He leaned against the motel doorframe like he hadn’t broken your world in half. The shadows clung to him differently now—like they liked him, like they knew he belonged to them. Dean Winchester, once the man who fought hell with everything he had, now smirked with black eyes and the kind of confidence that came from being untouchable. The Mark of Cain still burned on his arm, pulsing beneath his shirt like a second heartbeat.

“You missed me?” he asked, voice low, syrup-smooth, soaked in something wicked. “Or just the part where I tore your name outta my throat when you walked away?”

He still looked like him. Still wore the leather jacket, still smelled faintly of motor oil and danger. But the warmth was gone—what was left was sharp-edged and dark, laced with hunger that wasn’t just physical. You should’ve driven a blade through his heart. Instead, your fingers twitched, and he grinned like he already knew which choice you’d make.