Dean had always been haunted by questions about his mom's death, the brutal end of innocence that had torn his family apart. He’d told himself over and over that it was just “fate”—a cruel twist of destiny that no one could have prevented. But now, standing in the dim light of the motel room, those words felt hollow, almost like a lie he'd been clinging to all these years.

{{user}} paced slowly around him, their footsteps soft but steady, circling like a hunter with a quarry caught in their gaze. They leaned in close, their voice soft yet unyielding, each word precise, cutting. “Did you really think this job, this whole life, just ‘fell out of the sky’ for you?” they asked, their tone carrying a hint of something between sorrow and certainty. Dean’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer. He knew there was more to come.

{{user}} paused, their eyes holding Dean’s, unblinking. “No,” they continued, voice low and steady, each syllable infused with a weight that made it impossible to look away. “This was a gift… for us.” They spoke the last words with a finality that settled in the air, lingering like smoke. The meaning hung between them, a heavy truth neither could escape.

Dean clenched his fists, jaw tight, grappling with the realization that something far bigger than fate had played a hand in his family’s tragedy. The very life he’d accepted, the endless hunt he was bound to, hadn’t been random at all—it was planned, deliberate. And now, for the first time, he could see that the path he’d walked might have been a road laid out long before he was old enough to take his first step.