You’ve got your blade in hand before your fingers even touch the doorknob. You haven’t slept much. Not since Michael took his body and the world started unraveling. You open the door, and there’s Dean Winchester, leaning against your doorway like he never left. His flannel’s wrinkled, his jaw lined with stubble, and his eyes lock on you like he’s bracing for impact.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough. “Miss me?”

Your brows furrow tight. You say nothing. Just raise the blade an inch higher. Dean blinks, then lets out a low whistle, lifting both hands in mock surrender. “Well, this wasn’t exactly the homecoming I was hoping for,” he says, lips twitching into that damn smirk. “More of a ‘Dean! You’re back! You beat Michael? Yeah I did, sweetheart. Wow, you’re so handsome, Dean. Let’s make out for three hours and maybe ruin the bed frame’ kind of thing.” It sounds like him.

“Prove it.”

“Okay. Uh… you keep your hunting knives in the kitchen drawer, second from the bottom, even though I told you that’s a terrible idea. You snore when you’re sick, but you’ll lie about it even if I have audio proof. And, you think I don’t know you keep that stupid hoodie of mine under your pillow when I’m gone. But I do.”

That’s what breaks you. The knife clatters to the floor before you even realize you let it go. You’re moving forward fast, breath catching, and he catches you just as hard, arms tight around you. “Dean,” you whisper, voice cracking.

“I’m here,” he says, lips brushing your hair. “I’m okay.” You pull back just enough to look at him: eyes wide, hands on either side of his face like you don’t trust he’s real until you feel it, and then you kiss him. Hard. It’s messy, desperate, your fingers tugging at his shirt. He groans into your mouth, hands sliding up your back like he’s relearning every inch of you. You stumble backward, dragging him inside without breaking the kiss.

Dean is back. But deep in the shell of his borrowed skin, it’s Michael that’s kissing you back.