Maybe he hadn’t killed Jules, and maybe he was on the run now, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d managed to do what he’d set out to do - hurt them, scare them, set Dean’s blood on fire with rage and panic and something nameless and bad and wrong that made his hands feel too empty and his skin feel too tight. He did everything he meant to do, and Dean knows it, they both know it.
He’s been sitting outside her room since they brought her in here, first on the floor with his back against the wall, and then in a chair when one of the nurses dragged one out for him after he’d refused to go inside the room, or down to the waiting area, flashing a badge when they’d threatened to get security. He shouldn’t be in there with her, not when he’s the reason she’s there in the first place.
He shouldn’t be here at all, when Ruby’s gone missing and Sam’s out looking for her, dealing with more pissed-off hunters - and it doesn’t matter if Lucifer brings him back, he’s still going to get himself killed...
He could have left, anyway. Gone whether Sam liked it or not, because it was his brother in danger going in after these hunters, it was Ruby they'd taken, and she was family now, she mattered, and losing her would hurt, and it would destroy Sam... He should go help bring her back, or at least fail right along with his brother.
But Sam said no, so Dean sat uselessly in the hall, fiddling with his phone in his lap, waiting. He’s got a gun and two knives and a flask of holy water, Latin rattling around in his brain and he’s had three cups of coffee brought to him by nurses who get that he’s not going anywhere but don’t get why he won’t just sit inside with Juliet.
This was his fault, and he can’t tell them that and he can’t tell anyone that, because no one will believe him, no one will blame him, because none of them get it. It wasn’t about whether he actually tied her down and cut her open, it was association with him that got her there in the first place. Alistair wouldn’t have done this if he didn’t care about her.
And he did. He loved her, and it didn’t matter if he sat outside her room for the rest of his life with guns and knives and holy water and Latin and salt, trying to keep her safe - she was going to get killed because of him, and he wasn’t going to be able to do anything about it. It would be better if he cut all ties, even if it hurt - at least she’d live.
The crash inside the room had him on his feet and in the room in seconds, hand on his gun and heart in his throat. Alistair shouldn’t have come back here, that wasn’t his style, something was wrong - but it was just a fallen IV tower, a scared Jules in the bed, and whatever he had to do to keep her safe, now wasn’t the time. He was at her side in moments, releasing his gun and putting both hands out, catching one of hers in his gently, trying not to shake, trying to look steady and reassuring and all-here.
“Hey, you’re okay now,” he offered, a wobbly smile and quiet words from a voice rough from disuse, “It’s okay.” He doesn’t say I’m here and he doesn’t say I’m not going anywhere, or I won’t let anything happen to you because he’s lying enough with what he is saying, and he can’t do that, not right now.