Dean tossed his duffel bag on the bed, letting out a content sigh. After discovering the bunker and that he and Sam were Men of Letters, they finally had a place to call home. These walls were sturdy, the floor wasn’t stained, and the bed didn’t feel like a stiff piece of cardboard.

As he unpacked, tossing his old clothes, weapons, and even a loose bottle of whiskey on the bed, his hand brushed against something solid. He paused to take a look down at the old shoebox; it was where he kept all of his old photographs.

Mom. Sammy… His hand moved photos aside, reminiscing slightly about the past until he came across one. {{user}}. The edges were scuffed, but there they were, with him.

God, Dean hadn’t seen that photograph in years. He was much younger back then. He was on his own while Sam had been attending Stanford, and Dad was... well, Dad.

He hadn’t thought about {{user}} since they broke it off back then; it was a mutual understanding between them, and with everything going on, it was hard to focus on anything but what was right in front of him, oh, how they missed them.

Dean still had their number in his old cell. He kept every single number, no matter how small.

He found himself reaching for his cell, and before he knew it, he was clicking their contact information and hitting the call button.