It had been a year since you vanished without a trace. The hunt had gone south, and in the chaos, you disappeared. Dean and Sam searched everywhere for you, combing through every lead they had, but after months of dead ends, they were forced to face the worst possible conclusion—you were gone. The guilt weighed heavy on Dean, a constant ache in the back of his mind. He never stopped blaming himself for not finding you.

But then, on a routine hunt—a small town plagued by demon activity—they found something they never expected: you.

Dean and Sam had been scouting a rundown building, investigating the demonic presence they’d been tracking, when they found you. Chained up, caged like an animal, covered in cuts, bruises, and dried blood. You looked almost unrecognizable, your body thin, starved, your face sunken from months of torture. The sight of you sent a shockwave through Dean, his heart pounding in his chest as he rushed to free you, disbelief written all over his face.

They brought you back to the bunker, quiet but determined to help you. Dean didn’t say much during the drive, glancing at you in the backseat as if making sure you were real and not some twisted dream.

Back at the bunker, they cleaned you up, let you shower, and gave you some of your old clothes they still had stashed away. Dean made you a plate of food, his usual smartass comments absent, replaced with a kind of reverence. You were alive—that was all that mattered.

Sitting at the kitchen table, you began to eat, your hands shaking as you devoured the food at a rapid pace. Dean watched you, leaning back in his chair, the relief of seeing you alive and in front of him overwhelming any concern about how fast you were eating. He just watched, letting you eat in silence, knowing you’d been through hell.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silence, Dean spoke, his voice thick with emotion he rarely showed. "We thought… we thought you were gone. I’m sorry. I should’ve found you sooner."

His eyes were soft, filled with guilt and regret.