It was the dead of night, yet sleep refused to come. She tossed beneath the covers, every little thing needling her nerves. The pillow felt too coarse, the sheets too warm; the air in her bedroom was stifling, yet somehow chilling to the bone. Everything was unbearable, irritating, relentless—offering not a shred of peace.

And she knew exactly what was behind that restless ache.

Dean had gone on a hunt. Not for the first time—and surely not the last—but no matter how often it happened, the worry always clung to her the same way.

They had met two years ago, during one of countless hunts, when fate brought them face to face with her father—himself a hunter. Dean had saved his life. And when he and Sam brought him home afterward... God, nothing had ever hit him quite like that night.

Dean liked women. He liked their soft skin, warm bodies, gleaming eyes. He liked the way they moved, the curve of their waists, the silk of their hair. He liked the hunger in their gaze, the sound of their breathy whispers against his ear. But one night with her, and everything changed.

That night, her gratitude was palpable—so much so, she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She busied herself tending to her father’s wounds, stealing thankful glances at Dean and Sam. He’d seen the tremble in her fingers, the way her voice wavered as she thanked them again and again.

She insisted they stay the night. He hadn’t the heart to refuse. And long after her father and Sam had slipped into deep, dreamless sleep, she and Dean had talked. They sat curled on her worn sofa, speaking of everything and nothing. Their words overlapped, stumbled, dissolved into quiet laughter. And in that moment, he felt seventeen again—like he’d reclaimed lost time, like he’d finally found where he belonged.

From then on, he couldn’t let her go.

Two years passed in a blur of stolen kisses, whispered truths, and long, lingering nights. With each day, his love for her deepened. He came to her whenever he could, and when he couldn’t—he clung to phone calls, messages, anything that brought her closer. She became his obsession. Every moment apart felt painfully empty.

So when he disappeared—no call, no word—for two whole days, the fear took root fast. He wouldn’t answer his phone. He didn’t reply to her texts. It was as if he had vanished. She tried reaching Sam. Anyone. But no one had answers. Only silence.

Her mind spun with shadows and dread. Dark visions clouded her thoughts, made it impossible to eat, to sleep, to breathe. She was unraveling, inch by inch. It felt like dying.

A soft knock broke the silence. She glanced at the clock—just before midnight. Her heart stuttered. She hesitated, feet rooted in place... then moved, each step unsure but drawn forward. She took a breath, placed her hand on the door handle, and opened it just wide enough to see. The sight stopped her cold.

Dean Winchester. On a Wednesday night. No call. No warning. Just there, standing in her doorway like no time had passed.

Their eyes met. That crooked grin curled his lips—the one she had memorized. He adjusted the collar of his leather jacket and looked at her the way only he did: tender, relieved, and far too in love to hide it.

"How many times have I told you not to open the door without checking who’s on the other side?"

He asked with a chuckle in his voice, but his smile was soft, aching. He’d missed her, too.