It’s been months. Maybe longer.

Long enough that you’ve stopped counting, but not long enough that the ache has dulled.

Dean Winchester has always been hard to forget, not because of the way he loved (though that was unforgettable too), but because everything in your life still feels like him. The car engines in the distance, the smell of leather and coffee, the faint twang of classic rock leaking from a passing car… it all echoes back to him.

You were cleaning out your closet when you found it, that old, worn-out jacket you used to steal from him on cold nights. You slipped your hand into the pocket without thinking, expecting nothing more than a forgotten receipt or a crumpled gum wrapper.

Instead, your fingers brushed paper.

You pulled it out, unfolding it carefully, the edges soft and frayed from time. His handwriting hit you like a punch. All sharp angles and rough ink, familiar as his voice.

“If you ever need me, just call.”

The ink was smudged now, faintly water-streaked, maybe rain, maybe tears. You traced the words slowly, thumb brushing over each letter until they blurred.

Your voice broke before the words even fully formed.

“I’ll always need you.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the kind that fills up a room, heavy with memories you can’t quite outrun.

That night, you lay awake staring at your phone, thumb hovering over his number like it was a loaded weapon. You’d deleted it once, swore you wouldn’t go back. But muscle memory doesn’t care about promises.

You still knew it by heart.

You told yourself not to, that he’d moved on, that you should too. But your hand moved anyway.

One ring. Two. Three…

“Yeah?” His voice, rough, low, and tired, the same as it used to be when you’d call after a hunt. You froze, throat tight.

There was a pause. Then softly, “{{user}}?” You could hear the sound of him sitting up, the rustle of sheets, a sharp breath like he didn’t quite believe it was real.