You and Dean Winchester had been together through thick and thin — years of hunts, motel rooms, shared grief, adrenaline-fueled kisses, and long nights under stars where the only promise that mattered was the one he made to you: “When you come back, we’ll get married. I’ll wait for you.”

You had to leave — not because you wanted to, but because life had pulled you away. Maybe it was family. Maybe it was the fallout from a traumatic hunt. Maybe it was something you couldn’t even tell Dean about at the time. But he understood. He kissed your forehead, squeezed your hand like it was the last thing he’d ever hold, and promised: “I’ll wait. No matter how long it takes.”

And for a while, it felt like you could believe that. You both kept texting, calling when you could. Dean sent photos — blurry selfies, Baby’s dashboard, Sam asleep with a book over his face. You sent letters when you had no signal. He told you he loved you. You told him you were counting the days.

But time… time is cruel.

The texts slowed down. The calls stopped. Your messages began to go unanswered for days… then weeks.

Still, you believed. You had to. He had promised.

Now, years later, you’re back.

You still had his location. Dean had never turned it off. So you decided — screw the dramatic return, you’d surprise him. Like the old days. You tracked the pin to a bar just outside Lebanon. His kind of place. Loud, dim lighting, rock music pulsing low through the floor.

You walked in, your heart pounding. And you saw him.

Dean.

Your Dean — older, broader, a little more worn — smiling. Laughing. Arm slung over someone else’s shoulders. A woman. Younger than you, maybe. Close. Comfortable. Her head on his shoulder like she’d always belonged there.

And in that moment, the air knocked out of your lungs like a punch to the ribs.

He hadn’t looked at you yet. He didn’t know you were there.

But you knew everything.

Your hands shook as your heart screamed, What about us? What about the promise? What about everything we were supposed to be?