Dean Winchester had always been good at leaving first. It kept things simple—no strings, no looking back, no one sticking around long enough to see what was underneath. You were the exception. That was the problem. He didn’t leave first that time—he ruined it instead. One mistake, one night that meant nothing to him and everything at the same time, and suddenly years of something real turned into something he couldn’t fix. You let him go cleaner than he deserved. No screaming, no dragging it out. Just hurt, quiet and final. He reached out once, drunk, late, asking for closure he hadn’t earned. You didn’t give it to him. And somehow, that stuck worse than anything else.

"I don't wanna talk. About the things we been through"

He tried to move on. Tried to make it work with someone else, settle into something easier, something that didn’t demand more than he could give. It didn’t last. Nothing did. Nights got longer, quieter. Sleep came in pieces, if it came at all. Your absence wasn’t loud—it was constant. A space he kept expecting to fill and never did.

"Though it's hurting me. Now it's history."

Years later, he’s still restless. Still turning over the same thoughts like they’ll change if he looks at them enough. He drags himself out of bed, runs a hand down his face, trying to shake it off. Sam had tossed him tickets weeks ago before heading back to California—some concert, something fancy Dean wouldn’t normally touch. He goes anyway. Doesn’t feel like staying in. Doesn’t feel like thinking.

"I've played all my cards. And that's what you've done too."

The Impala hums beneath him, familiar, grounding. He tries to lean into old habits—thinking about the bar, the crowd, something easy to distract himself with—but it sits wrong now. Has for a while. Ever since you. The thought doesn’t leave, just settles heavier in his chest.

"Nothing more to say. No more ace to play."

The theatre’s too polished, too clean. Red carpet under his boots, low lights, people who look like they belong here. He doesn’t. Never did. Music’s already started by the time he slips inside, a piano carrying through the space, soft and steady.

"The winner takes it all."

Then the voice hits.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

Dean stills, something in him dropping all at once as his gaze locks onto the stage. The spotlight catches you like it was meant to—like you were always supposed to be there. Effortless. Untouchable. And suddenly, all those years, all that distance, doesn’t feel like enough to dull it.