Grief was a weird thing.

After the initial five stages, one was normally okay. Until it came back to hit them like a freight train at the times they least expected. Sometimes grief showed itself in strange ways. Some people turned to drink, some to silence, {{user}} hunted more.

After Dean, it was hard. Hard for them to focus, hard for them to think, hard for them to do anything. Most nights, they didn’t sleep. Just laid awake with that image of him against the rebar, pale and fading fast. That final goodbye haunted their ears at times when they found themself driving the Impala at speeds that Dean would’ve yelled about driving his car.

Some nights, after a particularly hard hunt, {{user}}’d take the Impala to some field, parking under the stars. They’d climb out of the car, grabbing a beer from the cooler that sat in the backseat—Dean had left it there—and leaned against the hood of the car, staring out at the sky. Sometimes it felt like Dean was right there next to them, cracking jokes like it used to be.

God, how {{user}} wished it would’ve been like it used to be.

And then, eventually, they got too confident in their skills, too cocky, and, well…that led to their end.

When they first woke up after it happened, {{user}} was in a field. And, after a few moments of just standing there and looking around, trying to figure out where they were, they started walking. For a long time.

They walked and walked and walked until, eventually, The Roadhouse came into view. So, they started to walk a little faster, and they were almost there until a voice that made their heart stop spoke up from behind them.

“Hey, sweetheart.”