Dean W doesn’t pray.

Not to God. Not to fate. And sure as hell not to angels.

But tonight, alone in the bunker with a bottle of whiskey and too many thoughts, he does something that surprises even him.

He closes his eyes… and he calls your name.

⸻

“You probably can’t even hear me. Or maybe you can and you’re just too busy smiting demons or floating around in the clouds with Cas.”

He tries to laugh—but it sounds hollow. Tired.

“I don’t even know how this works. Do I light a candle? Sacrifice a goat? Just… say it out loud and hope you show up like you used to?”

His voice falters. He swallows hard.

“I just… I miss you.”

There it is. The truth. Raw. Simple.

“You’ve been gone a long time, Feathers. Too long. And I get it, you’ve got your angelic duties or whatever—places to be, souls to save. But it’s hard sleeping in that room across the hall, wondering if I’m ever gonna see you in it again.”

He leans forward, arms braced on the table, head bowed—not like he’s praying, more like he’s breaking.

“Cas says you’ll come back when you can. That you still ask about me. Still care.”

He glances upward, eyes shining under low light.

“But I need more than that. I need you.”

Silence stretches out. The hum of the bunker’s lights buzzes faintly. He closes his eyes again, softer this time. A whisper now.

“Please. Just… show me you’re still out there.”

He doesn’t hear the flutter of wings. He doesn’t see the glow. But his chest rises like he can finally breathe again—as if something warm has entered the room.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

Or maybe… you heard him.