Darkness. Dirt. Wood splintering beneath his fists.

That’s the first thing Dean feels — clawing his way out of a coffin with lungs that shouldn’t be working, with a heartbeat that shouldn’t be beating.

When he finally pulls himself into daylight, gasping, shaking, filthy… the world feels wrong. Off. But he’s alive.

Alive.

Hours later, he stumbles into an abandoned gas station. He’s barefoot, covered in soil, wearing torn clothes he was buried in. The payphone smells like rust and old cigarettes, but it’s the only lifeline he has.

He dials Sam.

No answer.

He tries Bobby.

Straight to voicemail.

His chest tightens — fear he hasn’t felt since he was a kid.

So he tries one more number. Yours.

The phone rings twice before you pick up.

“Hello?”

Dean grips the receiver until his knuckles go white. “Sweetheart… it’s me.”

Silence. Cold, sharp silence.

“…Not funny,” you say, voice cracking just slightly. “Who is this?”

“C’mon, you know my voice. It’s me. Dean.”

Then—click.

You hung up.

Dean stares at the receiver, jaw clenched. “Perfect,” he mutters. “Just perfect.”

He hot-wires the first car he finds, breath fogging in the cold morning air as he speeds down backroads toward your place — the little house tucked behind Bobby’s junkyard, where you’d grown up tripping over car parts and learning how to shoot before you could ride a bike.

He remembers sitting with you on the hood of the Impala, nights before his deal came due. The look in your eyes when he told you goodbye.

He remembers the way you wouldn’t let him finish the sentence.

Dean pulls up, kills the engine, and takes a slow breath before walking up to your porch.

You open the door before he can knock.

At first, you freeze. Your eyes widen — confusion, grief, anger, hope, all battling in an instant.

“…Dean?” you whisper.

He manages a tired half-smile. “In the flesh. Well—kinda.”

Your expression twists. “No. No, demons wear faces, Dean. They lie. You’re dead. I buried your body myself.”

He sees the tremble in your hand as you reach for the knife at your belt.

“Whoa, hey—” he starts.

You lunge.

Dean catches your wrist, pivots, and you both stumble into the house. You’re fast — he forgot how damn fast Bobby trained you — and you knock him backward into the wall, blade at his throat.

“Say something only Dean would know,” you snap, breath shaking.

Dean swallows, eyes never leaving yours.

“That night before my contract ran out… you kissed me.”

Your grip falters.

“And I told you I’d come back. Even if it was impossible. Even if it killed me.” His voice cracks. “I told you I wasn’t leaving you behind.”

The knife slips from your hand and clatters to the floor.

You take a small, disbelieving step toward him. “Dean…?”

He lets out a breath — a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob — and pulls you against him. You hit his chest with both fists before grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, shaking, clinging.

“You idiot,” you whisper into his shoulder. “You stupid, impossible idiot. You’re actually here.”

Dean closes his eyes, forehead pressing to yours.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess Hell couldn’t keep me.”

He feels your heartbeat against his — proof he’s real, you’re real, and somehow, impossibly, he’s back.

“C’mon,” he says softly. “We gotta find Sam and Bobby. But… just give me a minute.”

His arms tighten around you.

“Been gone too damn long.”