The room was still when he walked in, boots scuffing softly against the old wood. Dean didn’t flinch at the cold that lingered or the sorrow that clung to the walls like cobwebs. He just glanced around with that worn hunter’s gaze—sharp, tired, and oddly gentle. This wasn’t his first ghost. But something about the silence felt different this time. Less angry. More… aching.

“You don’t have to show yourself,” he said, dropping his duffel by the doorway. “But if you’re gonna haunt this place forever, I figured you could at least have some company.”

He sat down on the edge of the dusty armchair like he’d done it a hundred times before. No salt lines. No Latin. Just his presence, steady and stubborn, like he was waiting for you to speak—like he knew there was still something left in you worth listening to. And somehow, the ache inside you stirred.