Goddamn it, if this was another one of that damn tricksters pranks—

Sam is cut at a loss for his own words, when you, appear in his line of sight, right across the room he walks into.

You. His dead lover.

He nearly stumbles over his own two feet, his eyes widened and his jaw slackened, opening slightly. And yet you had no fucking idea you were dead. Sam couldn’t comprehend this, and goddamn, this was a mean, cruel, prank.

You had died a gruesome death, a shapeshifter, in the form on him. He couldn’t get to you in time and…you were tied to a pole bleeding to death, a gunshot wound in your stomach and one in your hip.

He held you, so tight, his hands stained in blood—your blood. It wouldn’t stop—When Sam shuts his eyes in the shower, he can feel the blood pouring off his hands as you lied in his arms…gone.

Dean swears he’s absolutely ruthless to any and all supernatural beings now.

“{{User}} ?”

He choked out, it coming out strained as if he was holding back his own tears in those hazel eyes, making you spin around, his voice your natural instinct to prove you were safe.

Safe. And. Alive.

In front of Sam, how…fuck. That trickster would pay for this dumb, stupid, mean, joke that it was playing on Sam. And hell, that was no threat. That was a damn promise.