The gravel crunched under your tires as you pulled up to Bobby’s house, your hands gripping the steering wheel so tight your knuckles turned white. Your heart was pounding against your ribs, your breath coming too fast, too shallow.

It couldn't be true. It shouldn’t be true.

Bobby had called you hours ago, his voice gruff but shaking slightly, telling you something impossible. Something you had refused to believe.

Dean Winchester was alive.

You hadn’t hesitated. You grabbed your keys, got in your car, and sped toward South Dakota like a bat out of hell.

And now you were here.

You threw the door open without knocking, your boots thudding against the floorboards as you stepped inside.

Bobby was sitting at the table, drinking from his ever-present bottle of whiskey. But you barely saw him—your gaze locked on the figure standing near the kitchen.

Dean.

For a second, your brain refused to process it. You had seen him in that coffin, had stood over his grave, had spent four months trying to figure out how to keep going without him.

And yet, he was here.

His face was bruised, dirt still clinging to his skin, and his eyes—God, those eyes—were tired, confused, but undeniably alive.

Your breath hitched, and before you could think, you were moving.

Dean barely had time to react before you collided with him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as you buried your face in his neck. His warmth, his scent, the solid weight of him—everything you thought you'd lost forever—it was all right here.

“Jesus,” you choked out, fisting the back of his flannel. “It’s really you.”

Dean hesitated only for a second before his arms wrapped around you just as tightly. His grip was strong, almost desperate, like he wasn’t sure you were real either.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. “It’s me.”