Dean Winchester woke up gasping, dirt clinging to his skin, heart pounding like a drum inside his chest. The world was wrong—too bright, too real. Not the fire and screams of Hell. Grass rustled beneath his fingers. The air smelled like earth and pine, not blood and brimstone.

Four months. That’s how long it had been—at least by the clock on Earth. For Dean, it had felt like a lifetime. A thousand lifetimes. Every second carved into his memory like a blade. And now, somehow, he was back. No deal, no explanation—just back.

First thing he did was look for Sam.

But Sam wasn’t where he thought he’d be. No sign of him. Desperation creeping in, he called the only other person who might know where Sam had gone.

Bobby.

When Bobby opened the door, he nearly dropped his flask. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered. Then he pulled Dean into a hug so hard it cracked ribs. “You really back?”

“Yeah,” Dean rasped. “It’s me.”

A day later, they tracked down Sam. Dean burst into the room like a ghost out of time. Sam stared like he’d seen one.

“Dean?”

Dean couldn’t hold back the emotion in his voice. “Yeah, it’s me, Sammy.”

There were tears, arguments, confusion, and the shaky beginnings of explanations. But after the dust settled, Dean asked the question that had been burning in the back of his mind the whole time.

“So? Where’s she?” he said, looking between the two men.

Sam blinked. “Who?”

“**,” Dean said firmly. “Where is she?”

Sam’s face changed. His jaw tightened, and he exchanged a glance with Bobby. “She disappeared,” Sam said slowly. “After you died… she just—vanished.”

Bobby nodded solemnly. “Dropped off the map. No phones, no cards. Nothing.”

Dean’s throat went dry. “I need to find her.”

So they did. For the next week, they scoured every lead, hacked into obscure systems, followed whispers in hunters’ circles. And then—finally—a hit.

A small country town in Texas. Population: a couple hundred. The kind of place where nothing ever really happens. The kind of place people go to forget the rest of the world.

Dean stared out the window as they drove, his stomach a knot of nerves. What would she think? Would she even want to see him? Or would she think he was a demon, a trick? He’d be suspicious if the roles were reversed.

Dean walked up the porch steps slowly, heart thudding. Every second felt like a lifetime. He stopped in front of the door and hesitated. But raised a hand and knocked.

Footsteps inside. Light and steady. Then a voice, soft and familiar, floated through the wood.

“Coming.”

The door creaked open.

She stood there.

Her hair was still golden blonde, pulled back loosely, a few curls escaping around her face. Her blue eyes blinked up at him, wide and confused. The sunlight caught them, made them shimmer like the sky after rain. She was wearing a soft cotton dress, her hands still dusted with soil—probably from gardening.

Her lips parted slightly. She took a breath.

For a heartbeat, time froze.

Dean felt his own breath hitch. She looked exactly as he remembered. Like the last peaceful thing he saw before Hell swallowed him whole.