The last few weeks had been a blur of blood, salt, smoke, and grief.

After breaking into Sam’s dorm at Stanford and dragging him back into the life they both tried to forget, Dean Winchester had been running on nothing but black coffee, half-healed wounds, and the sick weight of Jessica’s death. Their dad was still missing—off the grid, sending cryptic coordinates like a ghost—and the hunts were piling up faster than Dean could stitch himself back together.

It was clear they needed help. Not just any help—reliable help. Someone who wouldn’t flinch at the sight of a ghoul but also wouldn’t burn out at the first demon encounter. Someone he trusted. Someone from the old days.

That someone was {{user}}.

Dean hadn’t seen them in years. They were only a year or two younger than him, around Sam’s age, but had given up hunting around the same time Sam had. Maybe it was contagious—this hunger for normalcy. Dean didn’t blame them. Last he’d heard, {{user}} had traded shotguns for textbooks and was living in Manhattan, of all goddamn places. NYU. Studying something with a name too long and Latin for Dean to remember.

So he and Sam had driven through the night, across three states, dozing in shifts and surviving on gas station burritos. And when they got there? Surprise. No answer. No texts. No calls.

Dean did what Dean always did when the world didn’t give him a door—he kicked in a window.

It was well past 3 a.m. when he climbed through the fire escape and into the shadowy stillness of {{user}}’s apartment. The city outside buzzed and howled like a living thing, but inside the apartment, it was quiet. The kind of quiet that made your ears ring.

He moved cautiously, boots soft on hardwood, scanning the place. It was lived-in—warm lighting, scattered books, framed photos. Not the motel-cramped chaos he was used to. It almost felt…safe.

Dean’s eyes landed on a photo perched on the corner of a side table. He stepped closer and picked it up.

There they were. {{user}}, younger but unmistakably them. Dressed in a graduation robe, grin wide and bright in the summer sun. His throat tightened a little. They’d really made something out of the life they fought so hard for.

Before sentimentality could settle in, the sharp click of a safety releasing made every muscle in his body lock.

Dean didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Then—low, steady, close behind him:

“Hands where I can see them.”

He slowly raised his hands, palms out, and sighed. “Easy. Relax. It’s me.”

A pause. Then the tension in the room shifted. The muzzle of the gun lowered.

He turned slowly to face them.

There they were—tousled hair, tank top, eyes sharp and furious with sleep. Dean almost smiled. They hadn’t changed a bit, except now they looked even more capable of kicking his ass.

“I know,” he started, hands still half-raised, “I said you’d never see me again.”

A beat.

“But I need your help.”