. He knows I’ll come. But he underestimates what happens when all three of us come.”

He clicked into a secure encrypted channel and typed:

Query: known Briggs associates, Nevada region, any activity in last 30 days. Search aliases: Echo Sierra, Marcus Vayne, or ‘Sledge’. Priority: Black Flag.

Then he picked up the satellite phone.

“Reaching out to my off-book contacts,” he said. “We’re going to need heat maps, satellite pings, and personnel movements within 200 miles of Fallon.”

Russell loaded another clip.

Dory’s hands trembled as she adjusted her vest.

“I can’t… sit here,” she whispered. “Not while she’s out there being—”

“She’s holding on,” Colter said firmly. “You know she is.”

Russell nodded.

“She’s Shaw. And Shaw blood doesn’t break.”

The youngest Shaw lay still again.

Her shoulder throbbed. Her eye was nearly swollen shut. Her ribs screamed every time she breathed.

But she was still breathing.

Still alive.

Still silent.

One of the men kicked her side in frustration. “Talk, you little—”

Another guy stopped him. “She won’t. Not like this. Let her bleed a bit. Maybe the fear’ll do the job.”

They backed off.

She let her head roll sideways.

The crack in the floor was still there.

And that was enough.

The SUV’s tires chewed up dust and gravel as the Shaws pushed east across the Nevada line, the blacktop long behind them now. The sunrise was dull and cloud-filtered, casting the mountains in bruised orange and gray.

Colter sat behind the wheel, eyes locked on the GPS and a hand-drawn satellite overlay he’d annotated at 3 a.m.

Russell rode shotgun, rifle across his lap.

Dory sat in the back seat, armored vest half-fastened, fists clenched in her lap.

No one spoke for miles.

Then Dory whispered, “What if we’re too late?”

The words hung there — tainted, heavy, real.

Colter didn’t look away from the road, but his jaw twitched.

Russell turned his head slowly. “Don’t go there.”

“Russ, come on,” Dory said, voice cracking. “She’s been gone nearly twelve hours. Bleeding, maybe worse. We don’t know what they’ve done to her. We don’t know if she’s even—”

“Stop.” Russell’s voice was low, unshaking. “You start going down that road, you lose focus. And right now, the only thing that matters is getting her back.”

Dory blinked hard. Swallowed.

Russell turned fully now, locking eyes with her.

“She’s alive until someone proves otherwise. And our sister’s not the type to die easy.”

Colter finally spoke. “She’s giving us time. We don’t waste it.”

They sped on, Fallon’s sun-bleached hills rising like broken teeth ahead of them.

She was slipping again.

Pain blurred into color. Color into noise. Noise into nothing.

But then it came back.

The cold concrete against her spine.

The way her arms were zip-tied behind her back — so tight her hands had gone numb.

The ache in her ribs. The wet warmth of blood on her temple. The copper sting in her mouth.

She couldn’t keep track of time anymore.

She only knew one thing: they kept coming back.

Punches. Questions. Kicks. A knife, sometimes — not to kill, just to scare. To weaken.

But she hadn’t spoken.

Not once.

“Your brother’s not coming for you,” one of them said during the last round. “You’re nothing. Just a pressure point.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She just stared at the cracked floor and breathed.

Pain is the threshold. Endure the threshold. Make it cost them.

She closed her eyes and tried to summon Colter’s voice.

“Breathe slow. Slow your pulse. Stay in the fight.”

But her body trembled. Her head lolled to the side. Her throat was too dry to call out.

And yet, in her mind, she whispered:

“Please… Colter… Russell… Dory… I don’t know how long I can hold out.”

Her vision faded again.

This time, it took longer to come back.

Colter brought the SUV to a sudden stop on a ridge overlooking an abandoned communications outpost buried half a mile off-grid.

Russell raised his binoculars. “Three vehicles. No tracks in the last twelve hours. Could be them.”

Colter stepped out, scanning the area.

“She’s there.”

Dory dropped out next, already checking her sidearm. “How can you be sure?”

Colter didn’t blink. “Because I would’ve picked this place, too.”

They moved like wolves.

Colter took point, silenced Glock raised. Russell covered the rear with his shotgun, Dory wedged between them with her SIG drawn, her eyes sharp despite the ache behind them.

They slipped through the broken chain-link fence surrounding the building, boots crunching lightly against dust and gravel. The place smelled like grease and rust. Half the compound had collapsed. The rest was eerily still.

Until—

Click.

Russell yanked Colter down just as the first round cracked overhead, splintering the wall beside them.

“Two at 10 o’clock,” Dory barked, already pivoting, returning fire. Her round dropped one, and Colter swept wide, flanking left through an open window.

Inside, chaos erupted.

Russell loaded the last shell into his pump-action shotgun. “Then let’s get her back."

The corridor was thick with gun smoke, the air still buzzing from the fight. Colter had just pulled the trigger — two clean shots to center mass, one man slumping backward into the wall, the other dropping at his feet, blood pooling under him.

Russell lowered his shotgun slowly, breathing hard. The last attacker who had laid hands on his sister — the one still clutching the bloodied blade — was now motionless on the floor with a slug in his chest and another between his eyes.

“Don’t think about it,” Colter said coldly, his voice steady even as rage burned behind his eyes.

“I already did,” Russell muttered.

They turned.

And that’s when they saw her.

She was trying to move — barely — legs trembling, shoulders sagging, teeth chattering from shock.

“C-Colter…” she croaked, blood on her lips. Her body tried to push toward him instinctively.

But Dory was already there.

“No—no, no—don’t move,” Dory said, pressing gently but firmly against her shoulders, trying to keep her stable. “You’ve lost too much blood. Stay down.”

Her baby sister was shivering, eyes glassy, breath hiccupping in shallow gasps. Dory held her in place, whispering with a hand tangled in her hair.

“You’re safe. You’re safe. I’ve got you. We’ve got you.”

Colter crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees beside her. Her bloodied hand reached for him, fingers twitching.

He grabbed it gently, but tight. “I’m here, baby girl. I’m here.”

Her eyes blinked rapidly, trying to stay open, locked on him like he was the only thing tethering her to earth.

Russell stepped in next, eyes scanning her from head to toe.

And he froze.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. His voice cracked. “What the hell did they do to you…”

“Help me!” Dory sobbed, cradling her sister’s head, trying to apply pressure to a gash at her side. “She’s crashing—Colter—please.”

Colter knelt, checking her carotid.

“Pulse is rapid and thready—maybe 140. She’s hypotensive—skin’s cold. Looks like a tension pneumo starting.”

Russell ripped open a trauma kit they’d packed.

“She’s been bleeding internally. That bruising—flank ecchymosis. Probably from blunt force trauma to the kidneys or spleen.”

Colter cut away her shirt gently, exposing the bruises — deep, purple-black, spreading across her ribs. The rise of her chest was uneven.

“Rib fractures. Mid-abdominal bruising—might be spleen or kidney damage,” Colter muttered, barely above a whisper. “She’s showing signs of hemorrhagic shock. BP’s tanking. She's cold, pale. Diaphoretic.”

“Needle decompression,” he muttered, pulling the 14-gauge needle from the pouch.

Dory didn’t look away from her sister’s face. “You’re okay, baby. You’re okay. Help’s coming.”

Her sister opened her mouth like she wanted to speak—but only a rasp escaped.

“Shh, don’t try,” Dory said gently, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Just breathe for me.”

Colter slid the needle between the second and third intercostal space on her right side—a hiss of trapped air escaped.

Her chest rose more evenly. But her eyes were fluttering now.

Russell held her hand.

“Stay awake, alright?” he said quietly, voice cracking. “You know the rules—you don’t tap out without a fight. You’ve never tapped out.”

Sirens wailed in the distance now—Search & Rescue convoy finally on approach.

He dropped beside Dory, pulling out gauze and bandages from the trauma kit with shaking hands.

Dory was crying now, but still holding pressure.

“She keeps trying to sit up,” she said. “Like she’s afraid to blink.”

Colter gripped her hand tighter. “Hey. You’re not alone. I need you to stay with me, alright?”

Her lips parted again—just a whisper.

“Hurts…”

“I know,” Colter said, pressing his forehead to hers. “I know. But you’re not gonna die here. You hear me? Not in this place.”

Russell was biting down on his rage, jaw locked. He looked at her bloodied wrists, the bruises, the defensive cuts, the marks around her ribs, and let out a string of curses under his breath.

“Russ…” Colter warned.

“I’m fine,” Russell said hoarsely. Then, kneeling beside her, he reached out and brushed the sweat-matted hair from her face.

“You did good,” he said. “You held on. You gave us time. You’re safe now.”

Her head lolled slightly toward the sound of his voice, but her eyes were closing again.

“No, no, sweetheart,” Dory begged. “Look at me. Stay awake. Help’s almost here.”

Colter saw her breathing change — faster, shallower. Her lips were starting to turn dusky. Peripheral cyanosis. Decompensating.

He glanced at Russell. “We need to stabilize her breathing or she’s going to code before the medics arrive.”

Russell nodded and reached for the emergency airway.

“Dory, keep pressure on the side wound. I’ll assist with breathing.”

She nodded, locking her hands back into place.

Colter stroked her face. “Stay with us. Just a little longer.”

Outside, sirens finally screamed closer — the cavalry racing toward them.

But inside that broken room, the Shaws refused to let go of the one thing they couldn’t replace.

Their blood.

The youngest Shaw sister’s breathing was getting worse — agonal gasps, uneven chest rise, a frothy wheeze escaping from bloodied lips. Her head lolled, neck muscles limp, and her skin had taken on that unmistakable ashen hue of hypoperfusion.

Colter stayed right by her side, cradling her jaw in one hand and gently tipping her chin open, guiding air through narrowed passages.

“Come on, kid,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Stay with me. Just keep breathing. You’re okay.”

Russell knelt on the opposite side, one hand over her sternum, counting respirations, sweat dripping from his brow.

“Her airway’s compromised. Sounds like fluid in the lungs. We’re losing tidal volume.”

“Head tilt, jaw thrust. We need to get her airway cleared—suction if we had it,” Colter said quickly, shaking his head in frustration.

Dory never moved from her spot, both hands soaked and pressed against the deep abdominal wound along her sister’s left flank. Her body shook, but her grip stayed firm, fingers curling into the gauze.

She ran her other hand softly through her baby sister’s hair, whispering over and over: “It’s okay… you’re okay… stay here with me…”

But she couldn’t look at either of her brothers.

Not without falling apart.

She felt the way her sister’s pulse fluttered beneath the skin — then faded — then surged again with panic.

“She’s fighting so hard…” Dory choked. “She’s so scared.”

Colter’s eyes flashed. “She’s not alone. Not for a second.”

Outside—

SIRENS.

The whine of tires on gravel. Then boots hitting earth, running.

Colter looked up sharply. “WE’RE IN HERE!” he bellowed. “SECOND BUILDING, NORTH WALL!”

Russell’s voice echoed after his. “URGENT TRAUMA—PULMONARY COMPROMISE, LOW PERFUSION! BRING CRIC AND IV KITS!”

But neither brother moved.

Neither could leave her side.

Seconds later, two paramedics sprinted in, one already snapping on gloves while radioing in:

“We’ve got a female, approx 20s, GCS under 8, labored breathing, decreased LOC, trauma code in progress. Massive blunt trauma with suspected internal bleeding. Starting bag-mask ventilation. Prepare for medevac, priority red, unstable vitals.”

Colter let go only when they shoved the airway into place and began bagging her.

Russell stood but hovered, ready to pounce if anyone even hesitated.

Dory didn’t move at all.

One of the paramedics knelt in front of her. “Ma’am—we need that pressure spot.”

Dory finally blinked. Numbly nodded. But before she stepped back, Colter’s hand pressed gently onto her shoulder.

The first contact since the moment they found her.

She looked up.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

Her chin quivered as she let go.

“I’ve got her now,” the medic said softly.

Dory nodded, wiping her blood-slick hands on her vest before staggering back toward the wall, trembling.

The medic pressed hard on her sister’s side, another medic starting a 16-gauge IV in her arm, pushing normal saline wide open. Her oxygen mask fogged with each shallow breath.

“She’s tachycardic. BP’s dropping—80 systolic. We don’t have long.”

“Chopper’s three minutes out,” another EMT radioed in. “LZ is being prepped now.”

The Shaws just stood over her, bruised, shaking, bloodied—but together.

Watching the people they loved most in the world fight to keep their baby sister alive.

The rotors were already spinning when the gurney came barreling toward the helicopter, medics shouting vitals over the noise.

“She’s hypotensive—BP 76 over palp, pulse 146, irregular. Peripheral cyanosis. Suspect hemothorax, possible internal bleed. GCS six. No airway reflexes—BVM ventilation in progress. We need OR ready on landing!”

“GO, GO!” the flight nurse barked, waving them into the belly of the medevac.

Dory turned toward the chopper, eyes wild. “I’m going with her.”

Colter didn’t hesitate. “Me too.”

Russell grabbed Colter’s arm before he climbed in.

“You keep her alive,” he said low. “You keep talking to her. I’ll meet you at the hospital. Just—bring her back to me.”

Colter’s jaw clenched, but he nodded once.

Russell stepped back, watching the door slam shut and the bird lift off, carrying the most important people in his life away.

The chopper roared over the desert, buffeted by early morning turbulence. Inside, chaos raged.

“She’s bradying down! HR’s dropping—118 to 95! Sats are falling—82% and dropping!”

“Push epi, 1mg IV! Prepare to switch to advanced airway!”

Colter sat strapped in beside the gurney, hand locked around his sister’s, white-knuckled. Dory sat on her other side, trying not to fall apart as she watched the monitors dip and dip and dip.

“Come on, come on,” the flight medic muttered, ventilating faster with the BVM.

Suddenly, the monitor gave a warning tone—flat T-wave. Her eyes fluttered.

Then she gasped.

“She's breathing on her own!” Dory shouted. “She’s trying to fight the bag!”

The medic quickly dropped to her level and peeled back the oxygen mask. Her eyes were cracked open, hazy, drifting between them.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay,” Dory said, already tearing up. “It’s Dory. We’re with you.”

The reader blinked slowly.

Then her mouth moved, barely audible over the hum of the chopper.

“…Russell…?”

Colter leaned close, smoothing her hair back. “He’s right behind us. He’s coming. I’m here, okay? I’ve got you.”

She coughed weakly. “Don’t… feel good.”

“I know, sweetheart.” His voice broke. “You’re gonna feel better real soon. Just hang in there for me.”

Her fingers twitched under his, and then she sagged again, eyelids fluttering closed.

“She’s losing consciousness again. BP’s still unstable—pressure bag the fluids, keep pushing O2,” the nurse ordered. “ETA to St. Dominic’s: six minutes.”

Dory brushed her knuckles over her sister’s cheek.

“Just a little longer. Stay with us, baby.”

Colter’s thumb rubbed circles against the back of her hand.

“We’ve got you. We’re not going anywhere.”

The medevac touched down with a bone-rattling jolt, rotors screaming as the trauma team sprinted to the skids. Gurney wheels hit the tarmac fast, medics shouting codes and vitals in clipped urgency.

“Female, early twenties, polytrauma, GCS fluctuating between 5 and 7, post-assault, suspected splenic rupture, hemothorax, decompensating airway. Bradycardic and hypotensive—BP 72/46. Nonresponsive to verbal stimuli.”

Russell was already there, helmet tucked under his arm, flanked by nurses and ER techs. His eyes locked onto the stretcher the moment it came off the chopper.

She stirred.

Bloodied lashes blinked open.

And she found him.

“…Russ?”

He immediately stepped to her side, jogging to keep pace as they pushed her across the rooftop.

“Hey, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her trembling fingers reached—loosely catching his wrist. She didn’t have the strength for more.

“Stay…”

He swallowed hard. “I’ve got you. I swear it.”

She tried to breathe—inhale, exhale—but her chest stuttered, every motion jagged.

Colter ran on her other side, hand still resting near her shoulder. She turned her head, slow and disoriented, catching his eyes.

“It… it hurts.”

Colter barely held his voice steady. “I know, baby. We’re almost there.”

Then—

A jolt. A tremor.

Her arm twitched violently.

Russell’s eyes widened. “She’s seizing!”

“CODE GREY—trauma seizure!” the nurse yelled. “Push 5mg midazolam IV—stat!”

Her hand slipped from Russell’s wrist as her body arched against the restraints, eyes rolled back, limbs stiffening.

“Go, go, go!” Colter shouted. “Get her inside!”

The doors slammed behind the gurney as they rolled her into the bay—white floodlights overhead casting everything in surgical clarity.

Six people descended on her.

A nurse cut off the last remnants of clothing.

A trauma surgeon slid a gloved hand across her distended abdomen, already discolored from bleeding.

A respiratory tech secured a 7.5 ET tube, intubating her in seconds.

“BP 64/38. HR 121 and irregular. Pupils sluggish. SpO₂ falling—63%.”

“She’s bleeding out. Chest tube, right side. FAST scan shows free fluid in abdomen—likely spleen.”

“Prep for laparotomy—get vascular in here, page O-neg to trauma three!”

They loaded her with fluids—two units of uncrossmatched O-neg blood, 1L of Lactated Ringers, wide open through bilateral 16-gauge IVs.

A nurse pressed a stethoscope to her chest.

“She’s in V-tach—irregular. She’s circling the drain.”

“Epi again. We need to crack her open now.”

Russell stood frozen, staring through the small square trauma glass window in the swinging doors. Flashes of movement. The red of blood. The white blur of gowns and gloves.

Dory was sobbing into Colter’s chest now, her whole body shaking.

Colter stood still, arms around her, jaw clenched, staring down the hallway like he could bend time just by willing it.

Inside the bay, monitors screamed, the hum of suction and the clatter of surgical trays ringing out like war drums.

Russell’s hand pressed to the glass.

They’d seen blood before. They’d lost teammates before.

But this?

This was their sister.

A trauma surgeon worked over her abdomen, clamp in hand.

“Spleen’s ruptured. Bleeding from the hilum. Clamp and remove—pack the cavity.”

“Thoracic cavity still has residual blood. Second chest tube placed—output already at 700ccs.”

“She’s holding sinus now. BP’s rising. We’ve got perfusion again.”

“Good. Finish and get her prepped for ICU. We’re not extubating—she’s still postictal and sedated.”

A young trauma resident in blood-smeared scrubs stepped out, pulling down his surgical mask.

“Family of the Shaw patient?”

All three turned instantly.

“I’m Dr. Lai. She’s alive.”

Colter nodded tightly, but didn’t exhale.

“She coded briefly. Had a generalized seizure with secondary cardiac instability. But we managed to stabilize her. She’s had a splenectomy—ruptured spleen, chest tubes bilaterally, and she’s still ventilated. She’ll be moved to the ICU once we finish post-op imaging.”

Dory sagged against Colter, a silent sob shuddering through her.

Russell looked back at the trauma doors.

“She asked me to stay,” he whispered.

“She knew we were here,” Colter added, voice thick. “She held on.”

The doctor nodded. “She’s still critical. But she made it through the first fight.”

And now, they waited for the next.

The hum of machines was nearly rhythmic — the steady beep of the EKG, the hiss-click of the mechanical ventilator, and the soft whirl of the IV pumps stacked like sentinels at her bedside.

Her skin was pale. Still. The only motion: the gentle rise and fall of her chest as the ET tube helped her breathe, secured in place with pale blue tape. Central line in her right subclavian. Arterial line monitoring her BP in real time. Post-op dressing across her left abdomen, where her spleen had once been.

Colter stood beside her with one hand gripping the rail, the other wrapped loosely around her wrist — like he could anchor her to this world by touch alone.

Russell sat slouched in the corner, elbows on knees, staring at nothing.

Dory paced near the window, holding her sister’s phone, scrolling through old photos and quietly whispering stories aloud.

“Remember when you climbed up that hay silo just to prove you were faster than Russ? And he nearly threw up when he saw how high you were? You said ‘I wasn’t scared — just annoyed I got my jeans muddy.’” She laughed, the sound cracked and fragile.

Colter smirked. “She was always fearless.”

“She was always reckless,” Russell muttered. “And fast.”

“Until it mattered,” Colter added, quieter. “She held out long enough to see us.”

A silence settled. Thick. Trembling.

Then — her fingers twitched.

Dory gasped.

Russell stood instantly. “Was that—?”

Another twitch. This time, her lids fluttered.

Colter leaned closer, squeezing her hand. “Hey… hey, kid. You with us?”

Her eyes opened — sluggish at first, pupils dilated from sedation.

And then—locked onto Colter.

Her gaze darted, lips parting—but only a soft gagging noise escaped. Her brow furrowed, panic rising in her eyes.

“She’s awake,” Dory whispered. “Oh my God—she’s waking up.”

Colter pressed his hand to her cheek. “Hey, breathe. You’re safe, you’re intubated. Just nod for me. Can you hear me?”

A weak nod. Barely there. But definite.

Russell was already hitting the code button. “We need respiratory. She’s awake and distressed—get the vent team in here now!”

A nurse rushed in, quickly scanning vitals. “She’s post-op day zero, we’ve been weaning sedation—she may be ready.”

A respiratory therapist followed, checking cuff pressure, tube placement, and confirming:

“Spontaneous breathing trials look good. She’s initiating breaths above the rate.”

“Let’s extubate,” Russell barked. “Now.”

Within minutes, the RT suctioned the airway, deflated the cuff, and with Colter stabilizing her head, they gently removed the ET tube.

She gagged, coughed violently, tears streaming down her cheeks — but she was breathing.

“She’s oxygenating on her own,” the nurse confirmed. “SpO₂ 96% on 6L via nasal cannula.”

Colter leaned in. “There you are. You’re back.”

Her lips moved again, rasping dry and raw:

“Something’s wrong…”

Colter froze. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes rolled back slightly — and then she cried out.

Her whole body tensed. Abdomen contracted violently, and a blood-soaked spot bloomed on her dressing.

Russell cursed. “Her belly—shit, that’s internal again—”

Dory hit the call button. “She’s bleeding!”

“BP is dropping—94/52!” the nurse called. “Tachycardic—HR 138!”

“Rebound tenderness—rigid abdomen!” Colter shouted. “She’s peritonitic—her suture line ruptured!”

“Page trauma surgery—STAT!”

Another tremor—her back arched, arms jerking.

“She’s seizing again!”

A nurse forced in lorazepam, and the monitor flatlined briefly into V-fib before stabilizing on its own.

Her eyes rolled back.

She was unconscious again.

Being wheeled back down to the OR.

The Shaw siblings stood outside ICU room 3A, her blood staining the sheets behind her as the team shouted overhead pages and orders.

None of them spoke.

Colter’s knuckles were white from gripping the doorway.

Dory slid down the wall, hand pressed to her mouth.

Russell’s voice broke first.

“She just woke up.”

The trauma team was already scrubbed and waiting as the gurney slammed through the double doors.

“She’s post-op splenectomy, suture dehiscence with acute abdominal bleeding. Seizing prior to arrival. BP 82/44, HR 146 and irregular. Responsive to pain only.”

“Let’s go! 2 units PRBCs, pressure bag the saline, get a crash cart bedside and prep for open laparotomy!”

The monitors shrieked as the anesthesia team moved fast — securing her airway again, pushing etomidate and succinylcholine, sliding the endotracheal tube in and connecting her to the ventilator.

“Midline incision—scalpel!”

A hot rush of dark blood spilled as the blade opened her surgical site.

“She’s bleeding from the short gastric arteries — staple line failure, maybe slipped ligature. Clamp! I need suction!”

The surgeon’s voice was sharp, deliberate.

A surgical assistant wiped blood from her brow. “She’s in hemorrhagic shock. Core temp is dropping—93.6. Administering warm saline.”

“She’s circling the drain again.”

“Heart’s erratic. V-fib!”

“Push 1 mg epi. Defib to 200 joules — clear!”

BZZZT.

A beat.

Then another.

Then a rhythm.

“She’s back. BP’s climbing. Let’s finish the hemostasis—lap sponges, now!”

Colter hadn’t sat since the OR doors closed.

“She was just awake…” he repeated again. “She was just awake. I held her hand. She was breathing. She talked to me—”

His voice cracked and caught on a sob as he leaned against the wall, rubbing his face hard. His legs gave under him just a fraction—but enough.

Dory caught him first, slipping under one arm.

Russell reached him second, holding the other.

“She was right there,” Colter whispered, barely able to say the words. “We had her back.”

Dory’s voice broke. “She’s still fighting. You know she is.”

Russell looked down the hallway toward the OR sign glowing IN USE.

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Because if he opened his mouth, he might never stop screaming.

The OR doors swung open.

A nurse stepped out, peeling off her mask, eyes tired but calm.

“She’s out of surgery,” she said. “We stabilized the bleed. There was a partial tear along the staple line. She lost a lot of blood, but she’s holding now. We’re taking her back up to the ICU. You can see her once she’s settled.”

Colter nodded mutely, eyes red.

Dory hugged herself, whispering a soft “thank God.”

“I’m gonna get us some coffee,” Russell said quietly. “Be right behind you.”

He turned down the hallway and walked until he found the nearest bathroom.

Locked the door.

Leaned against the sink.

And broke.

His hands slammed down once, twice, as he pressed his forehead to the mirror and let out a low, guttural sound no one else would ever hear. Not Colter. Not Dory.

Only the tile and the hum of fluorescent lights bore witness to how much it shattered him.

She was back in the bed.

Still pale. Still hooked up to machines.

But breathing on her own again.

And slowly, very slowly, her eyelids fluttered open.

Colter was the first thing she saw.

Her voice came out cracked, papery.

“Colt… where’s Russ?”

Colter swallowed down the lump in his throat. Sat forward, brushing a trembling hand against her forehead.

“He’s getting coffee. You gave us a hell of a scare, kid.”

Her eyes darted around the unfamiliar room, chest rising fast.

“Where… am I? What’s happening?”

“You’re at St. Dominic’s. You’re in the ICU. But you’re safe now. Surgery went well. They had to go back in. You lost a lot of blood.”

“I thought I was… gone.”

Colter leaned closer, voice low, lips against her hair.

“You came back to us. That’s what matters.”

The room had settled into a kind of soft quiet. Machines still clicked and beeped with their steady rhythm, oxygen hissed through nasal prongs, and outside the door, the distant shuffle of night shift nurses echoed like ghosts in a chapel.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly.

She wasn’t alone.

“…Dory?” her voice rasped, strained and weak.

Dory was seated at her bedside, holding her hand lightly. She sat up straighter. “Hey, I’m right here. You need something?”

The reader nodded faintly, her voice barely a whisper. “Climb in with me… please.”

Without hesitation, Dory kicked off her shoes and carefully slid into the hospital bed. She tucked herself behind her baby sister, cradling her gently, mindful of every chest tube, abdominal incision, and IV line.

“I’ve got you,” Dory whispered, one arm under her neck, the other hand resting over her sternum. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

Tears slipped from the reader’s lashes, her head resting beneath Dory’s chin.

“I missed you…”

Dory kissed her temple. “Not half as much as I missed you.”

Colter returned from the bathroom, face freshly splashed, red-rimmed eyes clearer now.

He paused at the door.

Both sisters were asleep, tangled together on the narrow bed, monitors glowing faintly around them like stars.

He stepped back, letting the door shut quietly.

Russell arrived moments later, holding a tray of coffee and a fresh hoodie under his arm.

“Everything okay?” he whispered.

Colter just nodded. “She asked for Dory. They’re both out.”

Russell gave a small exhale and stepped inside, placing the drinks down.

Then he sat at the foot of the bed.

Watched her chest rise and fall.

He hesitated for a moment… then gently lifted one of her legs, the one without the IV, and rested it on his lap. He bent forward, rested his head just above her knee, and let himself breathe again.

He stayed like that for a long time.

A small sound broke the stillness.

Then another—wet, strangled, almost like sobbing through gritted teeth.

Her eyes blinked open fast—wild, panicked.

“It hurts—oh God, it hurts—”

Dory jolted up, immediately reaching for her. “Sweetheart, I’ve got you, breathe, just breathe—”

Russell’s head snapped up.

“I can’t—oh my God—I can’t—make it stop!”

She writhed in the bed, body stiffening, trying to arch her back but crying out when it pulled at her surgical site and chest tube.

Russell mashed the page button. Once. Twice. Then again.

“Come on, come on—someone get in here!”

“Vitals spiking,” Dory murmured, looking at the monitor. “BP’s 168 over 102—heart rate 144!”

Colter was back in the room before they could call for him. “What happened?”

“She’s in pain—bad—she’s panicking.”

“Hurts—hurts everywhere—” she gasped, nails digging into the sheets. “Please—please—make it stop—”

“Hey, hey,” Russell was by her head, brushing back sweat-soaked hair. “I’m right here. You’re not alone.”

Dory squeezed her hand. “Pain meds aren’t working. She needs IV dilaudid, now.”

“Why aren’t they answering the damn page?” Russell growled, pressing the button again.

“Okay, baby, okay,” Colter said gently, voice low and firm, taking her other hand. “I know it hurts. You’re safe. You made it back. Just breathe with me. In… out…”

Tears streamed down her face. “Russ—make it stop…”

Russell’s throat clenched as he held her closer, arms wrapped around her shaking form.

“I’m here. I swear to God I’m here. No one’s gonna let you suffer alone. You hear me?”

Just then, a nurse burst in, followed by a night shift resident already pulling gloves on.

“Status?” she asked quickly.

“Breakthrough pain. History of splenectomy, reoperation for post-op hemorrhage. She’s postictal and tachycardic,” Colter reported immediately.

“We’ll push 1mg dilaudid IV, with Zofran to prevent nausea. Hang a second bag of saline and prep PRN orders for additional bolus.”

“You’re okay now,” Russell whispered to her, tears slipping silently down his cheek.

“You’re not alone.”

The room was finally still again. The dilaudid—administered slowly through her central line—had begun to take hold. The tremors in her body eased. Her chest stopped hitching. Her breath slowed to something closer to normal, and the clenched fists that had been clawing the sheets unfurled one by one. She drifted, still pale, still monitored from all sides, but no longer lost in agony. Russell had resumed his seat at the foot of the bed, her legs resting across his thighs again. This time, his hand remained on her shin—gentle, grounding. Colter leaned against the side rail, chin resting in his palm, eyes never once leaving her face. Dory, wrapped in a thin hospital blanket, remained curled in bed with her, arm draped protectively across her middle, eyes fluttering but refusing to close fully. They had her. For now. The first scream hit like a gunshot. “No—get off me!” The reader thrashed hard, arms flailing, fingers clawing at invisible restraints. “Don’t touch me! Please—Colter!*” Her legs jerked violently— —and Dory’s knee slammed into Russell’s head with a loud thud. “Jesus Christ!” Russell shouted, sitting up with a wince and clutching his skull. Dory nearly tumbled off the bed. “She’s dreaming—no, she’s in it. She’s reliving it!” Colter was already moving, grabbing her wrists before she struck her IV again. “Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s Colter—you're safe.” “Don’t let them drown me!” she gasped, kicking and twisting. “Please, I’ll tell you, just—” She let out a sob, eyes still locked somewhere far, far away. Her monitors were screaming. “Heart rate’s spiking—156. BP climbing. She’s going into full sympathetic panic,” Dory said breathlessly, rolling out of bed. “We need to ground her—get her out of the flashback.” Colter pulled her upright, tucking her against his chest tightly. “Hey—HEY! Look at me! You’re not there! It’s me—Colter. It’s your brother. Listen to my voice.” She fought his grip at first—flailing weakly, breathing in wet, panicked gasps—but then she choked on a sob, and her fingers curled into his shirt. “Colter—Colt—make it stop—please—make it stop—” “I’ve got you,” he whispered hoarsely, rocking slightly. “You’re safe now. You’re not there anymore. You’re with us. You’re home.” Dory hit the room’s call button again. Russell paced like a caged animal, eyes flicking between her monitors and her face, pulse ticking visibly in his temple. “Where the hell is the night nurse?!” “Let’s try Ativan,” the nurse said as she finally burst in, already prepping the syringe. “She’s in a trauma flashback. Keep her upright. I’ll administer IM, fast-acting.” The needle hit her thigh. She whimpered, eyes wet and wide. “Don’t let them take me again…” Colter’s arms only tightened. “No one’s taking you anywhere. You hear me? I’m here. I’ve got you. Every second.” As the sedative took hold, her shivering slowed. Breaths deepened. Her head dropped onto Colter’s shoulder with a final, trembled sigh. And she slept.

The tone of the room had shifted.

She was still pale, still tired, but there was light behind her eyes now. Her voice, though raspy, carried more weight. Her fingers didn’t tremble as much when they reached for her cup of water. She was eating little bits here and there — pudding, applesauce, soup — and, most importantly, she was beginning to smile again.

Her brothers hovered like satellites.

Colter was lounging in the recliner by the window, arms crossed over his chest, eyes half-lidded but always alert. Russell had brought in a set of sweatpants and a hoodie for her to wear once she could sit up long enough — he’d folded them so carefully on the foot of the bed you’d think they were relics.

“I’m just saying,” Russell said now, glancing toward Colter, “once she’s cleared to be discharged, someone’s gonna have to keep her grounded. Her house is a war zone.”

Colter huffed. “You volunteering?”

Russell tilted his head. “Are you?”

“I’d like to be with both of you,” came a quiet voice from the bed.

The brothers looked over, surprised to see her eyes open again, soft and hazy from her nap.

“I mean… if that’s okay?” she added.

Russell stood immediately and leaned against the bed rail. “You want to come with us? You sure? No pressure, sweetheart.”

She gave a tiny nod. “I just… I don’t want to be alone yet. I know my house needs time, and being with you guys... I think I’ll sleep better.”

Colter smiled faintly, stepping forward and brushing her hair back gently. “You come with us, no argument. But,” he added firmly, “if you start pushing too hard — or if you have any setbacks — you’re going to Dory’s. She’s already threatening to turn your room into a fort with fairy lights and weighted blankets.”

She gave a tiny smile at that. “That doesn’t sound terrible, actually.”

Russell laughed. “You’d be spoiled rotten.”

“I’m already spoiled.”

“Yeah, well,” Colter smirked. “That’s not changing.”

She blinked slowly, exhaustion still heavy behind her eyes. “Do I get my own bed?”

“You get the damn couch until you can outrun me again,” Russell teased.

She rolled her eyes with a ghost of a grin, but the warmth in the room was undeniable.

She had finally dozed off again — her head tilted gently to the side, IV bags dripping rhythmically beside her.

Colter and Russell sat outside her room, sipping bad coffee from paper cups.

“She’s still having the nightmares,” Russell said quietly.

“Yeah,” Colter nodded, running a hand through his hair. “She doesn’t cry out anymore, but her legs twitch. Jaw clenches. Sometimes she whispers stuff—begging, mostly.”

Russell stared down at the cup in his hands. “I keep thinking about what she looked like when we found her. What they did to her. The bruises… her voice…”

Colter swallowed hard. “We’re gonna be there for every step. Every dream. Every time she wakes up in a sweat. Doesn’t matter where we are — she calls, we answer.”

“She won’t be alone again.”

Russell nodded. “Nope. Not on our watch.”

She stirred again under the thin hospital blanket.

This time, when her eyes opened, she didn’t panic.

Instead, she looked around — saw Colter’s flannel thrown over the foot of her bed, Russell’s hoodie on the chair, both brothers right outside her door.

And for the first time since they’d brought her home...

She felt safe.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Thin Blue Line

Tw: overdose

It was supposed to be a simple bust. Just a hit on a suspected stash house that Narcotics and Metro had been watching for weeks. Tim Bradford had gone over the plan five times with his rookie — you — because he knew you liked to be prepared, and because lately, he’d found himself wanting to protect you more than he probably should.

When you’d pulled your vest on that morning, he’d tried not to let his eyes linger too long. Tried not to think about how your laugh made his chest tight or how he’d started looking for you in every room.

But now, none of that mattered. Not with the way your head lolled against his chest as he half-dragged, half-carried you out of the smoke-filled house.

It had gone bad so fast. One suspect tried to flush the stash, another threw a flashbang — then there was the unmistakable hiss of something aerosolized. You’d been closest when a canister hit the ground and popped. Fentanyl. Or worse — carfentanil, maybe.

“Rookie!” Tim had shouted over the commotion, but your eyes were already glassy. You’d inhaled it before you’d even realized.

Now, out on the front lawn, he lowered you to the ground, cradling your head in his lap as he tore your vest open to check your breathing.

Your eyes rolled back. Your body went rigid — then snapped into violent, uncontrolled jerks.

“Shit — no, no, no. Rookie —!” He fumbled for his radio, pressing the button so hard his knuckles whitened.

“7-Adam-19, I need a bus now — Officer down, possible overdose, she’s seizing — get me a medic here now! Now!”

Your jaw clenched so tight your teeth ground together. Foam pooled at the corner of your lips as your limbs thrashed against him. He tried to hold you steady, turning you on your side so you wouldn’t choke.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I got you — just breathe, just breathe — please, rookie, please—.”

The seizure broke as fast as it came, leaving you limp and barely breathing. He ripped open the Narcan kit with shaking hands, pressed the nozzle to your nostril, and squeezed.

“Come on. Come on. Come back to me…” He braced himself, watching desperately for any sign that the opioid reversal was working.

A second later, your chest bucked — and you sucked in a strangled, gasping breath before convulsing forward, retching violently.

“Hey — easy, easy, on your side, I got you—” He turned your head just in time as you threw up on the grass, coughing and choking between shallow, panicked breaths.

The paramedics were running toward him now but Tim barely noticed — his entire focus was on you, on the way you sobbed for air and grabbed for his arm like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

“BP’s low, we need an IV!” one medic shouted, dropping beside you. Another slid an oxygen mask over your mouth and nose.

“She seized hard, we’ve got airway compromise — give her another Narcan dose IV, keep bagging if she drops,” the lead medic barked to his partner.

Tim didn’t let go of your hand, didn’t flinch when your fingers dug into his wrist like you were scared he’d disappear.

“Rookie? Hey. You hear me?” His voice cracked. He didn’t care. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Just breathe for me. Slow — right here. You’re safe. I got you.”

You coughed, lips stained with spit and vomit, but your eyes fluttered open enough to find his. A broken whisper escaped your raw throat.

“I’m s-sorry… messed up —”

“No. No, you didn’t mess up. This isn’t on you.” His thumb brushed your cheek, clearing away tears and sweat and dirt. “You did everything right. I should’ve kept you back — this is on me. Just hold on, okay? You’re not going anywhere.”

The medic squeezed more Narcan into your IV. Your chest rose and fell with shaky, ragged breaths. For a second, you thought you might seize again — your fingers twitched — but then Tim’s hand closed around yours, grounding you.

“You’re gonna be okay, rookie. You hear me? You’re gonna be okay.” His voice was low and raw, and it carried something neither of you had said out loud yet — but that you both knew was true.

The ambulance rocked as it sped through LA’s streets, sirens wailing. Tim sat wedged on the bench seat, gear pressing into his hip, but he didn’t care. His whole world had narrowed to the small space between the gurney and his clenched fists.

You were strapped to the stretcher, oxygen mask fogging with each weak breath. An IV line snaked from your arm to the drip bag swinging overhead. The paramedic was calling in vitals, adjusting your O2, but all Tim saw was you — pale, clammy, lashes fluttering as you fought to swim up through the haze.

Stay with me. Just keep breathing. That’s all you have to do

He’d said those words out loud so many times his throat burned. But now they were a chant in his head — louder than the sirens, louder than the medics, louder than the fear.

Your eyes cracked open, unfocused at first — then darted toward him.

“B-Bradford…” It came out muffled under the mask, your voice hoarse, broken.

“I’m here,” he rasped, leaning closer. He pressed his hand to your calf, squeezing through your uniform pants. A grounding touch — a promise.

Your fingers fumbled weakly until they caught his wrist. You gripped him like you were drowning.

“Stay… stay with me, please—”

God, he felt something split wide in his chest. *I’m not supposed to feel like this. Not about my rookie. Not this much.* But the rules didn’t matter now. Not when your nails dug into his skin like a lifeline.

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice breaking. He squeezed your leg tighter, thumb rubbing circles into the fabric. “Eyes on me, okay? Just breathe. You’re safe. We’re almost there.”

“BP’s dropping again,” the medic said sharply. “Heart rate’s bradying — sixty, now fifty-eight — O2 sat’s falling. Damn it, she’s relapsing.”

Tim’s eyes shot to your face. Your breaths were ragged, shallow — the hiss of the oxygen mask too fast, too thin.

Your lips were turning dusky at the edges — a deepening blue creeping across them, staining the cracks in your dry skin.

No. No, no, no.

“Come on, rookie. Hey — look at me,” he demanded, voice hard now, trying to claw you back with sheer force of will. “You’re gonna breathe. You’re gonna fight. You hear me? That’s an order.”

The medic was already drawing up another dose of Narcan. “Her respirations are under eight — bag her if she drops more. We’ll push a second IV dose. Sometimes the half-life’s too short with this much fentanyl.”

Your eyelids fluttered, then drooped. A gurgling sound escaped your throat as your chest stuttered.

Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare leave me.

Tim braced a hand on your shoulder, the other still firm on your leg — a silent anchor. If he could’ve given you his own breath, he would have.

“Push it now!” he barked at the medic, not caring that it wasn’t his place. He just needed you here.Needed that spark in your eyes. Needed the soft laugh he’d replayed in his head at 2 a.m. when he couldn’t sleep.

The Narcan went in. For a moment — an endless, horrible moment — nothing happened. The medic pressed the bag valve mask to your face, forcing air into your lungs.

Then you jerked under his hands — a deep, rasping gasp tearing out of you. You coughed violently under the mask, your chest heaving as bile and mucus dribbled onto your vest.

“That’s it — good, good — keep bagging her, we need to clear that airway,” the medic said, voice tight but steady.

Tim let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His forehead dropped for a second to your knee. He squeezed your calf so hard he thought he’d bruise you.

You stubborn, reckless, brilliant kid. You’re not going anywhere.

He looked up at you again — your eyes half-open, glazed with tears. You weren’t fully there yet, but your fingers twitched like you were trying to reach for him again.

He bent low enough so you could see him through the mask and the blur.

“Stay with me, rookie,” he whispered, raw and hoarse. “I’m not going anywhere. Neither are you.”

The rig hit a bump. The medic called out for the ER on the radio, rattling off vitals and transport ETA. Tim barely heard it.

All he could do was hold on — to you, to the feel of your leg under his palm, to the silent promise echoing in his chest:

You’re gonna come back. I’m gonna make sure of it.

The ambulance jolted hard as it backed up to the hospital bay doors, tires bumping over the curb. The medic braced a hand on your shoulder, checking your pupils with a penlight as the rig rocked to a stop.

“BP’s seventy over forty — heart rate fifty-four, dropping — she’s bradying again,” the medic called out, voice tight over the squawk of the radio. “Get respiratory on standby — we may need to intubate immediately.”

Tim sat hunched on the bench seat, one hand still locked around your calf — an anchor for both of you. Your eyes were half-open, glazed, chest heaving with ragged, shallow breaths. He could feel how cold your skin was through the fabric of your uniform.

Stay with me. Just stay awake, rookie. Breathe.

He squeezed your leg tighter. “Hey — hey, eyes on me. You’re okay, we’re here. You hear that? You made it.”

But you didn’t respond. Instead, your whole body tensed under the straps. Your back arched off the gurney, fists clenching tight as your jaw snapped shut.

“She’s seizing again — clear the airway, roll her on her side!” the medic snapped, wrenching your shoulder just as foam and spit pooled at your lips.

Tim’s stomach dropped. He reached over, forcing your chin open so you wouldn’t bite your tongue. He didn’t care that he was probably breaking protocol — he wasn’t going to let you choke in front of him.

“Let’s go — doors open, move, move!” the driver yelled as he swung the rig doors wide. The bright ER bay lights spilled in, harsh and sterile.

“Notify trauma — we’ve got a narcotic OD with repeated seizures, status epilepticus possible — get a crash cart ready!” the medic shouted as they wheeled you down the ramp.

Your seizure hadn’t stopped — your legs were jerking against the straps, arms thrashing until Tim grabbed your wrist and pinned it gently but firmly to the stretcher.

“I got you — I got you — come on, rookie, come on—”

Nurses and techs swarmed the stretcher the moment you hit the trauma bay doors.

“BP’s tanking — sixty over thirty!”

“Bag her, bag her — we’re not moving enough air!”

“Get two milligrams lorazepam IV, stat — push it slow, watch for respiratory depression.”

“Already not breathing — we’re tubing her, we have to.”

One nurse shoved a bag valve mask over your face while another popped open an intubation tray, snapping on gloves.

“Sir, you need to step back,” a nurse barked at Tim, trying to block him from following them deeper into the trauma bay.

Tim’s eyes went wild. “The hell I am! That’s my rookie — she’s still seizing — you are not putting me out there while she’s like this!”

“Sir, we’re working on her — you can’t be in the sterile area—”

“Like hell. I’m not leaving her alone—” He pushed past the nurse’s arm, planting himself right by your side as they wheeled you into the trauma room.

A doctor barely spared him a glance. “Security—”

“No,” another nurse said quickly, recognizing Tim’s badge and the raw desperation in his eyes. “Let him stay by the wall — just stay back, sir.”

Tim flattened himself against the crash cart, one hand never leaving your ankle. He squeezed so hard his knuckles turned white.

He watched, helpless, as they tilted your head back. A doctor slid a laryngoscope into your mouth, threading the endotracheal tube past your seizing jaw.

“Tube’s in — bag her up — sats are climbing—”

“Seizure’s breaking — push that Ativan, get a second line in — we’ll start a Narcan drip to keep reversal steady.”

Tim’s chest heaved with every hiss of the bag valve. He felt like his own lungs were tied to yours — every time your chest rose, his did too.

Stay with me, rookie. Don’t you dare leave me now.

He didn’t care that he wasn’t supposed to be here — that he’d practically shoved a nurse out of the way. Rules didn’t matter when you were on the table, pale and shaking and fighting for every breath.

He caught a glimpse of your hand twitching on the bed rail. He reached out and squeezed your ankle again, voice low but urgent, hoping somehow you could still hear him through the sedation and the tube.

“I’m right here. You’re not alone. Just keep fighting. That’s an order.”

The trauma bay lights were too bright, too harsh — they made everything look too real. Tim kept his hand locked around your ankle, thumb moving in frantic circles against the fabric of your uniform pants, as if his touch alone could keep your pulse steady.

The machines around your bed beeped a steady rhythm at first — until they didn’t.

A sharp alarm split the air, a flat line among the other jagged tones.

“BP’s crashing — forty over nothing—”

“V-fib — she’s in V-fib—”

“Charge the paddles — push one of epi!”

Tim’s breath caught in his throat. He heard the words — knew exactly what they meant — but his brain refused to process them.

*No, no, no. Rookie. Come on. Not like this.*

A nurse tried to push him back again. “Sir, you need to leave—”

“I’m not— I’m not leaving her—” His voice cracked, eyes wide as the trauma team swarmed you, slapping defibrillator pads onto your chest.

“Clear!”

Your body jolted violently. Tim’s knees nearly buckled. Stay with me. Stay with me.

He didn’t even notice Nolan at first — not until he felt Nolan’s hand clamp onto his shoulder.

“Tim. Hey— Tim.” Nolan’s voice cut through the panic, low but firm. “You have to let them work.”

“I can’t— I can’t leave her— Nolan, I can’t—”

“Bradford.” Nolan’s hand tightened, anchoring him. “They’re calling security, man. Let’s not make this worse. Come on — come outside. I’m right here. They’ve got her.”

“I promised— I promised I wouldn’t leave—”

“I know. I know. But right now you’re in the way. You staying here doesn’t help her fight.”

Another alarm shrieked. Someone barked for more epi, more Narcan drip. Tim felt like he was underwater — all the medical chatter blurred into noise, just one long tunnel of white static in his skull.

He didn’t fight Nolan when he felt himself being steered backward, away from the bed. His feet moved but his eyes never left you — pale on the table, tubes snaking from your mouth, chest rising only when the bag squeezed air into your lungs.

They called for the paddles again.

Stay with me, rookie. Please—

They hit the doors backward, out into the hallway. Nolan pressed him against the wall, keeping a hand braced on his chest like he might bolt back through the doors if he got the chance.

Tim’s hands shook so badly he had to press his palms flat against the wall to stop them from swinging.

Nolan pulled out his phone with his free hand, thumb fumbling on the screen.

“Hey, hey, listen to me,” Nolan said, voice low but steady. “I’m calling my wife — she’s on her way. And Lucy — did you call her?”

Tim managed a jerky nod, his chest hitching with a dry, desperate breath. “She’s coming. I told her. She— she’s her best friend. She’s gonna lose it—”

“No, she’s gonna be here. They both are. They’re gonna sit with you until this is over, you hear me?”

Nolan put the phone to his ear, stepping just far enough away to give Tim room to breathe but never letting go of his arm.

“Hey, babe — yeah, it’s me. I need you down here. Tim’s rookie — she’s fighting for her life. Bring Lucy if she’s not already halfway here. Please — yeah, just hurry. He needs you both.”

Tim’s vision blurred, throat burning like he’d swallowed acid. He pressed a fist to his chest, trying to keep his lungs working. Stay with me. Please stay with me.

Behind the doors, he could still hear the muffled orders: “Clear! Pushing one of epi. Bag her again.”

He didn’t know if he was saying it for you or himself — but he whispered it anyway, his voice cracked and raw:

“Stay with me, rookie. Stay with me. Don’t leave me. Please—.”

Tim didn’t know how long he’d been pressed to the hallway wall outside the trauma bay. Seconds felt like hours — his mind replayed every jolt of your body under the paddles, every ragged breath forced through that tube.

He barely registered Nolan’s hand on his shoulder anymore — until the double doors slammed open and a blur of dark hair and frantic footsteps rushed toward him.

“Tim!” Lucy’s voice cut through the haze. He looked up just in time to see her push past Nolan and grab his forearms, searching his face like she expected to see blood.

“Is she—? Tell me she’s okay—” Lucy’s eyes were wide, already glassy with tears. She glanced through the trauma doors but all she could see were flashes of movement — nurses in scrubs, the hum of machines, a barked order to push more epi.

Tim opened his mouth but no words came out. He just shook his head helplessly.

“Oh, God…” Lucy’s shoulders shook. Nolan’s wife appeared beside her, breathless, a big hospital coffee in each hand — she passed one to Tim automatically. He didn’t even notice it spill when his hands trembled too hard to hold it.

Lucy turned to Nolan’s wife. “Can you sit with him? I need— I need to see her. I have to—”

But a nurse blocked her when she moved for the door. “Family only. They’re working on her—”

*Family.* The word stung because Lucy was your family — more than that, really. She’d been your best friend since college. The one who’d dragged you to the academy information session when you said you weren’t cut out for the badge. The one who stayed up all night with you, reading your polygraph questions and laughing at your nerves.

They’d been inseparable. They still were.

Lucy turned back to Tim, tears sliding down her cheeks. Her voice dropped — low, raw, and sharp as a blade.

“You know she only signed up because of me, right? Because I wouldn’t shut up about how much good we could do if we wore the uniform. I swore I’d protect her — I swore,Tim.”

Tim’s chest squeezed so tight he thought he might choke. “She’s tougher than anyone I know—” he rasped. “She’s gonna make it.”

Lucy’s eyes flicked to the trauma doors again, then back to him — and for a moment, the air between them felt like it used to: raw honesty, no bullshit, no walls.

“You love her.” Lucy didn’t ask — she stated it, voice steady despite the tears. “I saw how you looked at her before you even realized you were doing it. I saw how she looked at you, too.”

Tim shook his head, a bitter laugh tearing out of his throat. “Lucy— don’t—”

“No, listen to me.” Lucy’s hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking him so he had to look at her. “I’m not your rookie anymore — I’m her best friend. And you love her, Tim. You do. You can lie to yourself all day, but you can’t lie to me.”

Behind them, the doors flapped open again — a nurse calling for another cart, someone yelling to page Respiratory now.

Lucy’s fingers dug into his jacket. “If she pulls through this — and she will, because she’s too damn stubborn not to — you tell her. You don’t wait. You don’t hide behind that that badge and your rules and your walls. If you love her, you tell her, or I swear to God, Tim, you will regret it every single day for the rest of your life.”

Tim’s throat burned. He couldn’t form the words. He just nodded once, jaw locked tight to keep it from shaking.

Lucy’s eyes softened. She let go of his shoulders just enough to pull him into a hug — tight, fierce, protective.

“She needs you, Tim,” she whispered, voice muffled against his chest. “She needs you to fight for her when she can’t fight for herself. So don’t you dare fall apart now.”

Over her shoulder, the trauma bay lights flickered. A nurse stepped out with a grim look — but this time, she beckoned them in.

“They’re moving her to ICU,” she said. “She’s stable for now. You can see her for a minute before they transfer.”

Lucy squeezed his hand so hard it hurt. “Go. Be with her. And when she wakes up — you better tell her.”

Tim exhaled shakily — then pushed through the doors, chasing the only thing in the world that mattered anymore.

The ICU was too quiet. Beeping monitors and the soft hiss of the ventilator filled the sterile room, the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath the thin hospital blanket the only thing convincing Tim Bradford that you were still here — still fighting.

He sat hunched in the uncomfortable vinyl chair pulled up right next to your bed. One of his big hands wrapped carefully around yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he could will warmth back into your skin.

You looked small like this. Too still. A tube snaked from your mouth, tape pulling at the raw skin at the corner of your lips. A heart monitor beeped out a weak but steady rhythm that he clung to like a lifeline.

He cleared his throat — voice hoarse from shouting, from begging, from all the words he’d never had the guts to say when you were awake.

“Hey, rookie.” He squeezed your hand a little. “It’s me. Pretty sure you knew that — I’m not exactly subtle.”

The joke fell flat in the silence, but he pressed on. He needed your brain to hear him — needed you to stay.

“They say coma patients can hear voices. So… that’s what you’re getting. My voice. Lucky you, huh?” He huffed out a small laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Could be worse, you could be stuck listening to Nolan ramble about organic coffee beans for hours.”

He swallowed, eyes flicking over your face — memorizing every line in case he had to carry it alone.

“You know, you… you kinda ruined me, you know that?” He gave a soft, broken chuckle. “First day I saw you — you were with Lucy. You had that big, stupid grin and you were telling her you were never gonna pass the physical test. And then you did. Of course you did — because you always do what you say you can’t. Just to prove yourself wrong.”

He shifted in the chair, leaning closer so he could brush a loose strand of hair off your forehead.

“I think… I think I fell for you right then. And I’ve been trying to talk myself out of it ever since. But you just— you *get* me. You know how to make me laugh when I’m being an ass — which is, let’s be honest, ninety percent of the time. You know when to push, and when to just… sit there with me in the quiet.”

The words caught in his throat, raw and clumsy. He hated being bad at this — hated how it made him feel like the same kid who never knew how to say the right thing.

“People think I don’t feel things. Or that I’m made of stone or some crap like that.” He gave a tired half-smile. “But you — you saw right through all that. And you didn’t run. God help you, you stayed.”

He let out a soft, humorless laugh. “And now look at you. Still staying. Only you’re too damn stubborn to wake up, huh?”

He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles again, grounding himself in the small warmth of your skin.

“I swear to God, rookie, if you make me tell Lucy you didn’t wake up after I finally admit all this mushy crap—” He sniffed, blinking hard. “I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll haunt me with your ghost and throw it in my face every day. So do us both a favor and just… stay. Just wake up. So I can say this when you’re awake and you can roll those pretty eyes at me and tell me I’m an idiot.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you. I’m sorry it took a hospital bed and a tube down your throat for me to say it. But I do. I love you so damn much it terrifies me.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to your temple, careful not to jostle any wires or IV lines.

“Stay with me, rookie. That’s an order.”

A soft knock at the glass door pulled him back. He turned, blinking, as Lucy cracked the door open. Her eyes were red, cheeks flushed from crying — but she managed a watery smile when she saw him practically draped over your bed.

“Hey.” She stepped inside, voice low but warm. “You mind if your other favorite person gets a turn?”

Tim sniffed, squeezing your hand one more time before easing back just enough for Lucy to slip in beside him.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “She’s all yours. But I’m not going far.”

Lucy brushed his arm gently as she passed. “Good. Because when she wakes up, you two have some things to talk about. And I will be eavesdropping.”

Tim huffed out a soft, broken laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

He stepped back just far enough to watch Lucy take your hand — but he didn’t let go completely. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. And he wouldn’t be until you opened your eyes.

Lucy perched herself on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle any wires or the ventilator tubing. She brushed her thumb over your wrist, right next to the IV line, her touch feather-light — like she was scared she might break you if she pressed too hard.

She could feel Tim hovering behind her, but for this moment, it was just you and her. Like it had always been.

“Hey, trouble,” she whispered, voice catching. She gave a soft, watery laugh. “God, you look terrible. I mean, still prettier than me on my best day, but… damn.”

She let out a shaky breath, her eyes flicking over your face — the bruises on your temple, the tape holding your breathing tube in place, the faint beep of your heart on the monitor.

“You remember when we were, like, nineteen? And you talked me into sneaking into that college pool at midnight?” Lucy’s lips curved into a real smile, despite the tears shining in her eyes. “You swore up and down there were no cameras. And then — of course — there were cameras. And we had to run across campus half-dressed and you still thought it was hilarious.”

She sniffed, blinking back tears. “I swear every bad idea I ever had was your idea first. And I wouldn’t trade any of them. Not one. Because it was you. And me. And it’s always been you and me. You’re my second half, dummy. You know that, right?”

She glanced up at Tim for half a second, then back down at you. She squeezed your hand a little tighter.

“And look — I know you heard him.” She gave a soft, fond eye roll at Tim, who huffed out a tiny huff of embarrassed breath behind her. “Yeah, yeah, he thinks he whispered — newsflash, he didn’t. Guy’s got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.”

Lucy leaned closer, her forehead nearly brushing yours.

“So I’m giving you permission, okay? Because I know you — you’d talk yourself out of it. Or worry about me. Or him. Or the job. But I see you two. The way you look at each other when you think nobody’s watching. You’re made for each other, you know that? You get him in a way none of us do. And he gets you. So when you wake up — not if, but when, because I swear I will drag your ass back from the light if I have to — you better let him love you. And you better love him back.”

She brushed a tear off her cheek with the back of her hand, then sniffed loudly.

“And after you do that,” she added, voice lifting into a soft, teasing laugh, “you are gonna help me find a new guy. Because, newsflash, it’s your turn to drag me to awkward speed-dates and swipe for me on those stupid apps. Deal?”

She pressed a kiss to your temple, careful and lingering.

“So come on, trouble. I need my second half back. I need my partner in crime, my dumb bad-idea generator, my best friend. You stay, okay? You stay, and you wake up, and we’ll figure out the rest together. I promise.”

She squeezed your hand again — and for the first time in hours, she swore she felt the tiniest twitch in your fingers.

She looked up at Tim, eyes wide, a tearful grin breaking through. “Did you see that?”

Tim swallowed, his own eyes glassy. He stepped closer, laying his hand over yours too — his big, steady warmth covering both your hands and Lucy’s.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “I saw it.”

Lucy looked back at you, whispering through a smile: “Atta girl. That’s my troublemaker. Come on home.”

Your hand twitched again under Tim’s palm. Then your eyelids fluttered — a tiny shift, barely there, but enough to make Lucy gasp so loudly it startled even Tim.

“Hey— hey, hey— look at that—” Lucy’s voice broke with a hopeful laugh. “That’s it, trouble, come on back—”

Your lashes fluttered, your brow pinched tight. Then your eyes cracked open — dazed, pupils blown wide, blinking at the bright ICU lights overhead.

“Hey— rookie— hey, look at me,” Tim said quickly, leaning in until he blocked out the harsh glare. His face was the first thing you saw — eyes rimmed red, his expression raw but trying so hard to stay calm for you.

Your chest hitched. The steady hiss of the ventilator made your heart hammer faster — the tube down your throat felt wrong, choking, and you gagged against it, eyes wide as panic flared bright and wild.

A muffled, wet sound caught in your throat — you couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe right, your hands scrabbling at the tube, the tape, trying to pull it out.

“Whoa, whoa— hey— no, no— easy, rookie, easy—” Tim grabbed your wrists gently but firmly, pinning them to your sides before you could tear the tube free. “Hey, listen to me— you’re okay. You’re safe. They had to intubate you, that’s all. You’re still here. Just breathe for me— slow.”

Your eyes darted frantically — from Tim to the monitors to Lucy, who was half crying, half trying to hold your shoulder down.

“She’s panicking—” Lucy said breathlessly. “I’ll get the nurse!” She squeezed your arm once and bolted for the hallway, yelling for help as she ran.

Tim leaned in close, forehead almost touching yours, one big hand pressing your shoulder down, the other still wrapped gently around your wrist so you wouldn’t fight the tube.

“Hey— look at me, rookie. Right here. Right here, come on.” His voice dropped into that calm, firm tone he used on tense scenes — that steady authority you’d clung to a hundred times before. “You’re okay. They’re breathing for you, okay? Machine’s doing the work. Just ride it out— let it help you. You’re safe.”

Your chest heaved. Hot tears leaked from the corners of your eyes as you gagged again, the panic pressing so hard it felt like your ribs would crack.

“I know, I know it feels wrong,” Tim murmured, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I know. But you’re still here, you hear me? You stayed. You did what I asked. You stayed.”

Your eyes flicked to his — glassy, wild, desperate — but you held his gaze, and he felt your hands go slack under his grip instead of fighting.

“That’s it— that’s my girl. Good rookie. Just breathe. In and out, easy. They’ll be here in a second to get this tube out, okay? I’m not leaving. I’m right here.”

A nurse burst in behind Lucy, a respiratory tech right on her heels. They started pulling on gloves, talking fast:

“Let’s extubate her— she’s conscious enough, fighting the tube—”

Tim stroked your hair back from your forehead as they moved in, his voice a low anchor in the flurry of motion.

“Hey— hey, look at me. Just a little longer. You’re okay. You’re okay. Stay with me, rookie. You’re almost there.

And through the tears and panic, your hand tightened around his — just enough to say I hear you. I’m staying.Here’s the next detailed, raw part — your tube removal, your body fighting back, panic, mess, and then all the raw confessions with every cheesy, vulnerable bit.

The respiratory therapist moved fast, gloved hands steady but brisk. Tim didn’t let go of your hand — not for a second — while the nurse checked your vitals again, rattling off numbers under her breath.

“BP stabilizing — ninety over fifty, still low but climbing. O2 at ninety-four with assist.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” the RT said gently, voice calm but efficient as she checked your tube ties. “We’re gonna pull this tube out, alright? You’re gonna feel like you can’t breathe for a second — but trust me, you can. When I say cough, I want you to cough hard, okay?”

Your eyes were wide, still wet with tears. You squeezed Tim’s hand like a lifeline, trying to nod despite the tape tugging at your raw lips.

Tim leaned close, forehead brushing your temple. “You got this. Breathe. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

Lucy hovered at your other side, hand fisted around the bed rail like she’d climb in with you if she could. “Deep breath, trouble. You’ve done scarier things drunk.”

“Alright, ready? On three,” the RT said, voice firm. She snapped the suction tube on. “One… two… three!”

She tugged. The tube slid free in one long, wet pull — you gagged violently, a raw, harsh retch that made your back arch off the bed. You coughed, gasped — the nurse swept in with suction to clear your mouth and throat, but your stomach clenched and twisted.

A second later you lurched sideways, a violent wave of vomit hitting the edge of the bedpan the nurse shoved under your chin just in time.

“Oh, baby, breathe, breathe—” Lucy’s voice cracked, brushing your hair back while you choked and spit. Tim just tightened his grip on your hand, steady as stone, eyes wild but focused only on you.

“Airway’s clear,” the RT said, checking your chest with her stethoscope. “Sats holding — eighty-nine and climbing — that’s good. Let it out, sweetheart. Deep slow breaths.”

You were trembling all over by the time you sagged back into the pillow — skin clammy, lashes wet with exhausted tears. Your voice rasped raw from the tube when you finally croaked out:

“Wh-what… what happened—?”

Tim stroked your hair back, his thumb brushing your cheek. “House bust went bad. Fentanyl. You got dosed. Seized twice, rookie. Scared the absolute hell out of us.”

Lucy leaned in, still holding your wrist. “Narcan didn’t take right away. You gave us all gray hairs. You owe me a salon trip, by the way.”

You let out a wet, hoarse laugh that turned into a cough. Your chest heaved, rattling. You reached for Lucy’s hand, eyes wide and pleading through the haze.

“Hey— Luce— can you— can you go pack me a bag? At my place?” Your voice cracked halfway through. “Stuff for a few days. Please?”

Lucy blinked, eyes shiny but smiling through it. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Anything you want, trouble. You want the dumb frog pajama pants too?”

You wheezed a laugh, nodding. “Frog pants. And my blanket. Please.”

Lucy kissed your forehead and squeezed Tim’s arm on her way out. “She’s all yours, big guy. Try not to get her heart rate spiking again, yeah?”

When the door clicked shut, the room felt quieter somehow. Tim leaned closer, his big hand still wrapped around yours, his thumb tracing lazy, grounding circles against your palm.

Your voice cracked as you searched his eyes — raw and open. “I… I heard you, you know. All of it.”

Tim froze. His mouth opened — closed — opened again. “Yeah?” His voice was rough, almost shy for once.

You nodded weakly, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “Yeah. All the sappy stuff. The part where you called me stubborn. The part where you— you said you loved me.”

His jaw clenched, eyes glistening with something he didn’t bother to hide this time. “I meant every word.”

You squeezed his hand, breath hitching. “Good. ‘Cause I love you too. Always did. Even when you were barking orders at me on day one.”

Tim huffed out a broken laugh — part relief, part disbelief. “When I saw you in that house— unresponsive, pupils pinned— God, my heart almost stopped too. Don’t ever scare me like that again, rookie. Not like that.”

You gave him a watery grin, voice still hoarse but warm. “No promises, sergeant. You know I’m trouble.”

He let out a soft, choked laugh and leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in.

“Yeah, well — you’re my trouble now. Deal with it.”

You wheezed another laugh, the oxygen cannula they’d switched you to hissing soft at your nose. “Deal. Now come here. You owe me, like, a thousand more mushy lines. And maybe some bad jokes.”

Tim squeezed your hand, brushing his nose against your cheek. “How about this one — knock knock—”

You rolled your eyes weakly, chest rattling with a soft laugh. “Who’s there?”

“Not fentanyl, because I’d kill it before it got near you again.”

You let out a hoarse bark of laughter, half cough, half giggle. “God, that was terrible.”

He grinned — wide, unguarded, and for once entirely free. “Yeah. But you laughed. And you’re still here. So I’m gonna keep telling them. Forever, if that’s what it takes”.

Lucy nudged the door open with her hip, arms loaded down with your overnight bag, your battered old blanket, and — because Lucy Chen never does anything halfway — a giant neon frog mug with a lid that she must’ve grabbed off your kitchen shelf just because she knew you’d want it.

“Hey, trouble.” She plopped everything on the chair and gave you a bright grin, trying to keep the mood light despite her red eyes. “One bag of pajamas, your stupid lucky blanket, and your toothbrush with the weird unicorn handle. You’re welcome.”

You let out a weak laugh, voice still raw but steadier than before. “You’re the best.”

Lucy shot Tim a look as she peeled a snack bar open for herself. “You, on the other hand — you smell like a wet locker room that’s been set on fire. Go home. Shower. Put on deodorant. Maybe use soap this time.”

You nodded, squinting at Tim through half-lidded eyes. “Yeah. She’s right. You stink, Bradford. Bad. I’m recovering here — have some mercy.”

Tim huffed out a laugh, dropping his chin to his chest like he’d been caught. “Noted. Fine. But only because you ordered me to. Rookie outranks sergeant when it comes to hygiene.”

You reached for his hand before he could stand fully. “You’ll come back?”

He bent, pressing a kiss to your forehead — quick but warm. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

Lucy rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh my God, he’s so sappy now. Look what you did.”

When Tim ducked out, promising he’d be back in an hour, you tugged Lucy’s wrist until she perched back on the edge of your bed. For a moment you just lay there, studying her face, trying to piece together the words with your groggy brain.

“Hey,” you rasped. “Before I forget. That stuff you said — about me and him. Did you mean it? Really?”

Lucy blinked at you — then her eyes softened, and she leaned in, brushing hair back from your temple like she had a hundred times before. “Hey. I meant it, trouble. A hundred percent. I know we’ve got history, him and me — but that’s ancient history. You two… you’re something better. He lights up around you. He tries not to show it, but he does. And you— God, you love him so loud it’s almost embarrassing.”

You huffed out a raspy laugh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Lucy said firmly. “Be happy. Be safe. Be loved, you idiot.” She poked your nose gently. “You deserve all of it. I want you to have all of it. And I want him to have you. Because if anyone deserves you, it’s that stubborn mountain of a man.”

You blinked back tears, your fingers curling tight around hers. “I do. I love him so much it freaks me out sometimes. Like… all the way down to my bones kinda love.”

Lucy smiled, her own eyes misty. “Yeah. I know. You’re my best friend. Of course I know. Now rest, alright? You’re safe. He’ll be back soon to stink up this room again, don’t worry.”

A few hours later

You must have drifted off sometime around the second rerun of Wheel of Fortune Lucy insisted on playing to “stimulate your brain.”

But sleep didn’t bring peace. It never really did, not after what happened in that house. Somewhere in the tangle of IV beeps and the hiss of your oxygen cannula, your brain replayed it all on a loop — the sting of the powder in the air, your chest squeezing tight, the roar in your ears that came just before the blackness swallowed you whole.

In your dream, you were back there — only this time you were alone. Tim’s voice was gone. Lucy’s laugh was gone. No pounding boots, no Narcan slam to the thigh. Just cold silence. And then you saw them — Tim and Lucy — sprawled on the grimy floor beside you, eyes glassy, skin gray, gone.

You shot awake with a wet gasp, chest heaving so hard the monitor wailed a shrill alarm. Your fists tangled in your blanket, clawing at your throat like you could rip the dream out of your skin.

“Nononono—” you sobbed, ragged and raw. “No— don’t— Tim! Lucy!”

The door slammed open so fast it rattled the wall. Tim was there first — hair still damp from his rushed shower, sweatshirt half unzipped. He crossed the room in three strides and had you in his arms before Lucy, right behind him, could even close the door.

“Hey— hey— rookie, rookie— breathe. I’m here. Look at me. Breathe, baby, breathe.”

Lucy climbed onto the bed on your other side, her hand framing your cheek as you sobbed into Tim’s chest, fingers fisted in his hoodie like you’d drown without the anchor.

“I saw you,” you choked out, words tumbling out in gasps. “I saw you — both of you — dead — I couldn’t— you were gone and I—”

“Hey, hey, hey— we’re not gone,” Lucy said fiercely, pressing her forehead to yours while Tim cradled you tight. “I’m right here, trouble. He’s right here. Not going anywhere.”

Tim’s hand cradled the back of your head, his breath warm against your hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Nothing’s taking me from you, you hear me? I’m too damn stubborn.”

You hiccuped a shaky laugh through your tears, your fists still curled in his hoodie, Lucy’s hand tangled in your hair.

“You stayed,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “You both stayed.”

“Always, baby,” Tim murmured against your temple. “Always.”

Lucy kissed your damp cheek and gave you a teary grin. “Now, if you puke on his hoodie, that’s on you. I’m off duty for that part.”

You wheezed out a raw, broken giggle that melted into a quiet, hiccupy sob — but this time it didn’t feel like drowning. It felt like being held. Like home.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Not This Way

Warning: mentions of self harm and suicide.

The bunker is quiet when Sam pushes open your bedroom door. He has a plate of leftover pizza in one hand — you skipped dinner again, and he figured he’d bribe you out of your sulk with melted cheese and bad jokes.

He doesn’t expect what he finds instead.

You’re sitting on the floor, back against your bed, knees pulled up. There’s a small razor blade on the nightstand beside you. The sleeve of your oversized hoodie is pushed up, and your wrist is red — raw lines, some shallow, one still beading a bright drop of blood.

Sam freezes. For a second, he can’t breathe. The plate hits the floor with a dull clatter, cold pizza forgotten.

“Hey. Hey — what did you do?*”

Your eyes snap up, wide and guilty. “Sammy— I— it’s not—”

But it is. He’s on his knees in front of you in two strides, his big hands cupping your trembling arm so carefully, like you’re made of glass.

“Oh, sweetheart… oh, baby, no, no, no…” His voice cracks. “Why? Why would you—?”

You pull your arm back, ashamed. “Sam, please, don’t tell Dean—”

But it’s too late. Heavy boots pound down the hallway, drawn by the sound of the plate hitting the floor. Dean bursts in, eyes flicking from Sam’s horrified face to you — to the blade, to your arm.

“What the hell is going on?” His voice is sharp, but the way it wavers at the end betrays the fear.

Sam doesn’t answer. He just shifts so Dean can see the thin red lines on your wrist.

Dean’s whole body goes stiff. For a moment, he just stands there — then he kicks the nightstand so hard it tips over, the blade clattering across the floor.

“Dean—!” you squeak, flinching back.

“What were you thinking?!*” Dean snaps, voice raw. “Jesus, kid, why? Why would you do this to yourself?”

Your eyes flood with tears. “I — I don’t know — I just — the girls at school said it helps. That it… it makes you feel better when everything’s too much and I— I just wanted to see if they were right—”

Dean swears under his breath. He scrubs a hand over his face, pacing away like he’s afraid he’ll put his fist through the wall if he doesn’t move.

Sam stays by you, rubbing your back when you curl in on yourself, sobs hiccuping out of your chest.

“You don’t do this. You don’t hurt yourself because some kids at school told you to,” Dean says, his voice tight, trying so hard to hold it together. He kneels down, grabs your chin, makes you look at him. “You hear me? You don’t get to do this. Not to you. Not to our little sister.”

You sniffle. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry. Just… don’t do it again.” His voice breaks on that last word. He looks at Sam, helpless. “Say something, man.”

Sam takes your face in his hands, brushing your hair away, thumbs wiping at your tears. “You ever feel like this again — like you can’t breathe, or it’s too much, or you just wanna make it stop — you come to us. You come to us. You don’t pick up a blade, okay? You don’t fight this alone. That’s not how family works.”

Dean leans in, his forehead pressing to yours. You feel his shoulders shake when he exhales, like he’s forcing himself not to break down completely.

“You promise us. Right now,” he whispers. “Say it. You won’t do this again.”

You choke on another sob but you nod — and you mean it, as much as you can mean anything right now. “I promise. I promise, Dean. Sam. I won’t. I swear.”

And maybe that’s enough to start trying.

They don’t move for a long time. Sam keeps one arm wrapped around your shoulders. Dean holds your hand so tight it almost hurts, but you don’t mind — not when it keeps you here, keeps you whole.

Outside, the bunker is silent — but in your little room, pressed between your big brothers, you feel safer than you have in weeks.

Absolutely — here’s a continuation that goes darker, rawer, and deeper with detail and medical accuracy. Please take care while reading this — it’s heavy.

You keep your promise — for a while. For two weeks, you ignore the itch under your skin, the voice whispering how easy it would be to let the blade take the edge off. You hold it together because Sam checks your arms every morning, because Dean keeps the bathroom locked when you’re alone, because they trust you.

But today breaks you in quiet, cutting ways.

You bombed a chemistry test — an ugly 68% bleeding red across the paper when you expected an A. Your boyfriend blew up your phone with cold, clipped messages before ghosting you entirely. And the next hunt is days away, some Wendigo in Idaho, and you know Dean’s going to make you stay in the bunker but the thought of them out there, maybe not coming back, makes your ribs feel like they’re splintering inward.

So you slip the spare blade from where you hid it — taped behind your dresser drawer, a spot Dean never thought to look.

You lock the bathroom door. Turn on the shower — scalding hot, so the steam can hide the tears if they come. You roll up your sleeve and press the blade just beneath an old scar on your forearm.

Just one. Just enough to make the pressure crack.

But your hand slips. Or maybe your head does — too much stress, too much shaking. The blade cuts deeper than you planned, slicing through skin and deeper into the subcutaneous tissue, even nicking a small vein.

Dark blood wells up. Fast. Faster than you’ve ever seen.

Panic hits you hard. You drop the blade, watch it clatter against the tile. The gash is longer than your finger and bleeding steadily, rivulets mixing with the steaming shower spray. You clamp your hand over it, but the warm water makes it worse — the heat dilates the vessels, makes the blood run faster.

You try to think — Apply pressure. Elevate. It’s fine. It’s fine. But your ears ring. The water pounds down like rain in your head. You sit down in the tub, hugging your knees, pressing your palm to the cut — but it’s so slippery, it won’t clot, your vision is already darkening at the edges.

You wonder if Sam and Dean will hate you. If they’ll be disappointed. If they’ll even get here in time.

Dean’s voice echoes down the hall.

“Hey, kid! Dinner!”

No answer. He waits. Calls again.

When he doesn’t hear you yell back, he notices the water running. Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. The old pipes groan. Steam drifts under the door.

Something in him goes cold.

“Hey!” Dean bangs on the door. “Hey, open up!”

Nothing.

He doesn’t hesitate. He kicks the door open so hard it cracks the frame.

And there you are — half-slumped in the bottom of the tub, water pooling pink around you, your lips pale, eyes half-closed. Blood swirls down the drain.

“*No. No, no, no, no, no—*”

He’s by you in seconds, yanking the showerhead away, turning the tap off. He sees the gash — deep, clean but wide. Venous blood still oozes sluggishly now that your blood pressure is tanking.

“Sam! SAM!” Dean bellows so loud his voice breaks. He grabs a towel, presses it hard to your forearm. “Stay with me, kid. Stay with me. I got you. I got you.”

Your head lolls. You try to say sorry but it comes out a wet whisper.

Sam barrels in, sees the water, the blood, the towel pressed to your arm. He goes ghost-white but moves on instinct — checks your carotid pulse. Weak. Thready.

“BP’s dropping,” Sam mutters, voice all business now, though his hands shake. “Dean, elevate her arm above her heart — here, hold it tight. We need to control the hemorrhage — it’s a vein, we can do this.”

Dean lifts your limp arm, keeps pressure on the wound, hands soaked scarlet. “Come on, baby girl. Open your eyes. Breathe. You hear me? Breathe.”

Sam’s already got his phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, barking into it — calling an ambulance, giving them coordinates. His other hand keeps your head steady so you don’t slip under the water again.

Dean can’t stop muttering under his breath — “It’s okay, you’re okay, I got you, kiddo, you’re gonna be okay.” His throat is raw. He can’t look at your pale face without his vision blurring.

The water’s off. The steam fades. The cold tiles bite into Dean’s knees but he doesn’t feel it. He just holds you tighter, presses harder to keep the bleeding from winning.

You drift — somewhere dark and quiet — but Dean’s voice pulls you back every time you slip too far.

“Stay with me. Stay with me. I got you. I swear to God, you’re not going anywhere. Not like this. Not ever.”

Outside, the bunker’s silence is broken by the sound of distant sirens screaming through the night.

The bunker hallway is a blur of flashing red and blue when the paramedics finally shove through the door Dean left wide open. The shower’s still wet, the floor slick with diluted blood and footprints. Sam’s crouched by your head, fingers on your neck, counting each weak beat like he can will your heart to keep going.

Dean doesn’t move when the EMTs rush in — he just keeps your arm lifted, towel pressed tight to the wound.

“Female, late teens,” Sam rattles off before they even ask. “Self-inflicted laceration to the left forearm, likely hit a superficial vein, estimated blood loss around 500, maybe 600 milliliters. Hypotensive, bradycardic — she’s been fading in and out. She needs fluids and probably sutures.”

“Good call,” the lead medic nods, snapping on gloves. “Ma’am? Hey, sweetheart, can you hear me?” He gives your cheek a gentle tap. You flinch — eyelids flutter, but you can’t quite hold onto the light.

“BP’s 82 over 50,” the other medic mutters after pressing the cuff around your upper arm. “Pulse is 50, weak.”

Dean’s voice is sharp, cracking at the edges. “Is she gonna be okay?”

“We need to get her stabilized — get that arm wrapped, get fluids going, watch for hypovolemic shock.” The lead medic pulls out gauze, swaps Dean’s towel for clean packing. “Sir, you gotta let us take over.”

Dean hesitates — just for a second — before he forces himself to back up. But he doesn’t let go of your other hand. His thumb brushes your knuckles, desperate, rough from too many hunts and too many guns.

One medic wraps your arm tight in thick sterile gauze, applying firm direct pressure while the other starts an IV in the back of your hand. Cold saline rushes into your veins, but you barely feel it — your skin’s gone clammy, your eyelids too heavy to lift.

“Stay with me, kiddo,” Dean mutters, leaning down so you can feel his breath on your temple. “Hey — open those eyes. Just for me. C’mon.”

Your lashes flutter. You try to focus on him — his green eyes, raw and red at the corners — but the bright lights overhead blur it all out.

“I’m sorry…” you whisper, your voice a rasp.

Dean’s jaw flexes. His grip on your hand tightens. “No. No apologies. Not now. You don’t get to check out, you hear me? You hold on — you hold on for me and Sammy.”

The EMTs lift you onto the stretcher — your blood pressure monitor beeping slow and uneven. One of them hooks up portable O2, slipping the mask over your nose and mouth.

“Respirations are shallow, sats dropping a bit — keep her head up,” the medic tells his partner as they wheel you through the bunker’s war room, out into the cold night air.

Dean’s right there — climbing into the ambulance before they can tell him no. He wedges himself onto the bench, knees pressed to the stretcher, never once letting go of your hand.

The back doors slam shut. The siren screams to life, slicing through the dark.

Your vision goes in and out — the interior lights flicker with every pothole. A medic keeps pressure on your arm, checks your pupils, adjusts the O2 flow.

“BP’s 80 over 46. Heart rate’s still slow. Push another bag of saline,” he mutters to his partner.

Dean’s thumb brushes your temple. “Hey — hey, look at me, baby girl. Look at your big brother. Remember that Fourth of July? When you freaked out over the fireworks and you wouldn’t come out from under the Impala? I got you out then, didn’t I? Gonna get you out now too. You hear me?”

Your lips tremble under the mask. “I’m tired…”

“I know. I know, kiddo. But you stay awake. You stay awake for me. I’m right here.” His voice drops — barely a whisper for your ears only: “Please don’t do this to me. Not you. Not you too.”

The medic shoots Dean a glance, sees how he’s shaking even though he’s trying so damn hard to be the strong one. “Sir, keep her talking if you can. She’s still bleeding some under the gauze — we’ll get her into trauma fast.”

Dean nods, wipes your damp hair off your forehead with trembling fingers. “You remember that diner in Nebraska? Best pie in three states? When you get out of this, I’m gonna buy you the whole damn place. You can eat cherry pie for breakfast every day — deal?”

You manage the ghost of a smile under the oxygen mask — but your eyelids flutter again, heavier this time.

“Hey — hey! Stay awake. Look at me,” Dean says, voice sharp. Desperate. He leans closer, forehead pressed to yours. “You don’t leave me, you hear me? You don’t get to leave me.”

Outside, the ambulance howls through the backroads toward the hospital, the medic’s voice echoing out of the radio: “Adolescent female, hypotensive, risk of hypovolemic shock, ETA five minutes.”

Inside, Dean Winchester holds your cold hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth — and maybe, for now, it is.

The stretcher rattles through the ER doors, the paramedics shouting vitals before the sliding glass even shuts behind them. The overhead fluorescents blur white across your half-lidded eyes as you’re wheeled through triage and into Trauma 2 — a small, cold room that smells like antiseptic and fear.

A trauma nurse cuts away the blood-soaked gauze. Fresh red seeps out, and she mutters to the resident beside her, “Laceration’s deeper than we thought — likely hit a branch vein, maybe the cephalic.”

Dean tries to follow you in but an orderly blocks him with an apologetic arm. “Sir, you can’t be in here — family can wait outside—”

“*That’s my sister,” Dean snaps, voice raw. “I’m not—”

Sam’s hand clamps on his shoulder, firm. “Dean — let them do their job. Let ‘em work.”

Inside the trauma bay, your clothes are cut away in quick, efficient swipes of trauma shears. A nurse hooks up another IV line for more fluids and a unit of O-negative blood. The trauma doc, a young woman with tired eyes and a no-bullshit tone, barks orders over the monitor beeping steadily at your head.

“BP is 78 over 42 — get that second line wide open, push a bolus. Prep 4-0 nylon for sutures. Pressure’s not enough — clamp if you have to.”

A resident lifts your arm to check the wound under bright exam lights. Blood oozes steadily. He packs more gauze, fingers slick and steady.

Your eyes flutter — a ghost of awareness. You try to speak but the oxygen mask muffles it to a weak mumble.

“Don’t try to talk, sweetheart,” the nurse soothes, brushing your damp hair back. “We’ve got you. Just keep those eyes open for me, okay?”

Outside the trauma bay’s glass doors, Dean stands frozen. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, as if he’s trying to hold every piece of himself together with sheer force of will.

Sam stands next to him, a quiet, immovable wall. He glances through the window — sees the way you’re barely moving, the blood on the blue pad under your arm. Sees Dean’s chest heave like he can’t get air in.

“She didn’t want this,” Sam says quietly, eyes still fixed on you.

Dean doesn’t look away from the doors. “She cut too deep, Sam. She— she promised. She promised.*”

Sam grabs his brother’s shoulder, turns him to face him — really see him. “Hey. She didn’t mean for this, Dean. That wasn’t her trying to check out. It’s control. Relief. You know that. She wasn’t trying to die — she just… she’s a kid trying to stop the noise the only way her brain could think to.”

Dean’s eyes flash. “You think I don’t know that?” His voice breaks around the words. “I know. I just— *I can’t lose her, Sam.* I can’t bury her. Not her. I can’t.”

Sam pulls him in — a rough, too-tight grip that’s part hug, part anchor. “We’re not gonna. She’s in there, fighting, okay? And you — you’re gonna hold it together so when she wakes up, she sees you, not this.”

Dean nods, but it’s mechanical. His eyes flick past Sam’s shoulder every two seconds — checking, double-checking, counting the shadows moving behind the glass.

Inside, the trauma doc threads a suture needle through your torn skin with quick, practiced flicks. “Small branch vein, nothing arterial — we can ligate. Get suction in here, it’s welling again.”

Your heart monitor spikes — then dips. A nurse adjusts the IV drip. “BP’s stabilizing — 90 over 50. Keep the fluids going.”

Dean flinches at every number they shout through the door. Each low reading punches a fresh hole in his chest. Sam’s hand stays clamped on the back of his neck, grounding him every time he starts to drift into the black places in his head.

Minutes stretch long and raw. The doors finally swing open and the trauma doc steps out, tugging off her bloody gloves. She looks young — too young to be telling two battered hunters whether or not their baby sister’s gonna make it through the night.

“You her brothers?” she asks.

Dean’s voice comes out hoarse. “Yeah. How is she?”

The doctor sighs, wiping sweat from her hairline. “She’s stable. She lost about 800 milliliters — that’s a significant volume for her size, but we stopped the bleeding and repaired the vein. The laceration’s closed with internal and external sutures. She’ll need observation for hypovolemia and to watch for signs of infection. We’ll admit her for psych eval too — mandatory, given the nature of the injury.”

Dean sags against the wall like his knees are gone. Sam’s the one who finds words first. “She’s gonna wake up?”

“She should,” the doctor says gently. “She was semi-responsive in the bay. We’re giving her fluids and blood to stabilize her hematocrit. The next twelve hours are the window we watch. If she stays stable, she’ll be fine.”

Dean looks up, voice like splintered glass. “Can we see her?”

The doctor nods. “She’ll be moved to recovery in a few minutes. We’ll let you back once she’s settled. I’m sorry you’re here for this — but you did the right thing calling it in so fast. She’s alive because you were there.”

Dean nods, but his eyes stay locked on the trauma room behind her. Sam’s hand never leaves his shoulder.

The hospital room is dim except for the soft green pulse of the heart monitor and the hiss of oxygen flowing through a nasal cannula. The hallway outside is a hush of squeaking shoes and muffled overhead pages — but in here, it’s just you and your brothers.

You’re still out cold — your body too wrung out by blood loss and stitches and IV lines to do anything but sleep. Dean sits slouched in the hard vinyl chair at your bedside, one elbow on the railing, forehead resting in his hand. Sam stands at the foot of the bed, arms folded tight across his chest, eyes flicking between your pale face and your wrapped arm.

Neither of them has spoken in ten minutes. They don’t need to — the machines do it for them, each beep counting out the seconds you’re still here.

Finally, Sam clears his throat, voice soft, careful not to wake you even though they know you’re out for now.

“Hey… I’m gonna go grab some coffee. You want anything?”

Dean doesn’t lift his head. “I’m good.”

Sam nods. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder on his way past — a silent *I got you.* He knows. Dean needs a minute alone — not because he wants it, but because the weight on his chest is too heavy to carry with anyone watching.

The door clicks shut behind Sam. The soft whoosh of the closing door is the loudest thing in the room for a moment.

Dean sits there, staring at your hand resting limp on the blanket. The back of it is bruised purple where the IV lives now. Your wrist is wrapped in thick white gauze — neat, sterile, hiding the truth of what you did to yourself.

He reaches out, covers your small hand with his big one. His thumb rubs absent circles over your knuckles — like he can warm the blood back under your skin just by wanting it bad enough.

When he speaks, his voice is so quiet it sounds like it hurts him to push the words out.

“You know… you scared the hell outta me tonight, kid.” He lets out a breath that’s more broken laugh than exhale. “Not the monsters. Not the hunts. Not any of it. You.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, rough and raw. His eyes are red, but he doesn’t bother to hide it — not with you asleep, your lashes fluttering like you’re dreaming of someplace better.

“I know it’s not about me. I know it’s not fair to make it about me. But damn it, when I saw you in that tub — when I saw all that blood — I swear to God I could feel my heart stop. Just like that. Like maybe I wasn’t gonna get it back if you didn’t open your eyes.”

He shifts forward, elbows on the bed now, forehead brushing the back of your hand. His voice cracks right down the middle.

“I’m your big brother. That’s my one job, sweetheart. Keep you safe. I’d take a bullet. I’d stand in front of anything. Anything. But I don’t know how to stand in front of this. I don’t know how to fight the monsters in your head. I don’t know how to put salt rounds in ‘em or burn their bones or… or tell you the right thing so you don’t ever pick up that blade again.”

You hear it all — you drift somewhere between dreams and the steady beep of the monitor, but every word hits you like a stone skipping over water. You want to tell him *I hear you. I’m sorry.* But your tongue is heavy and your body too tired to answer.

Dean’s voice drops lower. Almost a whisper. Almost like he’s confessing to the ceiling, or to the ghosts that follow him down every hall.

“I can’t lose you. You’re it for me. You and Sam — that’s all I got. If you go, if you… if you don’t wanna be here anymore…” He chokes, cuts himself off with a hard sniff. “I don’t even know if I’d wanna stick around after that. ‘Cause what’s the point? Huh? Hunt till I drop? For what? You’re the only good thing I got left.”

He presses your hand to his forehead like a prayer.

“So please. Please, baby girl. Stay. You gotta stay. I’ll figure this out, okay? I’ll find a way to fight this thing with you. I’ll lock the doors, I’ll stand outside your bathroom all night if I gotta. I’ll get you help — real help. Sammy and me, we’ll hold you up when your knees give out. Just don’t leave me. Don’t ever leave me.”

Outside the door, Sam stands in the hall with two coffees cooling in his hands. He hears the tail end of Dean’s voice — rough, cracked, desperate — and he doesn’t open the door. Not yet. He knows some confessions aren’t meant for an audience.

Inside, you sleep. You breathe. The monitor beeps on. Dean’s hand stays locked around yours like maybe if he holds you tight enough, you’ll never drift too far again.

The first thing you feel is the weight. The warm, solid weight of someone’s hand wrapped around yours. Then the quiet hum of the machines — the steady beep-beep-beep, your tether to the world. Then you feel the tight pull in your arm, the dull throb under layers of gauze.

You open your eyes. The ceiling is white. The lights are dim. Dean’s head is on the edge of your bed, his cheek pressed to the back of your hand, still gripping it like he never let go. Sam’s in the corner, half asleep in a stiff chair with a Styrofoam coffee cup dangling from his fingers.

You try to swallow but your throat burns — dry, raw from the oxygen. The tiny sound you make is enough to jolt Dean awake. He lifts his head fast — eyes puffy, red, but so bright when they see you looking back.

“Hey… hey, there she is.” His voice is rough, like gravel. He squeezes your hand. “You with me?”

The tears come so fast you don’t even feel them build — they’re just there, hot and blurring everything out. Your chest hiccups around a ragged sob.

“Dean— I— I didn’t—” The words tumble out, broken, half-breaths. “I didn’t mean— I didn’t— it was an accident— I didn’t want to— I swear—”

Dean shifts fast, cupping your face in his calloused hands. “Hey. Hey, slow down. Breathe. I got you. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

The sound wakes Sam — he’s at the bedside in two steps, setting the coffee aside, his big hands covering yours where they clutch Dean’s sleeve.

“I didn’t— I didn’t want to die—” you gasp, words spilling too fast, half-choking on the sobs. “I just— it was so bad, Sam, it was so bad— the test, and he wouldn’t answer, and the hunt, and— and— I just wanted it to stop. Just for a minute. I didn’t mean— I didn’t know it would— I was so scared -“.

You’re shaking so hard your teeth click. Dean pulls you forward, cradles you to his chest, careful not to jostle your IV or your wrapped arm. You feel Sam’s hand on the back of your head, grounding you, fingers threading through your hair like you’re five again and you woke up crying after a nightmare.

“I was so scared, Dean—” you sob into his shirt. “I didn’t want to go— I didn’t want to— I’m sorry— I’m so sorry— I didn’t mean to—”

Dean’s voice cracks right in your ear. “I know. I know, baby. I know you didn’t. I got you. You hear me? I got you.”

Sam’s voice is a warm rumble at your back. “It’s okay. It’s okay, kiddo. It was an accident. You’re here now. You’re safe. We’re right here. You’re not in trouble, you’re not alone, you’re here.”

You keep crying — ugly, raw sobs that make the heart monitor spike. You try to pull away, to hide your face, but Dean won’t let you. He holds you tighter, wraps his arm around your shoulders like iron.

“You don’t have to hide, okay? Not from us,” Dean murmurs into your hair. “You don’t have to carry it alone. If it gets too heavy, you give it to me and Sammy. That’s the deal.”

“I’m so sorry,” you hiccup, voice muffled against him. “I don’t want to be broken—”

Sam leans in, forehead pressed to yours and Dean’s where you’re all huddled together on that narrow hospital bed. “You’re not broken. You hear me? You’re not.You’re hurting. That’s not the same thing.”

Dean nods, his thumb brushing tears off your cheek even as more spill down. “We’re gonna help you, sweetheart. Real help. Not just us — we’ll find someone who knows how to fight this crap in your head. A therapist, meds, whatever it takes. We’ll stand watch with you every step. Okay?”

You nod, tiny, trembling. “Okay.”

Dean presses his forehead to yours. “No more hiding. You don’t get to shut us out when it’s dark up here, yeah?” He taps your temple, gentle. “You tell us. No matter how ugly it feels. We can take it.”

Your chest still hitches with the leftover sobs, but under the oxygen and the saline and the low hum of the monitor, you feel it — the steady, stubborn heat of them pressed around you. A fortress.

Sam presses a kiss to the crown of your head. Dean’s thumb traces soft circles on the back of your hand, like he’s still holding your pulse in place.

Outside the hospital window, the sun starts to rise — pale pink washing the night away, one breath at a time.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Trying to Breathe

The Impala rumbles steadily down a dark, empty stretch of road, headlights cutting through the trees. Dean’s at the wheel, humming some old Metallica riff under his breath. Sam’s riding shotgun, flicking through pages of lore on his phone, just in case there’s something they missed.

You’re curled up in the back seat — knees tucked to your chest, forehead resting against the cool window. You’re trying to match the rhythm of the car with your breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

But it’s not working.

You keep seeing it — the thing’s face, the way it lunged for you, teeth and claws and rotten breath. How close it came to tearing your throat open before Sam fired off that final shot. You told them you were fine. You *wanted* to be fine. But your chest feels like it’s shrinking, and there’s a buzzing in your ears that drowns out Dean’s music.

You press your hand over your mouth to muffle the tiny, shaky sounds slipping out. You don’t want them to know. They worry enough. You’re supposed to be tougher than this — you *have* to be tougher than this.

But when your vision starts to sparkle at the edges, your breath hitching in stuttering gasps, you can’t stop the tiny sob that escapes.

Dean glances in the rearview mirror. “Hey. You good back there, kiddo?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Nod. Lie.

Sam twists around in his seat. “Hey. Look at me. Hey.” His voice is so gentle it cracks you open. “You’re not okay, are you?”

Your shoulders start to shake. You can’t speak. Just shake your head, pressing your fists to your mouth.

Dean pulls the car over so fast the gravel spits out behind the tires. He kills the engine, climbs out, and opens the back door. Sam’s already half in the backseat with you, his big hand warm on your knee.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean murmurs, crouching so his eyes meet yours. “Deep breaths, sweetheart. You’re safe. You hear me? We got you.”

Sam rubs your back in slow circles. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. C’mon — do it with me.” He breathes with you, slow and steady, until your lungs catch on. Until the darkness stops creeping in around the edges.

Dean reaches in and brushes your hair off your damp forehead. “It’s okay to be scared,” he says, voice soft in a way he saves just for you. “You don’t have to hide it from us, okay? You’re a Winchester — you don’t have to be unbreakable.”

You finally drag in a shaky, full breath. Sam squeezes your shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to the top of your head.

The drive back is quiet. Dean tries to crack a joke now and then — something about your monster breath or how you owe him a new shotgun — but the spark in your laugh never quite catches. Sam watches you in the rearview when he thinks you’re not looking. You pretend you don’t notice.

By the time you step inside the bunker, you feel wrung out. Hollow. Like you left pieces of yourself in the woods with that thing, pieces that aren’t coming back.

Dean tosses his keys on the war room table. “I’m making burgers. You want cheese or no cheese?”

You force a tiny smile. “No cheese’s fine.”

Sam gives you a look — that big brother look that says he knows you’re lying when you say you’re okay. But you just brush past him, mumbling something about a shower. You hear Dean mutter to Sam as you disappear down the hall: Keep an eye on her.

You’re so tired. You try to scrub the hunt off in the shower — the smell of old blood, the phantom feel of claws — but it clings to you. Your chest is tight again. Your hands shake so bad you drop your toothbrush twice.

When you open your bedroom door, the bunker feels too big, too quiet. You stand in the hall, hugging your arms, staring at the floor. It’s coming again — you can feel it, a cold wave rising up from your gut to drown you. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe.

You don’t want to wake them. They’ve done enough. You should be stronger than this. But the black spots are already dancing in your vision, and your heart’s stuttering in your chest like it wants out.

Your feet move before you can think — down the hallway, bare steps echoing off the bunker’s stone walls. Dean’s door is cracked open, warm light spilling out. You see his boots by the door, his voice low as he hums along to whatever old rock record he’s got playing. Safe. That’s safe. Dean will fix it. Dean always fixes it.

You get as far as his door before your knees buckle. The floor rushes up too fast. You hit the ground hard enough to bite your lip.

“D—Dean?” It’s a whisper, more breath than voice. Your fingers scrape weakly at the floor. You see his boots move — the music cuts off.

“Hey — hey, hey!” Dean’s face fills your vision, wild with panic. He drops to his knees, hauls you up against him. “Kid? Sweetheart, talk to me. Hey — Sammy! SAM!”

Your eyes flicker, trying to focus on him but slipping sideways. His voice is there but distant, like you’re underwater. Your breath comes in jagged, broken gasps that don’t go anywhere.

Sam’s feet pound down the hallway. He skids to his knees on your other side, hands on your face, trying to get you to look at him.

“Hey. Hey. Stay with us, kiddo. Look at me — look at me. Dean, she’s dissociating — her eyes aren’t tracking.”

Dean’s voice cracks. He’s swearing under his breath, thumb brushing your cheek. “No, no, no — don’t you float off on us, you hear me? Stay here. Stay here with your big brothers.”

Your body’s shaking so hard your teeth chatter. You can’t feel your hands. The hallway fades out — all stone and shadows — replaced by flashes of that thing’s teeth, your own blood, the cold dirt under your boots. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know who you are.

Sam’s voice cuts through the noise, calm but fierce. “Hey — you hear me? You’re here. Bunker, safe, me and Dean. Can you feel my hand? Squeeze my hand — c’mon, baby girl, squeeze it.”

You try. You want to. But your fingers won’t obey. Dean’s grip on your shoulders tightens. He presses his forehead to yours, voice raw. “Hey — listen to me. You’re gonna come back, okay? You’re a Winchester — you don’t give up. Not on us. Not on yourself.”

Sam keeps talking — grounding you, dragging you back inch by inch. Dean rocks you gently, murmuring things you can’t quite catch. His flannel smells like motor oil and leather and gunpowder — home. The black edges flicker, fade, swell back in.

And finally — finally — your eyes flutter back to Dean’s. He’s blurry but there. Sam’s hand is warm on your cheek, thumb brushing away tears you didn’t know were falling.

“That’s it,” Dean breathes, his voice shaking. “There’s my girl. Deep breaths. You’re safe. We got you. We always got you.”

Your body goes limp, spent and boneless against his chest. You’re still shaking, still floating somewhere too far away. But Dean’s arms are an anchor. Sam’s voice is a lighthouse in the dark.

They hold you there in the hallway — both of them pressed close, murmuring soft, steady promises that no matter how deep the panic drags you under… they’ll always pull you back.

Here’s the next part — continuing right where we left off, with Dean taking her to his room and the brothers watching over her:

Dean’s arms tighten around you when he feels your weight go slack. He pulls back just enough to see your face — eyes glassy, lashes damp, breathing ragged but coming down. He looks at Sam over your shoulder.

“She’s not staying out here on the damn floor.” His voice is gruff but soft around the edges.

Sam nods. “Yeah. She needs to lie down — somewhere we can keep an eye on her.”

Dean shifts his grip, one arm under your knees, the other bracing your back. You manage a weak sound of protest when he lifts you — your hand brushes his shoulder, fingers barely curling into his flannel.

“‘M fine,” you mumble, voice papery thin. “Can go to my room — s’okay…”

Dean hushes you immediately, pressing his cheek to your temple. “Nah. None of that. This way I’m closer, huh?” His tone leaves no room for argument. “Easier for me to keep an eye on you, sweetheart.”

Your eyelids flutter. The fight drains out of you, leaving only exhaustion and the dull ache behind your eyes. You go limp again, your head lolling against his chest. Dean carries you down the short hallway, his boots thudding softly against the bunker’s cold floor. Sam follows, hovering at your side just in case.

Dean nudges his door open with his foot and eases you down onto his bed — his scent all motor oil, old leather, aftershave. Familiar. Safe. He tucks one of his pillows under your head and pulls the blanket up around your shoulders, smoothing your hair back from your damp forehead.

You try to say something — an apology maybe — but the words dissolve before they reach your lips. Dean shushes you again, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“Sleep. I got you.”

Your eyes slip closed, lashes trembling against your skin. You’re still there — but somewhere far off, drifting just at the edge of the room.

Dean and Sam step into the hall, leaving the door cracked open so the light spills in, a soft buffer against the bunker’s shadows.

“She’s not okay,” Dean mutters, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. His voice is low but tight with worry. “She’s had panic attacks before but not like that, Sammy — she collapsed. She wouldn’t respond.”

Sam nods, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s dissociation — she’s been pushing too hard for weeks. You know how she bottles it up.” He sighs, glancing through the cracked door to where you lie curled on Dean’s bed. “She was almost unresponsive, Dean. She was hyperventilating so bad she passed out halfway. If we hadn’t heard her—”

Dean swears under his breath. “I should’ve pushed her to talk sooner. I should’ve — I dunno. Been less of a hardass.”

Sam shakes his head. “You did exactly what you should’ve. We just need to watch her tonight. She needs sleep. Fluids. Keep her breathing steady — if she locks up again we’ll have to ground her the same way.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “You think she needs a doc? Panic’s one thing but she went limp. You think it’s shock?”

Sam rubs the back of his neck. “Could be adrenaline crash. Her blood sugar’s probably tanked — she barely ate today. Her body’s just… done. Best we can do is keep her warm, keep her calm, keep her hydrated when she wakes up.”

Dean nods, jaw tight. “I need a shower. I still smell like Wendigo guts.” He glances back at the half-open door. “Stay with her?”

Sam claps a hand to Dean’s shoulder. “Go. I got her.”

Dean hesitates — big brother instincts at war with the stink of the hunt still clinging to him — but finally nods and heads for the bathroom.

When Sam slips back inside the room, you haven’t moved — but your eyes are open again, staring glassy and far away at the wall. Your fingers twitch at the blanket’s edge, restless but not really here.

“Hey,” Sam murmurs, sinking onto the edge of the bed. He cups your hand in both of his, grounding you with the warmth of his palm. “C’mon, kiddo. Stay with me. Not gonna let you drift off again, okay?”

Your eyes flicker to him — wet and vacant — and then past him, like you’re watching something only you can see.

Sam squeezes your hand gently. “I know it’s heavy. I know your head’s loud right now. But you’re here. You’re safe. Dean’s right outside. I’m right here.”

He rubs your knuckles, slow and steady, while you breathe — shallow but steady enough. He keeps talking, voice low, like he’s reading you back into the world one word at a time.

When Dean pushes the door open again, steam still clinging to his skin from his shower, he stops short in the doorway. His eyes land on Sam first — perched on the edge of the bed, one big hand wrapped gently around yours like he’s anchoring you there.

Your eyes are open, but unfocused — drifting somewhere behind Sam’s shoulder. You don’t even flinch when Dean steps in.

Dean quirks a brow at Sam, voice hushed but pointed. “She okay?”

Sam sighs, his thumb rubbing tiny circles over your knuckles. “She was zoning out again. Needed to keep her here. I was just about to grab a shower myself.” He gives Dean a look — equal parts tired and worried — as he eases your hand free, careful not to startle you. “Can you stay with her? She’s fighting sleep.”

Dean scoffs under his breath, like the answer should be obvious. “Ain’t movin’.” He crosses the room and sinks down on the bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. He pats Sam’s shoulder as he passes. “Go. I got her.”

Sam lingers for a second — eyes on you, as if to make sure you’re really still there — then slips out to shower, pulling the door mostly closed behind him but leaving it cracked like always. Just in case.

Dean settles against the headboard, pulling you gently until your head rests in his lap like when you were little and too sick to sleep alone. One big calloused hand finds your hair, sweeping it back from your damp forehead. He hums under his breath, soft and aimless at first — then slips into the old lullaby he used to sing when you were small and shivering in cheap motel beds.

*Hush now, don’t you cry… Angels gonna sing you to sleep tonight…*

His palm moves slow and steady through your hair, the warmth of his legs under your cheek grounding you more than any words could. Every time your breath hitches, he hushes you — his rough hunter’s voice turned soft just for you.

*No monsters gonna find you here… Big brother’s arms, you got nothing to fear…*

Your eyelids flutter at first — still twitching at shadows only you can see — but Dean’s warmth holds you steady. His fingers card through your hair again and again, thumb brushing the edge of your temple.

When Sam comes back, towel draped around his shoulders, he pauses at the door. Dean shoots him a look — eyes soft, shoulders loose now that you’re finally, *finally* sinking under.

“Out?” Sam mouths.

Dean nods once, careful not to jostle you. “Yeah. She’s out.” His voice is barely above a whisper, like a secret he’s afraid the dark might steal away.

Sam leans against the dresser, watching you breathe — slow, even. “She’s gonna crash hard. You know she might get night terrors again. We haven’t seen her this bad since…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to. They both know.

Dean’s jaw tics. His hand never stops stroking your hair. “I know. I’ll stay right here. If she wakes up screaming, she’ll see me first. She’ll know she’s not alone.”

Sam nods, scrubbing a hand through his still-damp hair. “You want me to spell you in a couple hours?”

Dean huffs out a breath — not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Maybe. If I doze off, just poke me. I’ll probably dream about that damn Wendigo anyway.”

They fall quiet for a moment, just listening to the soft sound of your breathing — safe, steady, fragile but real.

Sam’s voice is low, thoughtful. “We should keep her off hunts for a bit. Just until she’s steady. You know she’ll push back.”

Dean glances down at your sleeping face, lashes resting soft against your cheeks. He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, gentle as a breeze. “She can push all she wants. She’s not going anywhere ‘til I say she’s good.”

He looks up at Sam then — the unspoken truth hanging heavy between them. Monsters they can kill. Wounds they can stitch. But panic, fear, nightmares? That’s a different battlefield.

Dean’s fingers brush your temple again, a silent vow. *Whatever it takes. I’ll fight this too.*

And in the bunker’s quiet, Sam nods — because he believes him. They’ve faced worse. And they’ve never let you down yet.

At first it’s small — a soft whimper muffled by Dean’s old blanket tangled around your shoulders. Dean’s dozing against the headboard, your head still resting in his lap, one big hand draped protectively over your shoulder. Sam’s in the armchair across the room, half-awake, a lore book slack in his hands.

The whimper turns into a sharp, choked sob. Dean’s eyes snap open, hand tightening on your arm.

“Hey. Hey, kiddo.” He leans over, brushing your hair back. “It’s just a dream. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

But you don’t hear him — not really. Your breath catches in your throat, body tensing like a pulled wire. Then the dam breaks.

You jerk violently in Dean’s lap, a raw, strangled scream ripping from your chest. Your legs kick out, heels thumping against the mattress. Your fists flail, hitting the headboard hard enough to sting.

“Whoa, hey — hey! Easy!” Dean shifts, trying to grab your wrists so you don’t hurt yourself. “Sam! Sammy — wake up!”

Sam’s already there, the book dropping to the floor with a dull thud. He’s on the bed in a heartbeat, pressing a steady hand to your shoulder. But you’re gone — your eyes wide open but seeing something else. Something no salt circle or shotgun can fix.

You thrash harder, a keening wail breaking from your throat. You’re choking on it — half sob, half scream — too loud in the bunker’s dark hush.

“\[Y/N]! Hey! It’s Sam — it’s Sam! Look at me!” Sam’s voice cuts through but not deep enough. You don��t flinch. Your head snaps to the side like you’re tracking a shadow only you can see.

“Dean, she’s not waking up — we have to ground her — now!” Sam’s voice cracks.

Dean shifts, trapping your wrists against his chest, pinning you just enough so you don’t hurt yourself. “Hey! Hey — baby girl, c’mon — it’s Dean. It’s just a dream, you hear me? Just a dream.”

Sam cups your face with both hands, fingers gentle but firm as he tries to force your eyes to his. “You’re safe. You’re here with us. Wake up, \[Y/N], c’mon. You gotta wake up now.”

Your head jerks back, eyes rolling like you’re fighting something deep under your skin. Another ragged scream tears free — it rakes at Dean’s chest like claws.

“Dammit — come back to me! NOW!” Dean’s voice booms in your ear — sharp enough to rattle your mind just a little. Sam squeezes your cheeks gently, forces your eyes to his.

Finally — your gaze flickers, catches. You suck in a ragged gasp — then another — but it’s too fast, too shallow. You’re not really awake yet. You’re trapped halfway between the nightmare and the bunker.

Your chest heaves but you can’t pull air in. Your fingers claw at Dean’s shirt. “C-Can’t — can’t — can’t breathe —” The words break off in gasps that don’t go anywhere.

“Easy, easy — hey — eyes on me!” Sam says sharply. He tries to press your palm to his chest like before but your hands won’t stay still. They spasm against his shirt, nails scratching at the fabric.

Dean’s voice drops low, but his eyes are wild. “Sam — she’s gonna hyperventilate. We gotta slow her down. She’s gonna pass out — or seize if her O2 tanks too hard.”

Sam nods, running triage in his head like he’s done a thousand times. “Paper bag? Hand? Slow her down — get her CO2 back up.”

Dean doesn’t waste time — he pulls his big hand over your mouth and nose, cupping gently to catch the air you’re blowing out too fast. “Breathe, baby girl. Right here. In — out. Slow. I know it’s scary — I know. I’m right here.”

Your eyes dart wildly between them, wide and glassy, chest still stuttering like a broken engine. Sam grips your wrist tight enough to anchor you to the now. “If she drops below 90 on O2 she’ll crash. We can’t sedate her — she’ll bottom out if she’s this far under.”

Dean’s thumb brushes your cheekbone as he keeps your breath warm in his palm. “Look at me. Look at me. You’re not alone. Listen — listen to my voice. Remember when you were little? You’re okay. You’re okay. Deep breath, c’mon — in, out.”

Your breath hiccups — catches — then finally drags in deeper. Sam strokes your wrist, feeling the frantic pulse slow by a hair. “That’s it. That’s it. Keep going. One more. You got it.”

Your body slumps against Dean’s chest, trembling. Your breaths are still ragged but they’re real — they’re staying in your lungs instead of falling through your ribs like sand. Dean murmurs soft nonsense into your hair — old lullabies, half a prayer.

Sam meets his eyes over your head. “If she crashes again like this, we might have to try a mild benzo — but we can’t do that unless we’re sure she won’t drop her airway. We’ll keep monitoring — fluids, sugar, keep her warm. She needs REM sleep, not adrenaline.”

Dean nods, voice hoarse. “Not gonna happen again tonight. I’m not lettin’ go of her. She wants monsters, she’s gonna find me first.”

Your eyes flutter, bleary but landing on Dean’s jaw, the stubble there familiar and real. You try to speak but all that comes out is a whisper: “Sorry…”

Dean presses his forehead to yours. “Don’t you dare apologize. You fight — that’s what you do. You’re a damn Winchester. And we fight with you, you hear me?”

Sam’s hand rubs your back, firm and steady. “We got you. All night. No matter what.”

In the dark bunker, with your monsters still lurking at the edges of your dreams, your brothers stand guard — two walls of warmth and rough comfort, ready to battle every demon inside your head if they have to.

And they will. Because that’s what Winchesters do.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Too Much Like Dean

The hunt had been rougher than usual. A nest of ghouls, tucked away in an abandoned meat-packing plant outside of Tulsa. The three of you had taken them down, but not without a price. Sam had a dislocated shoulder and a nasty gash along his ribs, and Dean — Dean’s knuckles were torn up and there was a deep cut across his collarbone that needed more than the butterfly bandage he’d slapped on in the Impala.

So when you felt the burn under your jacket — the sting of claws raking along your side, just under the ribs — you bit your tongue. You’d seen Dean wince every time he turned the wheel. Sam was pale, fighting to stay awake in the backseat. You told yourself it was just a scratch.

You could handle it. You were a Winchester, weren’t you?

You’d made it through the night at some cheap motel — the three of you holed up in a room that smelled like stale cigarettes and old coffee. Dean had knocked back two fingers of whiskey and passed out half-upright against the headboard. Sam crashed on the other bed, his injured arm splinted up with duct tape and half of the motel’s ice machine.

You’d slipped into the bathroom to peel your shirt away from the wound. It was worse than you’d let on. The gash ran jagged across your side — maybe three inches long, deeper at the center. You’d cleaned it best you could, pressing a wad of gauze against it and wrapping it tight. *It’s fine*, you’d told your reflection. *They’re worse off. Dean would do the same.*

The next morning, the room was cold. Dean was up first, pacing in jeans and boots, rummaging for coffee filters. Sam was awake but barely upright, groaning every time he shifted.

“You okay, kiddo?” Dean grunted at you over his shoulder, one eye squinting at the coffeemaker like it had personally wronged him.

“Peachy,” you lied. Your voice sounded normal enough. You didn’t trust your legs when you stood, though — the floor tilted a little too far left. You chalked it up to no sleep.

You helped Sam sit up, fetched him water, argued with Dean about whether he needed stitches himself. All the while, your side throbbed under your flannel. The bandage was warm — too warm — and every step tugged at the raw edge of the wound.

Dean didn’t notice at first. He never did when he was too busy playing mother hen to Sam. He brewed terrible motel coffee and barked at you to go grab more ice for your brother’s shoulder. You nodded, grabbed the ice bucket, and stepped into the morning sunlight.

That’s when the world tilted.

You made it as far as the walkway outside the motel door before your vision went white at the edges. The cold wind hit you like a slap — and the next second your knees buckled. The bucket clattered to the cracked concrete.

The door swung open. Dean’s boots hit the concrete fast — he caught you halfway down, arms under your shoulders before you face-planted into the ice machine.

“Whoa, whoa, hey! Hey!” His voice cracked with panic, half-bark, half-beg. “Hey, sweetheart, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

You tried to speak but the words stuck. Dean’s hand pressed to your back — that’s when he felt it: the damp warmth bleeding through your flannel. He pulled his palm back — dark red smeared across his fingers.

“Son of a — Sam! Sammy, get out here, now!”

Dean eased you down, cradling your head against his thigh. Sam stumbled out, good arm hugging his ribs, eyes wide when he saw the blood.

“She’s bleeding out — how the hell did we miss this?” Dean barked. His voice broke at the edges — panic under the anger. He peeled back your shirt, cursing when the soaked bandage pulled away in strings.

“Did you even clean this? Jesus, kid — you didn’t tell us?”

Sam crouched beside you, pressing his hand to the wound, careful but firm. “She must’ve been hiding it. She’s too much like you, Dean.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Don’t pin this on me, man — help me!”

“I am! Get the med kit — now.”

Dean bolted back inside, came back with the battered green duffel you’d patched up a hundred times. He tossed it open on the concrete. Sam checked your pulse — too fast, too thready.

“BP’s dropping — she’s hypovolemic. We need to irrigate and close it,” Sam said, voice shifting to that calm, terrifying doctor mode.

Dean’s hands shook as he cracked open a saline flush. “Stay with us, sweetheart. C’mon. Open those pretty eyes. If you wanted more attention, you could’ve just asked, huh?”

You managed a weak, pained laugh — half a breath, half a sob. “Didn’t wanna… whine…”

Dean’s eyes burned as he pressed a clean gauze to your side, applying just enough pressure to make you hiss. “You’re allowed to whine, especially when you’re bleeding out on my watch.”

Sam prepped the suture kit. “This is gonna hurt like hell.”

Dean squeezed your hand so hard it almost hurt more than the wound. “Good. She deserves it for scaring me this bad.”

When you came to, the world was fuzzy but bright. Dean was perched on the edge of your bed — your actual bed, back at the bunker now, the hunt days behind you. Sam was asleep in the armchair, drooling on an old book.

Dean brushed your hair back with a gentleness that didn’t match his gruff voice. “You scare me like that again, I’m bubble-wrapping you, you hear me?”

You cracked a smile, throat dry but warm. “Love you too, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grunted, but his hand didn’t move from yours. “Next time you’re hurt, you tell me. Got it?”

You nodded, fighting sleep again. “Got it.”

And for once, Dean let you drift back under — safe between the two people who’d drag you back from hell itself, just like you would for them.

A few days passed. The bunker was quiet, for once. Dean hovered like a ghost — checking your bandages, forcing you to drink that god-awful protein shake Sam swore by, half-joking that you’d lost too much blood to live on pizza alone.

The stitches Sam put in held — mostly. You winced every time you turned too fast, but you laughed it off when Dean barked at you to stay in bed. Stubborn, just like him.

By day four, the fever hit.

At first, it was subtle — you felt chilled under two blankets, sweat dampening your hairline. Dean noticed it before you did. He pressed a hand to your forehead and swore under his breath.

“You’re burning up. Dammit.”

“Probably just… healing,” you rasped. You hated how weak your voice sounded.

Dean didn’t buy it. He called for Sam, who shuffled in with his laptop tucked under his good arm. He read your vitals like a field medic — pulse too fast, temp creeping over 101.

“Let’s see the stitches.” Sam’s voice was calm, too calm. He peeled back the edge of the gauze. The skin around the wound was red, swollen, hot to the touch.

“Infection,” he said flatly. “We need antibiotics, now”.

Dean’s jaw ticked. “We don’t have any more broad-spectrum — used the last of it on my shoulder.”

“I’ll go,” Sam said, already reaching for his coat. “There’s a 24-hour pharmacy two towns over. I’ll grab enough to run a full course IV.”

Dean didn’t protest. He squeezed your shoulder as Sam disappeared out the bunker door. “You hear that? Sammy’s got you. Just stay awake for me, yeah?”

Hours blurred. The fever climbed — 102, then 103. You drifted in and out, shivering, sweat soaking your collar. Dean sat next to you with a wet rag, wiping your forehead, his hand shaking every time he checked your pulse.

“Stay with me, sweetheart. You don’t get to tap out. I’ll never let you hear the end of it if you do,” he half-laughed, half-growled.

Your breath hitched — shallow, ragged. “Dean… s-sorry…”

His chest cracked open at that word. He grabbed your face, forcing your blurry gaze on his. “Don’t you apologize, This is on me — should’ve seen it sooner. Should’ve—” His voice broke. He pressed his forehead to yours. “Just don’t quit on me.”

The door slammed open — Sam, back with two white paper bags and a look of grim focus. He dropped everything on the table, snapping on gloves. “IV line — now. Dean, help me roll her.”

Dean’s hands were steady for once — gentle as they shifted you just enough for Sam to find a vein in your arm. The needle slipped in, tape pressed down, a clear line trailing to the antibiotic drip.

“Vancomycin and fluids,” Sam muttered, checking your pupils with a penlight. “BP’s dropping. We might have sepsis setting in.”

Dean paled. “Sepsis? She’s gonna—?”

“Not if we catch it,” Sam snapped. He didn’t look up. His voice softened when he added, “She’s strong, Dean. She’s you — remember?”

The monitor on the nightstand — a borrowed handheld pulse ox Sam kept for hunts gone bad — beeped out your oxygen sats. They dipped: 91… 89…

“Why’s she breathing like that?” Dean asked, voice edged with panic.

“Fever’s spiking, she’s going tachypneic. Probably septic shock brewing,” Sam said, pushing more fluids through the line. “BP’s 85/50 — we’ll need vasopressors if she doesn’t respond.”

Your eyes flickered open — glassy, unfocused. “De…an… Sam…”

Dean’s hand closed around yours so tight it hurt. “Right here. Right here”.

Sam’s jaw clenched as he switched out the IV bag for a bolus of saline. “C’mon, kid — fight like a Winchester. You got it in you.”

The bunker hummed with quiet terror — the overhead lights buzzing, the only sound besides your labored breathing and Dean’s low, constant murmur of Stay with me, stay with me.

Sam watched the monitor numbers like they were a prayer. The antibiotics worked slow, too slow.

Your pulse stuttered once — twice. Dean’s whole body went rigid.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare.” His voice was raw, hands framing your face, his thumbs catching a tear you didn’t know you’d shed. “You don’t get to check out on me. Not you. I’ll drag your ass back myself.”

Your chest rose — shallow, rattling — then fell again. But this time the rhythm held. A beat later, the BP monitor flickered up by two points.

Sam exhaled — a shaky, broken sound. “She’s stabilizing. The meds are working.”

Dean’s shoulders shook as he let his forehead drop to the back of your hand. “Too much like me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Stupid, stubborn kid.”

But when you blinked up at him — still pale, still burning with fever, but fighting — Dean laughed, wet and raw, and pressed his lips to your knuckles like a vow.

“You’re gonna be okay. You hear me? You don’t get to leave, kid. You’re stuck with me.”Absolutely — here’s the final piece, with another scare during recovery, more real medical detail, and that raw Winchester family love that always drags them through hell and back.

Two days later, you were still tucked into your bunker bed, a jumble of blankets and IV lines and gauze tape. The fever had broken but left you wrung out, your skin clammy and your body aching like you’d gone twelve rounds with a werewolf — which wasn’t that far off.

Dean hovered at your bedside like a grumpy mother hen. Sam drifted between the library and your room, reading medical articles and double-checking your vitals every few hours like he didn’t trust the world to keep you breathing on its own.

You were awake more now, enough to roll your eyes when Dean tried to spoon-feed you soup. Enough to sass Sam about the *nasty* probiotic drink he’d forced on you. Enough to almost feel human again.

But recovery was never a straight line for Winchesters.

It happened late that night. The bunker was quiet except for the hum of the old ventilation system. You’d dozed off after managing to eat half a sandwich Dean grilled for you — the best you’d tasted, even if it was charred on one side.

Dean sat slouched in the chair next to your bed, boot propped on the edge, chin dipped to his chest. He hadn’t left the room in hours. Sam was half-asleep at the table, a medical textbook drooping in his good hand.

You woke with a shiver. The sweat was back — hot, clammy, wrong. You shifted under the blanket and felt the tug — the sharp, biting pain in your side. When you pressed your fingers to the gauze, they came away wet. Sticky. Dark.

You swallowed down the sudden rush of nausea. Your head felt too light, your vision pulsing at the edges. “Dean…?” you rasped, but it came out more like a whimper.

Dean’s eyes snapped open. One look at your pale face and the red smudge on your fingertips and he was wide awake, hands already pulling back the blanket.

“Shit. Sam!” Dean barked, voice rough with sleep and terror all at once. “She’s bleeding again!”

Sam jolted awake, nearly toppling his chair. He crossed the room in three strides, ripping the tape away from your old bandage. Blood seeped around the stitches — fresh, bright, more than before.

“Looks like the wound dehisced — stitches tore,” Sam said grimly. He pressed a gloved hand over it, firm enough to make you gasp. “Could be a pocket of infection or a vessel that reopened.”

Dean’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the vein pop in his neck. “Fix it. Now.”

“I will. But you need to calm her down or her BP’s gonna tank more,” Sam snapped back.

Dean cupped your cheek, trying to catch your drifting focus. “Hey — hey, sweetheart. Eyes on me. You’re okay. Sammy’s got you. Just keep breathing.”

Your teeth chattered as a tremor ran through you. “Cold… ‘m cold…”

“Hypovolemic response,” Sam muttered under his breath, grabbing a fresh IV bag. “Dean, lift her side — I need to pack this. If she goes hypotensive we’ll have to give her more fluids.”

Dean’s arm slid under your shoulders, propping you up while Sam worked. You flinched when the antiseptic hit raw flesh — a sharp, breathless cry muffled against Dean’s chest. He hushed you through it, fingers tangled in your hair, rocking you like you were six years old again, trembling after a nightmare.

Sam’s hands moved fast — sterile packing, fresh sutures, fresh gauze. He worked under the dim yellow lamplight, brow furrowed in that way he got when he wouldn’t allow himself to panic.

Finally, he tied off the last knot, checked your pulse at your wrist, then let out a tight sigh. “Bleeding’s controlled. BP’s low but stable. She needs fluids and sleep — and *no more getting up without help,*” he growled at you, voice rough but soft at the edges.

Dean shot him a look that could have curdled milk. “Like she’s getting out of this bed for the next damn week.”

You managed a small, exhausted laugh that turned into a wince. “Bossy…” you rasped.

Dean leaned in, forehead bumping yours. “Damn right I’m bossy. If you scare me like that again, I swear I’ll lock you in the bunker’s panic room until you’re thirty.”

Sam huffed a wet laugh, already draping another blanket over you. “You’ll heal. Might need the doc to check for abscess once you’re stronger. But you’re here. That’s what matters.”

Your eyelids fluttered, heavy again. Dean’s hand curled around yours, anchoring you to the warmth of the bunker — to the promise that no matter how many times you fell, they’d drag you back.

“Dean… Sam… love you…” you mumbled, half-gone already.

Dean squeezed your hand, voice ragged but certain. “Yeah, kid. We know. We love you more. Now sleep — you’re safe.”

Outside the small circle of lamplight, the bunker hummed — the old pipes, the low groan of air through the ducts — a heartbeat that matched the three of you, stubborn and relentless.

Family. Bleeding, bruised, stitched together. And still here — no matter what.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Wrong Place, Wrong Time: Part 3

Three days later, the ICU was quieter. The rhythmic hiss of the ventilator was gone — replaced by the softer beeps of her telemetry monitor and the steady hum of the IV pump. She was off the continuous morphine now, switched to a patient-controlled analgesia (PCA) pump — a little button clipped near her good hand so she could self-administer small doses as needed.

Buck was half-asleep, slouched sideways in the recliner with her hand tucked in his, when he felt her fingers twitch. He jolted up, blinking blearily as her eyelids cracked open — this time clearer than before, not hazy with sedation.

“Hey, hey — there you are.” His grin split his face, exhausted but radiant. “You’re awake.”

She croaked out a raw whisper. “Water…?”

A nurse stepped in immediately with a swab and ice chips, watching her closely. “Small sips only — your throat’s still irritated from the ETT.”

She took the ice chip gratefully, wincing as she swallowed. “Where… where’s Ed…?”

“Sleeping in the family room,” Buck murmured, brushing her hair back. “I made him. He’s been here the whole time.”

The nurse checked her chart. “Pain level?”

“Six…” she rasped, then pressed the PCA button with trembling fingers.

“Good. Keep ahead of it. You’ve got external fixation until ortho clears you for an internal plate. Vascular says your distal perfusion is intact — cap refill under two seconds, Doppler pulse is good.” The nurse gave Buck a tired smile. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

But the relief was short-lived. Her breath hitched suddenly — her eyes darted to the door, the IV pump, the bright overhead lights. A tremor started in her shoulders. She tried to sit up but the pain in her leg made her gasp. The cardiac monitor beeped faster — HR spiking to 130.

“Hey, hey, hey — easy.” Buck shot up, one hand cupping her jaw to steady her gaze. “Breathe, baby. Slow down.”

“I… I can’t—” Her voice cracked, raw from the tube days ago, eyes wide as a trapped animal. “Can’t move — can’t— I can’t breathe—”

The nurse tapped Buck’s shoulder gently but firmly. “She’s post-sedation — ICU delirium is common. She’s disoriented and flashbacking the intubation. Restraints off the bad leg, but watch the pins. I’ll get Ativan PRN if she can’t calm.”

But Buck didn’t wait — he climbed halfway onto the bed again, pressing his forehead to hers. “Look at me. Right here. Count with me — four in, hold two, out six. I’ve got you.”

She choked out a small sob, chest shuddering under his hand. “I thought— I thought I was stuck there again.”

“You’re here. ICU, Cedars, day three post-op,” Buck murmured, his voice warm but firm. “You’re oxygenating at ninety-eight percent on two liters nasal cannula. Your creatinine’s normal — kidneys are good. The fasciotomy sites look clean, no signs of necrosis. You’re not gonna lose your leg, you hear me? You’re safe.”

Her lashes fluttered, panic still trembling under her skin — but she matched his breaths. In. Hold. Out. The monitor numbers dipped back down, her HR sliding under 110, sats steady.

A soft shuffle at the door — Eddie stepped in, hair a mess, eyes rimmed red. One look at her tear-streaked face and he was at the bedside, leaning over the rail. “Hey, hey — hermana. What’s wrong?”

“She woke up too fast,” Buck said, voice gentle but hoarse. “Panic attack.”

Eddie’s jaw flexed — that same helpless big brother look that killed Buck every time. “You wanna hit me with your crutches now? Get it over with?” he teased roughly.

She let out a ragged laugh that cracked into another sob. “Can’t… can’t even move yet, dumbass.”

He pressed a kiss to her hairline, the worry breaking through the bravado. “You scared the hell out of us. Never again, okay?”

She slumped back, exhaustion rolling in, voice a raspy whisper. “Try… not to.”

The nurse returned with the low-dose Ativan syringe. “You still panicky, sweetheart?”

Buck checked her eyes — the wild look was mostly gone, replaced by raw fatigue. She shook her head weakly. “Just… tired.”

“Good. You rest. We’ll hold the benzo unless you spike again,” the nurse said, adjusting her IV line. “Vitals steady, urine output good — kidneys still happy.”

She cracked a smile at that, eyes half-lidded. “Tell my leg to be happy too.”

Eddie huffed a laugh. Buck bent closer, voice low so only she heard. “When you’re back on your feet — you’re still stuck with me, you know that?”

Her lashes lifted, and even doped up on morphine and exhaustion, her tiny smile punched the air from his chest. “Yeah? Maybe I’ll marry you. Once I’m not attached to scaffolding.”

Eddie groaned dramatically. “Gross. I’m right here.”

Buck pressed his lips to her temple. “Deal’s a deal.”

Outside, the monitor hummed a quiet rhythm: BP stable, HR steady, oxygen flowing. And between the brother who’d die for her and the boyfriend who’d marry her broken or whole — she slept at last, breathing all on her own.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Wrong Place, Wrong Time: Part 3

The hours bled together under the harsh fluorescent lights of the ICU waiting area. Buck’s leg bounced uncontrollably. Eddie sat slumped beside him, elbows braced on his knees, the sterile smell of antiseptic and distant beeping gnawing at both of them.

A nurse finally pushed through the double doors, mask pulled down. “She’s out of surgery. Ortho stabilized the tib-fib with external fixation. They performed a fasciotomy to relieve the compartment pressure — they’re monitoring for reperfusion injury and rhabdomyolysis.”

Eddie stood so fast his chair clattered backward. “She’s gonna keep the leg?”

“For now,” the nurse said gently. “We won’t know for sure until the swelling resolves and the tissue shows viability. We’re watching her creatine kinase levels and urine output closely — high myoglobin can cause acute tubular necrosis, so she’s on aggressive IV fluids and a Foley to monitor output. She’s intubated for now — just to rest her lungs after sedation.”

Buck flinched at intubated, The word tasted like metal in his mouth. He’d seen so many victims like that — but not her. Not the woman he held every night.

“Can we see her?” Eddie asked, voice rough.

“Yeah. One at a time — she’s still heavily sedated. We’ll keep her under for pain management while her pressure stabilizes.”

Buck let Eddie go first — he needed to. Needed to see his sister breathing before the boyfriend did.

Through the glass door, Buck watched Eddie step up to the bedside. Her leg was elevated and wrapped in layers of bandages; the external fixator pins jutted out like cold metal scaffolding. IV lines snaked into her arms — saline, antibiotics, a morphine drip. A ventilator hissed rhythmically, the tube secured to her mouth, chest rising and falling in steady mechanical breaths.

Eddie brushed a thumb over her forehead, murmuring soft Spanish that Buck couldn’t quite catch — but he caught the broken edge in Eddie’s voice anyway. Big brother, fierce protector, helpless witness.

When Eddie stepped out, he caught Buck’s shoulder — a silent go. A silent she needs you too.

Buck slipped inside, and the world narrowed to beeping monitors and the faint rasp of the ventilator. He pulled a chair to the rail, taking her cold hand in both of his. He studied the lines on the monitor — her MAP holding steady at 72, O2 sat at 96%. Stable. For now.

“Hey, baby,” he whispered, fighting the tremor in his voice. “You did it. You held on. Even when that damn pipe pinned you, you didn’t let go.”

He traced the edge of the nasal cannula above the ETT, brushing a knuckle along her cheek. “You’re gonna hate the PT. You’re gonna cuss out every nurse. You’ll probably hit me with your crutches when I annoy you.” He laughed wetly, pressing his forehead to her arm. “Can’t wait.”

A soft shuffle at the door — Eddie leaned in, his voice hoarse. “Doc says they’ll extubate her in the morning if she maintains her pressures.”

Buck nodded, throat tight. “Good.”

They sat together — firefighter, brother, boyfriend — hands folded around hers like a prayer. They talked about stupid things: the next shift, who’d cover who. But every time her vitals beeped steady, every time the ventilator sighed, they knew she was still fighting.

Hours later, just before dawn, she stirred under the sedation — lashes fluttering, brow furrowing. Buck lurched upright, heart in his throat.

“Hey, hey, easy — you’re okay. Don’t fight the tube. Breathe with it, baby.”

A nurse stepped in. “She’s waking. That’s good. Let’s get her sedation lighter and run an ABG. If her pH and CO2 look good, we’ll extubate her.”

She blinked at him through glassy eyes, a tear sliding sideways across her temple. Buck kissed her knuckles, voice shaking. “Stay with me, okay? I’m right here. So’s your overprotective idiot brother.”

Eddie leaned over, brushing her hair back. “We got you, hermana. Always.”

The ventilator hissed — steady, relentless — and they stayed right there. Waiting for the sunrise, waiting for her lungs to take over on their own.

The first rays of morning bled into the ICU as the trauma surgeon, Dr. Patel, and a respiratory therapist checked her latest labs. Buck and Eddie hovered by her bedside, watching the numbers on the monitor like they might flicker out if they looked away.

Patel tapped the chart with the back of his pen. “ABG looks good — pH 7.38, CO2 40, O2 sat stable at 97% on minimal ventilator support. Hemodynamics are holding — MAP’s at 75. Looks like we can extubate.”

Buck’s shoulders sagged with relief, though Eddie shot Patel a wary look. “She’ll be awake enough for this?”

Patel nodded. “She’s responsive — we’ll give her a few minutes with minimal sedation so she can initiate spontaneous breaths. RT, get the suction ready.”

The respiratory therapist moved to the head of the bed, gently squeezing Buck’s shoulder. “She may panic when she feels the tube — that’s normal. Just keep her calm.”

Buck leaned over, brushing a kiss to her temple as her eyes fluttered open again. This time she looked more aware — and instantly, the alarm flared in her gaze. Her fingers clawed weakly at the ETT.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Buck whispered, his voice a low rasp. “You’re okay. They’re gonna pull the tube. Just breathe with it, baby. In… out… good girl.”

She gagged around the plastic, tears welling up, a muffled whimper vibrating in her throat.

Patel stepped in. “Alright. We’ll deflate the cuff on three — suction ready. On exhalation. Ready? One, two, three…”

The RT pulled the tube in one smooth motion while another nurse suctioned secretions. She coughed hard, gagging, eyes wide and wet. The sudden rush of free air made her chest hitch, panic spiking.

Her breaths came in short, shallow gasps. The monitor beeped faster — heart rate spiking to 135, O2 sat dipping. She tried to curl in on herself but the leg fixator and the IV lines anchored her down.

“Her sats are dropping — BVM ready if she desats under ninety,” the RT said quickly.

Buck climbed halfway onto the bed, ignoring the staff’s protests. “Hey, hey, look at me, sweetheart. Breathe with me — in through your nose. Slow. Eddie — talk to her.”

Eddie rounded the bed, bracing her shoulders gently so she wouldn’t thrash. “Respira, hermana. Lento. Good — that’s it. In, hold for two. Out. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Her chest hitched with a half-sob, voice hoarse and raw. “Hurts… c-can’t…”

Buck pressed his forehead to hers, grounding her. “It’s the fasciotomy site — they’ll give you more analgesia. You’re doing perfect. Focus on my voice. Just us, okay? Just me and Eddie.”

The RT adjusted her nasal cannula, dialing up two liters of oxygen. “Good chest rise. Breath sounds are clear. We’re good for now — sats back to ninety-four. Let’s hang that next round of morphine.”

A nurse pushed a small syringe into her IV port — fentanyl 50 mcg. Within seconds, her tense shoulders eased fractionally, the panic in her eyes giving way to exhaustion.

Buck brushed the hair off her damp forehead. “You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered. “Next time, I’m wrapping you in bubble wrap.”

A ghost of a laugh rasped out of her shredded throat. “Not… your… call…”

Eddie huffed a shaky breath, hand still braced on her arm. “Yeah? Well, it’s mine. And I’m siding with him.”

Patel stepped in again, eyes soft for once. “You’re stable for now. The next twenty-four hours are critical for limb perfusion — if we see signs of necrosis, ortho may have to revise. But you did good, sweetheart. You fought.”

She drifted halfway under again, morphine dragging her toward sleep. Her hoarse whisper clung to Buck’s collar. “Stay… don’t leave…”

Buck kissed her temple. “Never.”

Eddie exhaled, finally sinking into the chair, one hand still on her uninjured arm. Big brother, still on guard. Buck kept his forehead pressed to her crown, anchoring them both.

Outside the glass, the monitors kept their steady rhythm — BP cuff cycling, pulse ox blinking its green heartbeat. And inside the small ICU bay, they sat as her sentries — brother and boyfriend — guarding every single breath she’d fought so damn hard to take.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Wrong Place, Wrong Time: Part 2

The back doors of the ambulance slammed open under the harsh lights of the emergency bay. Buck jumped out first, hand still locked in hers, knuckles white. Eddie followed, striding alongside the gurney as the paramedics shouted report.

“Twenty-eight-year-old female, blunt force trauma to lower extremity, possible crush injury with vascular compromise. Hypotensive — BP at arrival was 78/46, HR 140 and thready, RR shallow at 30. GCS dropped to 11 en route — pale, diaphoretic, altered mentation.”

The trauma team swarmed her, snapping on sterile gloves and pushing Buck and Eddie to the side — but they both refused to let go until a nurse had to peel Buck’s fingers free.

She whimpered, eyelids fluttering open. “Buck… Ed…”

“I’m right here, baby,” Buck called out, voice cracking as the gurney rolled under the bright trauma lights. Eddie dropped a shaky kiss to her temple before they let the team push him back.

A resident leaned over her, voice clipped but calm. “Hi, I’m Dr. Patel, trauma surgery. We’re gonna take care of you, okay? Let’s get her two units of O-neg, type and cross for six more. Draw labs — CBC, CMP, coags, lactate, ABG. Push another liter of normal saline wide open.”

A nurse clipped a pulse ox to her finger — reading in the low 80s. Another medic cut away her pants, revealing a grotesque deformity of her lower leg, pale and swollen.

“Open tib-fib fracture, possible compartment syndrome,” Patel said. “Let’s prep for emergent fasciotomy if pulses don’t return.”

Buck’s stomach turned. He could hear every word — every horrible possibility.

“Doppler, please!” Patel barked. A tech pressed the device to her foot — static hissed, but no arterial pulse.

“Nothing,” the tech said grimly.

Patel looked at his team. “She’s losing the limb if we don’t decompress. We’re not waiting.” He turned to Eddie and Buck hovering at the curtain. “Family?”

“Brother,” Eddie croaked, chest heaving. “And — he’s her—”

“Boyfriend,” Buck finished for him, his voice raw. “Do whatever you have to do — please.”

Patel gave a short nod. “We’ll try to save her leg, but priority is her life. If the tissue’s necrotic we’ll have to amputate.”

The words punched Buck in the gut. Eddie’s hand shot out, grabbing Buck’s arm when his knees almost buckled.

Inside the trauma bay, they draped her leg and doused it in betadine.

“Local anesthetic won’t cut it — she’s already altered. Push two of fentanyl IV. Hang another bag of saline,” Patel ordered. He made a quick incision through skin and fascia — the smell of sterile fluid and iron filled the air as trapped blood and swelling muscle bulged out.

“Color’s improving,” a nurse murmured, checking the Doppler again. A faint whoosh of blood flow crackled through the handheld speaker.

“We’ve got distal flow. Good. Good. Keep that pressure dressing tight.”

Buck’s vision blurred with tears when he saw her chest rising shallow but steady. He pressed his palm to the glass partition, desperate to be closer.

A trauma nurse stepped out, voice soft but urgent. “She’s stable for now — we’re sending her for emergent ortho consult and possible external fixation. She’s got crush syndrome so her kidneys are at risk — we’re running fluids to flush the myoglobin. They’ll probably admit her to ICU post-op.”

Buck swiped a hand over his face. “Can I see her?”

The nurse hesitated, then waved him in for a brief moment.

Inside, the beeping of the monitor filled the silence. He slipped to her side, brushing a damp strand of hair off her forehead.

“Hey, you stubborn thing,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You scared the hell out of us.”

She cracked one eye open, voice groggy. “Didn’t… wanna ruin my turnout pants…”

He choked out a watery laugh, pressing his lips to her temple. Eddie hovered behind him, eyes bright but jaw clenched tight — his hand ghosted over her arm, protective big brother to the end.

“I love you,” Buck whispered. “Fight for me, okay? Fight for your brother. Come back to us. We’ve got a lot more calls to run.”

Outside, the trauma bay doors swung shut again as they wheeled her toward surgery — and all Buck and Eddie could do was stand shoulder to shoulder, silent promises anchoring them to the bright corridor where fear and hope collided.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

The alarm at Station 118 had barely finished blaring when Buck caught sight of her slipping her turnout gear on beside Eddie. His girlfriend. Eddie’s little sister. And she was so damn stubborn about riding along, shadowing Hen for her EMT certification.

The call was routine at first — a multi-car collision on the overpass. A jackknifed truck. Minor injuries reported. But Buck’s gut twisted the second he stepped onto the scene and saw the tangled mess of guardrail and sedan — with her crouched beside an unconscious driver.

She was stabilizing the patient when Buck saw the semi’s load shift — steel pipes rolling loose.

“Move! Get back!*” he shouted, sprinting.

But it was too late. One of the pipes slid off the flatbed, crashing through the mangled guardrail. She turned just in time for Buck to tackle her sideways — but a second pipe slammed down, catching her left side and pinning her leg beneath twisted metal.

The world fractured into sirens and the crunch of metal on asphalt.

“Shit — Eddie! Get over here!*” Buck barked, voice cracking.

Eddie was already there, dropping to his knees beside his sister, eyes blown wide. “Hey, hey, look at me. You’re okay. You’re okay, hermana.”

She sucked in a ragged breath, voice tight with pain. “Can’t… can’t feel my foot.”

Buck’s gloved hands trembled as he palpated her femur and lower leg. “Possible tib-fib fracture. She’s got decreased distal pulses. We need to extricate this pipe, now.”

Hen slid in beside them with Chim. “Tourniquet, just in case,” she said, voice calm but urgent. She pressed her stethoscope to her chest. “Breath sounds equal bilaterally. Airway’s clear. Pupils reactive.”

Buck cupped her face with his free hand. “Stay with me, baby, okay? You’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna be fine.”

Eddie’s jaw clenched so hard it looked like his teeth might crack. “We can’t lift this without stabilizing her leg — it’ll shear the vessels.”

“Then we cut,” Chim said. “We get the jaws, we lift the pipe, and we control for hemorrhage.”

Hen nodded. “Start an IV — two large-bore, 18-gauge. Normal saline wide open. She’s showing signs of hypovolemic shock — look at her lips.”

Buck glanced down — her skin was going gray around the edges, clammy under the grime. He squeezed her hand. “Hey, look at me. You’re gonna feel a lot of pressure, okay? Then we’re gonna get you out of here.”

She managed a faint, pained laugh. “You’re bossy when you’re worried.”

“Yeah, well — marry me when this is over and I’ll stop,” he rasped, voice breaking.

Eddie shot him a look — part protective brother, part desperate partner in this nightmare. “You’d better get her there first.”

Hen fired up the KED while Chim guided the Jaws of Life into position. The grinding whir of metal tearing apart was deafening. Buck pressed down on the wound as soon as the pipe lifted, and a fresh gush of blood stained his gloves bright red.

“Pressure bandage! Eddie, elevate her leg — careful — keep it above heart level,” Hen ordered.

She sucked in another gasp, eyes fluttering. “Buck… it hurts… can’t breathe…”

“Stay with me. Don’t you dare check out, you hear me?” His forehead pressed to hers as he counted her breaths. “One breath. Another. Good girl. You’re so damn brave.”

The paramedics moved fast — a cervical collar snapped in place, a backboard slid under her. The team lifted her as one, Buck never letting go of her hand.

Eddie hovered by her head in the ambulance, barking vitals to the hospital: “Female, late twenties, blunt force trauma to left leg, suspected compound fracture, possible crush syndrome — BP dropping to 82/50, heart rate tachy at 132. GCS 13 and dropping. ETA ten minutes.”

Buck sat wedged against the bench seat, her hand still wrapped tight in his, silent prayers tumbling out between shallow breaths. He caught Eddie’s eyes over her pale face.

Brother and boyfriend — united by blood and love and fear. And the promise that they’d do anything to make sure she survived this call.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Stay With Me: Part 4

Chicago Med — Neuro ICU, Room 5

The overhead lights had dimmed. The machines hadn’t.

A steady symphony of survival pulsed through the room: The soft whoosh of the ventilator cycling every 6 seconds. The rhythmic beep of the telemetry monitor tracking your sinus rhythm. The occasional puff of the pneumatic compression boots around your calves to prevent clots.

Kelly Severide sat in the lone chair next to your bed — posture collapsed, elbows braced on his knees, face buried in his hands.

The air smelled like antiseptic and latex. He hated it. Hated that he knew it so well.

Jay had gone to grab coffee. Matt had finally let himself go home to grab clean clothes, toiletries, and maybe just breathe for five minutes. But not Kelly.

Kelly hadn't moved from your side since they’d wheeled you out of OR recovery.

Now, finally alone with you, the floodgates cracked.

He leaned forward and gently took your hand — fingers cold under his warm palm, nails still with flecks of dried blood from the lake.

“You’re supposed to be the careful one,” he said softly. “The one who doesn’t rush headfirst. That’s my job, remember?”

The ventilator exhaled with a hiss. Your chest rose and fell.

He studied the lines attached to you:

Arterial line snaked from your radial artery, monitoring beat-to-beat blood pressure — now reading 98/64.

Central venous catheter at your clavicle, connected to multiple infusion pumps administering a mix of IV fluids, norepinephrine, and cefepime.

EEG monitor still running, showing no new seizure activity, but not yet responding to stimuli.

“You’re holding,” he murmured, scanning the monitor. “Heart rate’s steady. ICP’s stable at 15. Brain’s not swelling more, and your white count hasn’t gone up.”

He swallowed. “But you’re not… waking up either.”

His fingers brushed over the line of sutures above your temple — the place where they’d removed part of your skull to relieve the pressure. The bone flap was labeled and stored in sterile cryo at the hospital for later reimplantation.

“I watched them cut into your head, Y/N,” Kelly whispered, voice trembling. “I’ve run into burning buildings without hesitation. I’ve stared down structural collapses, hazmat leaks, entire floors ready to give way…”

“But that?” He looked down at you, eyes burning. “Watching you seize. Watching them drill into your skull. I’ve never been that scared in my life.”

His voice cracked, breaking the silence.

“You’re the strongest person I know. But if you don’t open your eyes soon, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

A soft knock pulled him out of his spiral.

Nurse Amy peeked in, clipboard in hand.

“Vitals are stable,” she whispered. “SpO₂ is 95% on assist control ventilation. Temp’s holding at 100.2°F. No new signs of distress.”

Kelly nodded. “Thanks.”

“She’s fighting, Kelly,” Amy added gently. “We see hundreds of cases like this. The ones who stabilize this long this early… they usually come back.”

He nodded again, unable to speak.

She slipped out.

He looked back at you, shaking his head with a weak smile. “Hear that? Even the nurse thinks you’re too damn stubborn to quit.”

He leaned forward, forehead resting gently against your hand.

“I’ve been thinking about the last fight we had,” he murmured. “About you saying I don’t open up enough. That I shut down when it matters.”

A shaky breath escaped him.

“So here it is. I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. And if you wake up… I promise I’ll tell you that every day. I won’t wait till it’s life or death again.”

He looked up at you, blinking rapidly.

“Just… give me that chance, okay?”

And as the monitors continued their steady chorus — no better, no worse — he waited.

Chicago Med – Neuro ICU, Room 5 | Post-Op Day 2

The lights were low, but the machinery buzzed as always — ventilator humming, EEG tracing slow cortical activity, IV pumps delivering pressors and antibiotics on a steady rhythm. Every beep was a countdown. Every sigh of breath, a victory.

Severide hadn’t moved from your side.

Jay Halstead was asleep in a chair across the room, feet propped up on a windowsill, one hand still wrapped around a paper cup of long-cold coffee. Matt Casey had just returned from home, backpack slung over his shoulder, eyes bleary but full of forced resolve.

He stepped into the room and stopped when he saw Kelly frozen beside your bed.

“What—?”

Severide raised a trembling hand. “She moved.”

Matt dropped the bag and rushed forward. “She—what?”

Then they both saw it again. A purposeful flex of your left fingers — slow, but unmistakable.

Severide’s voice broke. “She’s coming back.”

Nursing Note

GCS: 10 (E3 V2 M5)

Initiated eye-opening and weak grasp.

Remains intubated. Preparing for SBT once neuro reevaluation is complete.

ICP 15. MAP 72. Fever trending downward.

Your eyes opened — first unfocused, then vaguely tracking.

Matt let out a breath like he’d been holding it for two days. “Oh my God…”

You looked between the two of them — Kelly close, Matt hovering just behind.

“Hey,” Matt whispered. “It’s me. It’s your big brother.”

You blinked again, confused. Your gaze darted around the room, then landed back on Matt. “Ben?”

Casey’s face fell. “No—Y/N, it’s Matt. Matt Casey.”

But you shook your head slightly, murmuring, “Ben took me to Homecoming…”

Matt looked over at the nurse.

“Post-traumatic amnesia,” she said gently. “It’s normal. She might be stuck in childhood or adolescence for now. She’ll need orientation over time.”

Matt sat heavily in the chair beside Jay, numb.

“She doesn’t even know me.”

“She will,” Severide said hoarsely. “She’ll find her way back.”

Suddenly, you stiffened. Your back arched slightly off the bed. Your hands clenched into rigid fists.

“Seizure!” the nurse called. “Get Dr. Lee!”

Jay snapped upright as Kelly and Matt jumped to their feet.

“Push Lorazepam—4 mg IV now!” “HR 164! SpO₂ down to 88%!” “Get suction—she’s salivating!”

Severide stared in horror as your body spasmed in uncontrolled bursts. Matt looked like he might pass out.

“They just said she was getting better—” Matt began, panicked.

“She still is,” the nurse barked. “Seizures are common with brain trauma. This doesn’t change the long-term odds.”

Jay pressed a hand to Matt’s shoulder while the medical team suctioned your airway, the ventilator clicking as it switched to volume control mode.

Eventually, you collapsed back into the mattress—limp and unresponsive again.

“Post-ictal state,” the neuro resident noted. “Monitor closely. Keppra levels need rechecking.”

Neuro Rounds

Dr. Abrams entered with Will Halstead, eyes glued to your updated CT scan on the tablet.

“She’s stabilizing again,” Will said first, glancing at the group.

Abrams added, “No new bleeding. ICP remains under 20. Seizure likely from cortical irritation — not uncommon.”

Jay stood behind Severide now, arms crossed tightly. “So what’s next?”

“We slowly reduce sedation and track neuro responses,” Abrams said. “She’s opening eyes, localizing pain, tracking sound. But she still thinks she’s sixteen. Her retrograde amnesia may last days… weeks… or longer.”

Matt’s voice was raw. “So she might not remember the last decade?”

Will nodded, solemn. “She might not remember her career, her friends… or you two.”

Severide looked like he’d been shot.

“She’s got a long road,” Will continued. “But this is still a win. Most patients in her condition never open their eyes.”

Matt scrubbed a hand over his face. “She doesn’t need to remember everything. We’ll remind her.”

Severide stepped back to your bedside, watching your face twitch faintly as sedation began to fade again.

“I’ll remind her every damn day,” he whispered.

Reader’s POV (Fragmented Thought)

Too bright. Too loud.

Mom said I could sleep in today…

Who were these men? One looked like… the boy from the firehouse calendar. The other — sad eyes, strong jaw. Familiar but not. The redhead said something about “pressure on your brain.” What happened to my dress? Where’s my phone?

You tried to speak but only gasped.

They leaned closer.

“Y/N?” “Can you hear us?”

Everything trembled. Nothing made sense.

But the warmth of their hands…

You weren’t ready to wake up.

But you weren’t ready to give up either.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Stay With Me: Part 3

Chicago Med — OR 3

Dr. Abrams stood scrubbed and focused beneath the overhead surgical lights. The sterile field was prepped. Monitors displayed every beat of your heart and breath pumped by the ventilator.

Diagnosis: Acute subdural hematoma, right-sided, with 5 mm midline shift and early uncal herniation. Procedure: Emergent decompressive craniotomy with hematoma evacuation.

“Scalpel.”

A nurse handed the tool off. Abrams made a clean incision across your right temporal scalp, reflecting the tissue and opening access to the cranium.

“Burr drill.”

With precision, he created a burr hole to relieve pressure and allow cranial access. A second was added. Then came the craniotome — the powered saw that removed a portion of your skull.

“Evacuating now.”

As the dura was opened, dark arterial blood pooled.

“Subdural clot confirmed. Hemostasis maintained. Suction.”

The anesthesiologist monitored your vitals. “BP stabilizing. MAP’s back up to 72. ICP is coming down.”

“Clot’s evacuated. No sign of active arterial bleed. Dura being closed. Bone flap stored—leaving craniectomy for swelling control.”

After 63 minutes of controlled chaos, the surgeon stepped back.

“She’s still with us.”

Chicago Med — Surgical Waiting Room

Will Halstead, still in scrubs, appeared through the double doors, clipboard in hand. His face said everything before he even spoke.

“She made it through,” he told the group.

Severide stood immediately. “What does that mean? Is she—?”

“She’s stable,” Will interrupted, voice steady. “The craniotomy went as planned. The hematoma was evacuated, and the pressure’s coming down. Her brain was swelling too much to replace the bone flap, so they left it off. She’ll have a helmet on when she wakes up and need a second surgery later.”

Jay nodded quickly, eyes sharp. “Post-op status?”

“Intubated and sedated in the Neuro ICU. Vitals are currently stable. ICP is being monitored via a bolt. She’s got a central line, arterial line, Foley, and EEG monitoring. She’s also still being treated with Vancomycin and Zosyn for the aspiration pneumonia, plus Keppra for seizure prophylaxis.”

Matt swallowed. “But she’s alive.”

Will nodded. “Yeah. She’s still got a hell of a fight ahead, but she made it.”

Severide’s voice cracked. “When can we see her?”

Will held up a hand. “Give them ten minutes to get her settled. I’ll walk you up.”

Jay stepped forward, crossing his arms. “I’m going in with them.”

Will gave a small, knowing smirk. “Didn’t plan to stop you.”

Matt looked at him in surprise.

Jay shrugged. “She’s not just Squad or family. She’s my best friend. I’m not sitting this one out.”

Neuro ICU – Room 5

The sound of ventilator-assisted breaths filled the room in rhythm with the steady beep of the telemetry monitor.

You looked small under the white sheets, head shaved on one side, a long line of sutures following the curve of your skull, now covered by a custom-fit cranial protection helmet. Your skin was still flushed from fever, and the swelling around your right eye had worsened. A cooling blanket was spread across you, working to reduce your core temperature.

Severide entered first. His breath hitched immediately.

He moved to your side slowly, careful not to disturb anything. The sight of the endotracheal tube, the EEG leads, the arterial line feeding into your wrist—it hit him harder than expected.

“You did it, baby,” he whispered, brushing your fingers gently. “You came back.”

Jay stood at the foot of the bed, fists clenched, jaw working hard to keep it together. “She looks like hell,” he said softly.

Matt stood on the other side, eyes red but dry. “She looked worse in the water.”

They all chuckled—just once.

The three stood in silence for a moment. None of them were used to being this powerless.

“She always said we were her safety net,” Jay finally muttered. “But she’s the one holding all of us together.”

“Damn right she is,” Kelly said, voice hoarse. “That’s why she’s gonna wake up.”

Casey reached out and gently touched your arm. “You rest, alright? But don’t you dare forget how much we’re waiting.”

Severide leaned in again, close enough for only you to hear.

“I love you. I’m right here. You don’t have to fight this alone.”

And for just a second—barely visible—your fingers twitched beneath his.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Stay With Me: Part 2

The sirens were a dull roar behind you. Your vision blurred, the fluorescent ceiling lights above you streaking like comets every time the rig hit a bump. Kelly was at your side, one hand gripping yours, the other bracing the stretcher rail like he could somehow anchor you to this world.

You blinked up at him, groggy.

“Kelly…” you mumbled, voice raspy. “I don’t feel too hot.”

His eyes locked on yours instantly. “Hey. Stay with me, babe. We’re almost there.”

But something shifted. You blinked again—slow, heavy. Your body slackened slightly against the stretcher.

“Y/N?” he said quickly, squeezing your hand. “Talk to me.”

Your eyes rolled back.

“Unresponsive!” Brett called from the monitor. “BP’s dropping—she’s hypotensive. 84 over 56. HR’s 134 and thready. Oxygen sat’s at 88% on non-rebreather.”

Stella, already gloved up in the back bench seat, moved fast. “She’s deteriorating—get a second IV line in. Start a 500cc bolus of NS wide open.”

“I’m on it,” Brett said, spiking the bag.

Kelly’s jaw clenched. “What’s happening?”

“She’s crashing,” Stella said, keeping her tone clinical but urgent. “Likely intracranial—blunt force trauma plus submersion. She's compensating, but barely. Pupils are sluggish.”

“She needs a trauma team ready,” Brett added. She pulled the portable radio from her shoulder. “Kim! Call Med—tell them we have a trauma patient coming in with GCS 6, unresponsive after initial recovery. Head trauma, LOC, declining BP, possible TBI with aspiration.”

Chicago PD’s Kim Burgess crackled back over radio: “Copy. I’ll alert Sharon and get the trauma bay ready.”

Jay Halstead, following in a patrol SUV, heard everything. His grip tightened on the wheel.

Stella placed a hand gently on Kelly’s back. “She’s tough, Kelly. You know that.”

He didn’t respond. He was staring at your face—ashen now, lashes trembling faintly, lips pale under the oxygen mask. The monitor beeped faster, a chaotic rhythm of instability.

“I can’t lose her,” he muttered. “Not like this.”

“You’re not going to,” Stella said, voice firmer now. “We’ve got perfusion starting. Second line’s in. She’s still in sinus tachy—no V-tach yet.”

Kelly pressed his lips to your forehead briefly.

“You hang on, okay? You do not get to check out on me now.”

They blew through the ER doors full-tilt.

“Twenty-nine-year-old female,” Brett shouted. “Post-blunt trauma to occipital region with secondary LOC, submerged in cold water. Regained consciousness en route, re-lost. Now unresponsive. GCS 6. Hypotensive. HR 142. Sat’s 86%.”

Dr. Ethan Choi and Maggie Lockwood were already waiting with the trauma team.

“Let’s go—get her to Trauma 2! Full neuro workup, CT stat. Draw CBC, CMP, lactic, and blood cultures. Page Neuro and start high-flow O₂ at 15L.”

Severide tried to follow. Maggie stopped him gently.

“They’ve got her, Kelly.”

He looked like he might explode.

So Stella stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm. “We’ll wait. Together.”

“Sluggish response to painful stimuli. Pupils unequal—right more dilated than left.” “She’s posturing—decorticate flexion.” “Prep for RSI. She’s agitated in apnea intervals—we need to protect the airway.” “BP’s holding at 90 systolic with fluid. Starting levophed if MAP drops below 60.

Matt Casey came running down the hall just in time to see Severide standing frozen, soaked to the bone and covered in blood.

“What happened?” he demanded. “They said she went under, but she was fine—Jay said she came back up!”

Kelly didn’t look at him.

“She said she didn’t feel good,” he said hollowly. “Then she just… dropped.”

Casey’s face crumpled. “She’s all I have, man. Please tell me she’s gonna be okay.”

“I don’t know,” Severide admitted, his voice a broken whisper. “I don’t know.”

The trauma team worked with relentless precision.

“Intubation complete. Tube placement confirmed with end-tidal CO₂ and bilateral breath sounds.” “She’s tachycardic—HR 148. BP’s 82 over 44. Sat’s holding at 91% on 100% FiO₂ via ventilator.” “Neuro exam’s worsening—GCS 5, unequal pupils. Prep for CT head, stat.” “Bolus another 500cc of NS and start norepinephrine—5 mcg/min, titrate to maintain MAP over 65.”

Dr. Choi leaned over the bedside, checking your pupils again. “We need to rule out a subdural hematoma or cerebral edema. She’s decompensating.”

“Portable chest X-ray shows right basilar infiltrate—possible aspiration pneumonia,” one of the residents added. “Temp’s climbing—she’s febrile at 101.9°F.”

“She’s circling the drain,” the trauma fellow muttered under his breath. “Let’s move.”

Radiology Suite Non-Contrast Head CT

The scan began with a mechanical whirr. You lay perfectly still, ventilated and unconscious, forehead bruised, IV lines snaking in every direction.

On the screen, the radiologist frowned.

“There. Temporal lobe. 2.4 cm hematoma. Midline shift—4 millimeters. Early signs of uncal herniation. We need Neuro in the loop. Now.”

Waiting Room

The entire firehouse team was there now — Squad 3, Truck 81, Ambo 61. Jay Halstead paced by the doors, arms crossed, while Stella Kidd and Sylvie Brett sat quietly beside Kelly and Matt.

Casey sat stiffly in a plastic chair, face pale, hands knotted together.

Severide hadn’t moved.

Jay turned sharply when Maggie stepped in with a clipboard and an update.

“She’s intubated and stable on a ventilator,” Maggie said calmly. “They found a temporal lobe subdural hematoma with midline shift, plus pulmonary infiltration consistent with aspiration. Neuro’s being consulted now. She’s febrile and trending toward septic, likely from fluid in the lungs. But she’s holding, barely.”

Jay blinked. “Okay, wait—back up. What does that mean?”

Stella stepped in gently, glancing at Maggie for permission before translating.

“It means she has bleeding in her brain that’s pushing things out of alignment. The brain’s shifting—dangerously. That’s what’s messing with her responsiveness. She’s also fighting an infection from inhaling water into her lungs. And her blood pressure’s tanking because of it.”

Jay swallowed hard, then nodded slowly.

Matt buried his head in his hands.

Severide stared down at the floor, lips tight.

“She’s going to the OR?” he finally asked, voice low.

Maggie nodded. “Neurosurgery is reviewing her scans now. They may opt for a craniotomy to relieve the pressure. We’re also starting broad-spectrum IV antibiotics—Vancomycin and Zosyn. And she’s on Levophed to keep her pressure up.”

“Is she going to make it?” Matt asked softly.

Maggie didn’t answer.

CT Recovery Bay

You lay pale and still under blankets, a Bair Hugger draped over your chest in a fight to keep your core temperature up.

“BP’s 78/40—Levophed up to 10 mcg/min.” “Temp is 102.2. Tachycardic—HR 156.” “SpO₂ holding at 93%. CXR shows worsening infiltrates. Get her to the ICU once we clear the OR decision.”

One of the nurses looked up. “We’ve got movement.”

Your eyelids fluttered—just briefly. Then your body tensed on the bed. Seizure activity.

“Code Neuro! Full seizure protocol. Push Ativan—4 mg IVP. Prep loading dose Keppra!”

The machines wailed again as your body convulsed under the straps.

Dr. Abrams, the neurosurgeon, met with the waiting crew.

“She’s seizing now. The midline shift’s worsening. We’re prepping the OR for decompressive craniotomy and hematoma evacuation.”

Severide stood instantly. “Then do it. What are we waiting for?”

Abrams nodded. “We’re moving fast. But you all need to understand — if the pressure doesn’t reverse or the bleed expands…”

“Just save her,” Casey said, voice cracking.

Jay turned to the wall and punched it. Stella flinched.

Brett gripped Severide’s arm as he sat back down, burying his face in his hands.

And in that hallway—filled with heroes used to running into fire—they were powerless.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Stay With Me

Wind whipped across the water as Squad 3, Truck 81, and Ambulance 61 arrived on scene. A boat had capsized just off the pier — multiple people thrown into the water. Screams echoed as bystanders gathered.

“Victim spotted near the rocks!” shouted a patrol officer.

“Squad with me!” Severide barked, already shrugging on his drysuit.

You knelt beside the dock edge with your trauma kit, reaching for a dazed man who had just been pulled out. He was coughing up water, disoriented, combative.

Jay Halstead, already soaked from dragging him in, leaned over. “We need to sedate him. He’s not stable.”

You tried to keep the man calm. “Sir, it’s okay—you’re safe. You’re out of the water—”

But he flailed, panicked. And then—

CRACK.

His leg shot out in a wild kick—striking you hard in the temple.

You gasped as the world spun.

Your head hit the edge of the dock.

Then everything went black.

Below the Surface

You sank fast.

Your limbs barely moved. Blood from the gash on your scalp swirled in lazy clouds around you.

Somewhere far above, voices were shouting. Sirens were wailing. But down here, it was quiet.

Your body begged you to surface.

But your mind whispered: “It’s okay to let go.”

The pain throbbed behind your eyes. Darkness pressed against your ribs. You wondered: What if I just stayed down here?

You thought of Severide’s laugh. Matt’s overprotective texts. Jay’s dumb jokes and coffee runs.

You missed them. You didn’t want to leave.

But maybe it was easier than fighting…

Topside – 17:49

“WHERE IS SHE?!” Severide’s voice cracked as he bolted across the dock.

Jay shoved the combative patient into the arms of two uniforms and spun, panting. “She went under—he kicked her. I didn’t even see her fall—”

“Diver in the water!” Severide yelled into his radio. “NOW!”

But he didn’t wait. He yanked off his coat and dove in.

Matt Casey pushed through the crowd just in time to hear it.

“What do you mean she went under? That’s my sister!”

Cruz held him back. “They’re looking, Matt! Severide’s down there!”

You floated like a puppet without strings.

But then—

Strong arms wrapped around you.

You didn’t have to open your eyes to know who it was. You felt the heat of his chest even in the freezing water. You heard his voice even through the pressure of unconsciousness.

“Come on, babe. Don’t do this. I got you.”

He broke the surface with you in his arms.

“CLEAR THE DOCK!” someone shouted. “GET THE STRETCHER READY!”

Back on the Dock – 17:52

They hauled both of you up. Severide didn’t let go. He was shouting your name over and over, even as Brett started compressions.

“She’s in PEA!” she yelled. “We need to push Epi, start bagging!”

Casey stood frozen—helmet off, eyes wide in horror.

Jay was next to him, soaked, gripping his shoulder. “They’ll get her back. You know they will.”

“Why the hell wasn’t I there?” Matt choked out.

Severide knelt beside you, drenched and shaking. “Please,” he whispered, brushing hair from your bloody temple. “You don’t get to leave me like this.”

The monitor blipped—

Then again.

And again.

Pulse restored.

Ambulance – En Route to Med – 18:04

Your eyes fluttered. Gurgled breaths. Then a cough.

Severide leaned in, gripping your hand tightly. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. You’re okay. You’re back.”

You blinked slowly, dazed. “Did I mess up the rescue?”

Jay laughed — watery and strained — from the corner. “Only a little. But I’ll give you a pass.”

Matt’s voice came through the radio on speaker. “Tell her I’m gonna kill her for scaring me.”

You smiled faintly, then winced. “Head hurts.”

Brett looked back, relieved. “Yeah. That’s the part where you got kicked in the face, remember?”

You gave a breathy laugh.

And clutched Severide’s hand tighter.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Don't Drink Lake Water For Fun: Part 6

ICU – 10:03 A.M. Post-Extubation, Day 3

The tube had been removed two hours ago.

Her throat felt like sandpaper. Her chest was raw. Breathing was possible again — but still painful. Oxygen flowed gently through nasal cannula prongs taped beneath her nose. Monitors still clung to her body: pulse oximeter, telemetry leads, IVs, and a blood pressure cuff inflating on a schedule that made her flinch.

But none of that compared to the ache in her heart.

The ache of surviving.

Y/N lay propped up at a 30-degree angle in her hospital bed, still pale, dark shadows smudged under her eyes. Dean and Sam were both there, one on either side. They hadn’t left. Not once.

Tears streamed silently down her face — without warning, without control.

“I—I’m sorry,” she croaked, barely a whisper. Her voice was a shredded thread. “I don’t know why I’m crying—”

Sam immediately reached forward, voice gentle. “Don’t be sorry.”

His thumb wiped a tear from her cheek, and in the same breath, his own eyes brimmed. One tear escaped, and he blinked hard, pretending it hadn’t happened.

“You scared the hell out of us,” he whispered. “You're allowed to cry.”

Y/N nodded, but it didn’t help. A fresh wave of emotion swelled in her chest — hot, tight, unstoppable.

“I couldn’t move… I couldn’t breathe. I heard you both, but I couldn’t get back. And she—it—wouldn’t let go…”

Dean’s hand, resting on hers, tensed.

Sam swallowed, visibly holding himself together.

Nursing Rounds – 10:20 A.M.

“Vitals are within normal limits,” the day nurse reported, flipping through her chart. “Temp’s stable at 99.2. SpO₂ holding at 94% on 3 liters O₂ via nasal cannula. Heart rate 86, sinus rhythm. BP’s 110/70.”

The attending physician smiled. “You’re post-extubation and tolerating room air trial soon. We'll keep the oxygen until your ABG shows better PaO₂. Your white count is dropping — the infection’s resolving.”

Y/N blinked slowly, barely processing.

“Her mental status is intact,” the resident added. “GCS 15, oriented x4. Neuro exam’s clean. No focal deficits.”

Dean smiled weakly. “That’s good, right?”

The doctor nodded. “She beat the worst of it. Her lungs are healing. No signs of long-term anoxic damage.”

Everyone in the room smiled — except her.

The second the team left, the air shifted.

Her chest started tightening again — not from fluid this time, but from panic. Her breaths came shorter, faster.

“Y/N?” Sam asked, concerned.

“I—I can’t—” She gasped. Her fingers curled into the blanket. “I can’t breathe—I can’t breathe—”

Dean hit the call button as Sam leaned forward. “Hey—hey, look at me. It’s okay. You’re safe. You're just panicking, okay?”

Tears streaked down her cheeks again, this time accompanied by sharp, shallow gasps. Her heart monitor beeped faster.

“It’s a sympathetic nervous system response,” a nurse said, rushing in. “Post-traumatic acute stress. She’s hyperventilating.”

They raised the head of her bed and gently increased oxygen flow.

“You’re okay,” Sam whispered, holding her hand. “You're not in the water anymore. It’s gone. You’re here.”

Dean stood by the window, stone-faced.

The panic attack ebbed — slowly. Her body trembled. Exhausted, she collapsed into the pillows again, heart pounding in her ears.

“I—I don’t feel strong,” she whispered.

Dean’s voice was quiet. “You don’t have to be. Not right now.”

Dean – Hallway, Moments Later

He couldn’t take it anymore.

Dean stepped out of the room, walked briskly to the end of the hallway, and ducked into a deserted waiting area. The second the door closed behind him, he collapsed into a chair and broke.

His hands covered his face. A strangled sob escaped him. Then another.

She was alive.

But he had almost buried her.

“She was just a kid,” he muttered into his hands. “She didn’t ask for any of this.”

He punched the armrest hard enough to bruise. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve seen it.”

His chest heaved, unable to slow his breathing — panic clawed at him, too.

But he didn’t let himself fall apart for long. He couldn't.

Dean wiped his face, sat up straight, and blew out a long breath.

Then he stood.

And went back to her.

ICU – 11:09 A.M.

Y/N was asleep again, brow still furrowed in uneasy dreams. Sam sat by her, eyes closed, reciting something under his breath — maybe prayer. Maybe a spell. Maybe both.

Dean resumed his place at her side, reaching down to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re doing better,” he whispered.

Her eyelids fluttered faintly.

One tear slipped from her eye.

Step-Down Unit – 7:46 P.M. Post-Extubation Day 1 / Post-ICU Transfer

Y/N had been officially transferred from the ICU to the Progressive Care Unit (PCU), known as “step-down”—a unit for patients stable enough to leave critical care but still in need of intensive monitoring.

Her room was quieter now. No ventilator. Fewer alarms. Just the soft beep of a bedside cardiac monitor, the hiss of her nasal cannula pushing humidified 2L oxygen, and the muted footsteps of nurses making hourly rounds.

She was afebrile for the first time in 72 hours — Tmax: 98.6°F, SpO₂ holding at 95%, and her WBC count had trended down to 11.2. The repeat chest X-ray showed improved bilateral aeration with reduced consolidation in the lower lobes. Her lungs were clearing.

Medically, she was stabilizing.

Emotionally… she was unraveling.

Dean sat on the visitor cot, pretending to read a magazine while keeping constant watch. Sam was down in the cafeteria picking up soup, protein shakes, and whatever he could find that didn’t come in a vending machine.

Y/N was lying in bed, hooked to telemetry, peripheral IV in place with a normal saline maintenance infusion at 50 mL/hr, and a PICC line flushed and locked for potential future antibiotics.

But she hadn’t spoken in an hour.

Dean glanced at her—eyes open, but unfocused. Face pale under the fluorescent lights.

“You want me to grab you something? Jello? Water? Sam’s on his way back with—”

“I’m scared to fall asleep.”

Dean put the magazine down immediately.

Y/N turned her head slightly, voice hoarse. “When I sleep, I go back there. To the water. To her.”

Dean stood, moving to her side. “Hey, hey… that thing’s gone. You beat it. You’re safe now.”

“I don’t feel safe,” she whispered.

Her eyes welled up. “My body’s here but… I’m still stuck. Like it’s under my skin.”

Dean didn’t know what to say. So he didn’t. He just stayed there.

It started small: a flinch. A twitch of the hand. Then a sharp inhale.

Y/N’s heart rate monitor beeped faster: from 84 to 112.

“Y/N?” Dean stood fast.

Her eyes went wide. Her breathing turned shallow.

“Hyperventilating,” Dean muttered, watching the rise and fall of her chest.

Y/N clutched at the bedsheets. “I—I can’t breathe—I can’t—”

Dean pressed the call button.

The nurse rushed in seconds later. “She's having a panic episode. Let’s reposition—elevate the head of the bed to 45 degrees. Grab the Ativan—IV push, 0.5 mg.”

Dean sat on the bed beside her, gripping her hand. “Hey, focus on me. Just me. Count in—4 seconds. Out—4 seconds. Come on, you’ve got this.”

Her heart rate peaked at 128 bpm before the medication kicked in. The nurse dimmed the lights and adjusted her nasal cannula. Within ten minutes, she’d calmed, though her hands still trembled with post-adrenaline exhaustion.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered through clenched teeth.

“Stop saying that,” Dean said gently.

Sam entered quietly, plastic tray in hand. He froze when he saw her sitting upright, pale and tear-streaked, but awake.

“I missed something,” he said softly.

“She had a panic spell,” Dean explained. “They gave her Ativan.”

Sam nodded, setting the food down. “Did she sleep at all?”

Dean shook his head. “She’s afraid to. Keeps seeing it.”

Y/N spoke up weakly. “It’s not just dreams. It’s… a pull. Like it still wants me.”

Sam moved to her side, brushing her hair back. “You’re not alone. Whatever echo is left—we’ll find it. And we’ll erase it.”

Her eyes filled again. “What if I never go back to normal?”

Sam knelt down in front of her. “Then we find a new normal. Together.”

02:11 A.M. — Light Sleep Detected

Nurse’s notes:

Patient lightly sedated with PRN lorazepam

VS stable: BP 108/70, HR 76, RR 16, SpO₂ 96% on 2L O₂

Patient exhibiting REM sleep; facial grimacing noted

Brothers requested room lights remain dim overnight

Dean sat against the wall, arms crossed but eyes always on her.

Sam had drifted to sleep in the chair, journal open on his lap.

And Y/N — finally — had closed her eyes.

For now, she was still. Quiet. Dreaming.

The war wasn’t over. But for the first time, peace didn’t seem impossible.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Don't Drink Lake Water For Fun: Part 5

ICU – 3:04 A.M.

“She’s febrile again. Temp’s at 104.1°F and climbing.” “Push another gram of ceftriaxone. We’ll alternate antipyretics, acetaminophen and ibuprofen—schedule around the clock.” “ABG’s back—her pO₂ is 52. She’s hypoxic even on 70% FiO₂.” “She’s in refractory hypoxemia. We’re maxed out on vent support.”

Dean sat at her bedside, eyes bloodshot and burning. Her skin was damp with fever sweat, her face flushed but her lips pale. The ventilator hissed. A nasogastric tube had been threaded into her nose. Her arms were bandaged with IV lines and central access ports, all pumping fluids and medications in a desperate attempt to keep her alive.

Her body jerked suddenly. The alarms blared.

“SVT!” the nurse called out. “She’s in supraventricular tachycardia—HR’s 188! Prep adenosine. Ready for synchronized cardioversion if needed.”

Dean shot to his feet. “What the hell is happening now?”

“Her heart’s in distress. The fever, fluid buildup—it’s straining her system.”

Dean turned to Sam, who had just returned with coffee and a stack of printouts from the hospital’s lobby printer.

Sam’s eyes locked on Y/N, on the cords and chaos surrounding her. “She’s worse…”

“She’s crashing again,” Dean said. His voice cracked. “And they don’t know why.”

The Liminal Space

Y/N stumbled through water up to her knees now. The light above had dimmed. Her chest burned. Every breath came in ragged gasps, as if she were still inhaling water. Her muscles screamed with effort.

The shadows were closer now. So was the voice.

“You're halfway gone. Just give in. It won’t hurt anymore.”

She shook her head, swaying. “No... not ready.”

“Your body is,” it said gently. “Every cell is turning to fire. Your lungs are drowning in your own blood. You don’t belong in the living anymore.”

She turned, defiant but weak. “My brothers are waiting.”

A tendril of water wrapped around her ankle and yanked—hard.

She screamed—but it came out silent.

ICU – 3:41 A.M.

“SpO₂ is down to 76%! Increase PEEP to 14!” “She’s acidotic—pH is 7.19. Kidneys are starting to slip. Output’s been less than 0.5 mL/kg/hr for the last 3 hours.” “Prep her for CRRT. If the kidneys fail, we’ll lose the rest.” “Push 100 mcg fentanyl. She’s posturing—neuro involvement.”

Sam looked up from his laptop, face pale. “Dean… I think I know what this is.”

Dean tore his eyes away from the failing monitors. “You said we torched the thing in the lake.”

“We thought it was a water spirit. A drowner. But this… this fits something else.”

Sam turned the screen toward him. An old woodcut image appeared—of a feminine figure, half-submerged, long hair dripping like seaweed, eyes void and glassy. “Water nymph. Naiad. Dangerous ones can bind souls to their waters—even after death.”

Dean stared. “You’re telling me she’s being held? That thing still has a grip on her soul?”

Sam nodded grimly. “If it marked her… the drowning wasn’t just physical. It was ritual.”

Dean slammed his hand on the counter. “So what do we do? Go back and kill it again?”

Sam looked back toward the room. “If it’s tethered her in the in-between, we’ll have to sever the bond. Spiritually. Maybe even blood magic. But first we need to locate the tether. Some relic. Something it used to bind her.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You think she brought something back from the lake?”

Sam glanced around the room—and froze.

“The bracelet,” he said. “She found it that morning. Wore it ever since.”

Dean lunged to her bedside, spotting the small silver cuff still on her wrist under the IV tubing. Faint runes shimmered along its edge.

“It’s the anchor.”

Liminal Space – Reader’s POV

The water reached her chest now. Her limbs were numb. The figure emerged from the fog—a woman, almost beautiful, if not for the vacant eyes and blood running from her mouth.

“You wore my offering,” the nymph whispered. “You drank from my water. You belong to me.”

Y/N’s knees buckled. She couldn’t scream. She could barely think. She was losing time. Losing herself.

Then something glowed on her wrist—the bracelet.

A heat rippled through the fog, slicing the air like a blade.

“No!” the nymph shrieked, suddenly shrinking away. “What are they doing?!”

ICU – 4:08 A.M.

“Her heart rate just dropped—look!” “Bradycardia! She’s down to 40 bpm!” “Charging to 100 joules—get ready to shock if needed!” “Temp’s climbing again—105.1! She's going into septic shock!”

Dean gripped the bracelet with a gloved hand. “We have to destroy this now.”

Sam dumped salt, herbs, and lighter fluid into a metal kidney dish from the nurse’s cart. He began chanting—a protective incantation in Latin—as Dean yanked the bracelet from her wrist.

The moment the silver band snapped free, Y/N gasped—on the ventilator, but her entire body jolted.

The alarms screamed. “She’s fighting the vent—she’s breathing over it!”

The bracelet caught fire in Dean’s hands as Sam completed the incantation, the flames burning blue.

Liminal Space

The fog shattered like glass.

The nymph screamed, dissolving in a vortex of water and shadows. Y/N gasped and rose, as if pulled upward by unseen arms.

A voice rang in her ears—Dean’s. “Come on, kid. You’re not done yet.”

And this time—she moved toward it.

ICU – 6:12 A.M.

The sun hadn’t yet risen. The only light in the room came from the glow of the monitors, the hum of machines creating an eerie rhythm: ventilator hiss, ECG beep, infusion pumps ticking like a metronome.

Sam sat slouched in a chair by the foot of the bed, dark circles under his eyes, a Latin ritual book still open on his lap.

Dean hadn’t left her side. He hadn’t eaten. Barely moved. One hand was still wrapped gently around Y/N’s fingers, careful not to disturb the central line taped over the back of her hand.

A soft knock on the glass broke the silence. The attending physician entered quietly, flanked by a resident and a nurse.

“She’s hemodynamically more stable,” the doctor began. “MAP’s holding above 65 without vasopressors. We’ve weaned down norepinephrine and are maintaining BP with fluids alone.”

Sam straightened. “That’s good, right?”

“It’s encouraging,” the doctor nodded. “Her temperature finally broke—down to 100.7°F. Creatinine is trending slightly down, so renal perfusion might be improving. Urine output’s picking up—we’ve stepped back from initiating CRRT for now.”

Dean blinked hard. “So she’s… responding?”

“Her lactate’s trending down too. That suggests tissue perfusion is recovering. We’re cautiously optimistic.”

“But…” Sam said warily.

“She’s still intubated. Still in a medically induced coma. Neuro status is unknown,” the physician said soberly. “She seized multiple times—status epilepticus from the hypoxia and fever. Until we lift sedation and assess her GCS post-extubation, we can’t say what her cognitive recovery will look like.”

Dean swallowed thickly. “But she’s still in there?”

The doctor gave a tight smile. “She’s still fighting. Her vitals say so.”

Inside the Liminal Space

Y/N drifted again—but this time, it wasn’t water. It was air. The pressure in her chest had eased, like something massive had been lifted off of her.

But she couldn’t open her eyes.

She felt something, though—warmth on her hand. A voice.

Dean’s.

“Hey. I know you probably can’t hear me. Or maybe you can—you always were a little psychic when it came to me and Sammy.”

A low laugh, cracked and uneven.

“But you scared the hell outta me, kid. Still do.”

She stirred faintly—an almost imperceptible flutter of her eyelashes.

Sam’s voice chimed in.

“We got the thing, Y/N. Whatever was holding you under—it’s gone. We broke the anchor. You’re safe now. You just gotta find your way back.”

The monitor beeped a little faster. Her fingers twitched against Dean’s.

“Y/N?” Dean leaned in.

Her brow furrowed. It wasn’t much—but it was something.

ICU – 7:00 A.M.

“She had a purposeful movement,” the nurse said, double-checking the neuro exam. “Spontaneous eyebrow twitch. Responded to her name.”

Dean bolted upright. “She heard us?”

“It’s possible,” the nurse smiled. “Let’s keep her lightly sedated until we’re ready for a spontaneous breathing trial. But… this is good. Really good.”

“Neuro checks every hour,” the doctor reminded. “Still high risk for post-hypoxic encephalopathy. We’ll do an EEG and MRI as soon as she stabilizes further.”

“Keep the ceftriaxone and vancomycin running,” added the resident. “Lung sounds are improving—less rales, more air exchange bilaterally.”

Dean looked over at Sam, his expression finally softening. “She’s coming back.”

Sam smiled faintly. “She never really left.”

Inside Her Mind

The fog had cleared.

Y/N now stood in a place of light—not blinding, just soft and warm. The pull toward the voices was stronger now, tethering her to the surface.

She tried to say something. Anything.

Her lips parted.

ICU – 7:47 A.M.

“She’s initiating breaths over the ventilator,” a respiratory tech said. “Set up for an SBT—spontaneous breathing trial. We’ll turn down sedation and CPAP her.”

They started the protocol. Dean hovered by the bedside, eyes glued to the subtle rise and fall of her chest.

“C’mon, Y/N. Show us what you got.”

Then—a deep gasp.

Her chest rose on its own. Her lashes fluttered. Her lips parted, this time with sound.

A soft, dry whisper.

“…Dean?”

Dean froze. The tears hit him before he knew they were coming.

“I’m here,” he said quickly, gripping her hand. “You’re okay. You’re back.”

Her eyes opened, glassy but unmistakably hers.

Sam stepped into view, eyes wide. “Welcome back, little sister.”

She gave a weak smile—just barely. Then closed her eyes again, but not in fear.

This time, she was resting.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Don't Drink Lake Water For Fun: Part 4

A nurse shouted out vitals to the trauma team. “Seventeen minutes out from last spontaneous respiration. Intubated. Confirmed pulmonary edema from secondary submersion.” “Neuro status?” “Unresponsive post-seizure. No eye opening. GCS at 3.”

Dean knew what that meant. Coma.

He stopped at the edge of the resuscitation bay as they pulled the curtain. Sam caught up, panting. “Where is she?”

Dean couldn’t speak. He just pointed.

The brothers stood there for what felt like a year, staring at the curtain, hearing fragments.

“Lung sounds coarse bilaterally.” “She needs lasix, now—get that fluid off.” “Intubation secured—vent at 100% O₂.” “Let’s get a head CT—rule out anoxic brain injury.”

Dean turned slowly to Sam. “They said brain injury.”

Sam’s face went pale. “Dean…”

“No. No way. She was fine earlier. She was smiling. She was talking.”

Sam’s voice cracked. “That’s what secondary drowning does. It tricks you.”

Dean’s fists curled at his sides, knuckles white. “No. She was fighting. She's still fighting.”

They didn’t speak again for a while. The doors opened. A nurse approached. “She’s stable—for now. But she’s in a medically-induced coma to manage the seizures and oxygen levels. We’ll know more after neuro imaging.”

Dean nodded once, but his eyes never left the door.

Inside the ICU Room The machines beeped in rhythm. Her face was calm now. Too calm. A ventilator hissed beside her, pushing life into her lungs. Tubes ran from her arms. A monitor displayed numbers Dean couldn’t bear to interpret anymore.

He sat at her bedside. Sam stood near the window, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie.

“I don’t care what the scans say,” Dean whispered, stroking her fingers. “You’re coming back.”

The air shifted—sudden and cold. Sam noticed it first.

“Did you feel that?” he asked quietly.

Dean looked up. “Yeah.”

The light overhead flickered. Then again.

Something was here.

Sam pulled out his EMF reader—it spiked immediately. “Dean…”

Dean stood, slowly. “No way. Not now. Not with her like this.”

Suddenly Y/N jerked on the bed, eyes fluttering behind closed lids. The machines beeped louder.

“Y/N?” Dean rushed to her side. But her eyes didn’t open—her body didn’t move again.

Absolutely. Here's the next installment—focusing on the Reader's experience trapped between life and death, and the medical unraveling as the brothers struggle with fear, helplessness, and suspicion.

Darkness. But not the comforting kind. This wasn’t sleep.

Y/N floated in a space neither warm nor cold, her body weightless, her thoughts tangled. Muffled echoes rolled through the void—familiar voices, distorted by distance and static. She wanted to move, scream, wake up, but every thought sank like a stone in wet cement.

A whisper echoed around her: You’re not supposed to be here. Then, Come back… Or was it Don’t look back?

ICU – Day 2

The ventilator whooshed steadily. Monitors hummed. Y/N’s body was still in the bed, but something was slipping.

Dean hadn’t moved from her side in hours. His face was drawn, knuckles raw from anxious fists digging into one another.

“Temp’s up to 102.4,” a nurse murmured. “She’s febrile. Probably from aspiration pneumonia. Sats are dropping again—down to 89% even on the vent. Increase FiO₂ to 60%.”

Sam stood by the foot of the bed, jaw tight. “She was stable two hours ago.”

“She’s in ARDS now,” the attending physician said. “Acute respiratory distress syndrome—lungs are inflamed and leaking fluid. We’re increasing ventilator support, but she’s decompensating. We’ll start broad-spectrum antibiotics, but if her pressure keeps falling, we’ll need to start norepinephrine for vasopressor support.”

Dean’s eyes darted from Y/N to the doctor. “So what, you’re telling me her lungs are failing more now?”

“Yes,” the doctor said, trying to stay composed. “Secondary drowning causes a delayed cascade. Her alveoli are full of fluid, surfactant is breaking down, and her body’s fighting a growing infection. If the sepsis progresses, other organs—kidneys, brain—may begin to fail.”

Dean turned away sharply, jaw clenched. Control it. Hold it together. For her. For Sam.

Inside the Fog – Reader’s POV

She was cold now. But fire licked at the edges of her mind—fever. She felt it without knowing what it was. Her limbs were heavy. Her chest tight.

A feeling clawed at her gut: panic. Something was watching her here. Something patient.

In the mist, shadows moved. She heard Dean’s voice—raw, angry. Sam’s—shaky, urgent.

But no matter how she reached, her body didn’t move.

ICU – Nightfall

Y/N began to seize again—shuddering, ventilator alarms blaring. Nurses flew in.

“Febrile seizure—temp’s spiking past 103.6!” “Push acetaminophen, load with levetiracetam!” “She’s tachycardic—160 bpm. BP’s 70/40! Central line needed—get the crash cart ready!”

Dean was shoved out of the room as the medical team swarmed her. He slammed his fist into the wall outside. Sam was at his side in an instant.

“Dean,” Sam said, voice low and intense, “this isn’t just a medical case.”

Dean wiped a trembling hand over his face. “Don’t you think I know that? But what the hell are we supposed to do? Salt and burn her lungs?”

“Something tried to drown her in that lake—something that pulls souls underwater. And I think it’s still tethered to her.”

Dean turned toward him, eyes bloodshot. “Then what, Sam? We exorcise a damn water wraith from her ICU bed?”

Sam didn’t blink. “If we don’t figure out what’s holding her between here and the other side… we’re gonna lose her.”

Dean looked back through the ICU window—his sister’s chest still rising and falling under the hiss of mechanical breath.

And for the first time in years, he whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”

In the Liminal Space

Y/N stood now, barefoot in shallow water that rippled outward in an endless gray mist. Her hospital gown was soaked, her hair matted. In front of her stood a figure—featureless, dark, but with glowing eyes.

“Stay,” it whispered. “It’s quiet here.”

A pull gripped her chest like drowning all over again.

“No,” she croaked, unsure if it was her real voice or something deeper. “My brothers… I have to go back.”

“You’re already forgetting,” the thing murmured. “The longer you stay, the harder it will be. Soon, you’ll belong to the water.”

She gasped—but no air came.

Then a voice pierced the void—Dean’s.

“Don’t give up on me now, kid.”

The mist trembled.

She turned toward the sound, weak but willing. Fighting.

Back in the ICU

“She’s fighting the sedation,” a nurse noted. “Eyes are fluttering under closed lids. BP stabilizing slightly.”

Dean gripped her hand again.

“Whatever you’re up against, sweetheart,” he whispered, “you don’t face it alone.”

Sam was already flipping through lore in a battered book by the door.

Dean looked at him. “We go to war. Tonight.”

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Maybe Don’t Drink Lake Water for Fun: Part 3

Two minutes felt like a lifetime.

Dean knelt on the motel carpet beside the bed, hand trembling as it gripped his sister’s.

“C’mon, Y/N. Look at me. Stay awake. Stay with me, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing damp strands of hair off her burning forehead. Her skin felt cold and clammy, but her face was flushed — body fighting a losing battle.

Her breaths were shallow, erratic, wheezing like each inhale was dragging glass through her lungs.

“Dean,” Sam said, pacing toward the window to check for the rig. “Her pulse is thready. I think she’s dropping sats.”

“She was fine,” Dean muttered.

“She inhaled something. Probably when she dove in after that kid,” Sam said, kneeling again and gently elevating her head with a towel. “Even a mouthful of dirty water can start this. Lungs get inflamed, leak fluid. It can take hours.”

“Dean…” Y/N’s voice was barely a rasp, her eyes half-lidded. “Feels… tight…”

“I know, baby, I know,” Dean said quickly, leaning closer. “You’re gonna be okay. Sam and me? We’ve got you.”

Her fingers twitched in his hand. A wet cough exploded from her chest, followed by more pink froth at the corners of her mouth. She gagged again, her body jolting violently as she turned her face into the towel Sam held near her lips.

“Airway’s still open,” Sam said, trying to stay calm, “but her respiratory rate’s spiking. She’s working harder to breathe. Probable acute respiratory distress syndrome.”

“Don’t say words I can’t punch,” Dean snapped.

Y/N suddenly jerked, eyes rolling back again. Another weak convulsion rippled down her arms.

“No no no—Hey! Y/N, stay with me!” Dean yelled, lightly tapping her cheek. “Breathe. Right now.”

Her lips were blue now. Blue.

Dean could barely get air in his own lungs.

“She’s starting to go out,” Sam said. “We have to stimulate her. Pain stimulus.”

Dean leaned down again. “Alright, kiddo, sorry about this,” he whispered — and then pinched the skin on her shoulder sharply.

She jolted and whimpered.

“There you go. There she is,” Dean breathed, nearly collapsing in relief.

Y/N’s head lolled toward him, glassy eyes locking with his, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Hurts…”

“I know it does, but you’re not alone,” Dean said. “I’m right here. You're not gonna leave me. I won't let you.”

Sirens howled in the distance.

Sam jumped to the door and flung it open.

“Over here!” he yelled, waving his arms.

Moments later, two paramedics stormed in, med kits in hand, already pulling on gloves.

“Female, late teens?” one asked.

“Nineteen,” Dean answered quickly. “Pulmonary edema. She’s declining fast. Secondary drowning from a lake rescue.”

“Vitals?” the other medic asked, taking her wrist.

“Pulse was rapid and thready. Tachypnea. She vomited water—pink-tinged. Seized once, briefly,” Sam rattled off.

The medics worked fast — oxygen mask first, cranked up to 15L.

“Her SpO₂ is 82%. BP’s tanking—88/60. Getting an IV in now. We need to get her loaded.”

“Prepare to intubate if she desats again,” the other called. “Start positive pressure if she goes apneic.”

Y/N moaned weakly under the mask, trying to swat them away. Her body was limp, soaked in sweat.

Dean grabbed her hand. “Y/N, you hear me? Just hang on. Let them help you.”

“Dean?” she rasped, bloodshot eyes fluttering toward him. ��Am I dying?”

Dean’s throat closed. For a second, he couldn’t speak. Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead, voice shaking.

“No. Not on my watch��.

**The back doors slammed shut.**

Dean barely had time to sit before the medic barked, “Hold her steady—we’re in transit.”

Y/N lay strapped to the stretcher, oxygen mask over her face, IV running wide open into her arm. Her breaths came fast and shallow, retractions pulling at her ribs like her body was begging for air it couldn’t get.

Dean’s gloved hand was wrapped tightly in hers. She wouldn’t let go. Not for a second.

“I’m right here,” he whispered. “You’re not alone. You hear me?”

Her eyes fluttered open under heavy lids, unfocused. “Dean?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. Right here.”

“Don’t… don’t leave me,” she croaked, voice muffled by the oxygen mask.

Dean leaned closer. “Never. You’re stuck with me.”

Her grip tightened, and a tear slipped from her eye.

The medic next to her was monitoring vitals. “BP’s dropping—82/56. Heart rate’s climbing—she’s compensating. SpO₂ still hovering at 85 with oxygen. We need to push albuterol and prep for RSI if she dips below 80.”

Dean’s gut twisted. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Her lungs are filling with fluid. She’s not exchanging oxygen properly,” the medic said quickly, adjusting the mask. “We might need to sedate and intubate her if she stops breathing.”

Y/N whimpered, hearing it all. Her body trembled violently—*another shiver or something more?*

“Her hands are cyanotic,” the second medic muttered, pulling back the blanket. “Extremities are cold. She’s crashing.”

Dean leaned in again, heart pounding. “Y/N. Look at me.”

Her glazed-over eyes barely met his.

“You’re gonna be fine, alright? Sam’s following us. You just have to hang on a little longer.”

“I don’t feel good…” she whispered, a hint of panic in her slurred voice. “It’s hard to… think.”

“I know, baby,” Dean said, brushing hair from her clammy forehead. “Just keep breathing for me. Slow, deep breaths.”

She gasped sharply, choking back a cough—then vomited again, clear and foamy through the mask. Her eyes widened in fear.

“She’s aspirating,” the medic said, quickly ripping off the soiled mask and rolling her to the side. “We need to suction her airway, now!”

Dean held her shoulders, heart thudding against his ribs like a drum. “You’re okay, you’re okay, just let them help—”

Y/N let out a garbled moan before slumping, her body going suddenly floppy.

“Heart rate’s erratic—she’s going bradycardic!”

“Prep for intubation. RSI now!” the lead medic snapped, shoving a laryngoscope into position. “We’re losing her airway!”

“No no no—*Y/N!*” Dean shouted, cradling her head until the medic gently shoved him aside.

“Step back, sir—she’s seizing!”

Her body jolted in a sudden, full-body spasm—limbs rigid, foam slipping from her lips.

Dean backed into the wall, fists clenched. “Sam, where the hell are you—“

But all he could do was watch as they bagged her, pushing meds, inserting the tube, and working frantically over her small, pale frame.

And through the chaos, he could still hear her voice.

“Don’t leave me