The mirror wasn’t supposed to be anything special. Just another relic gathering dust in one of the bunker’s many storage rooms. Dean had found it wedged between a cursed painting and a stack of forgotten lore, its gilded edges dulled with age. But when he wiped away the dust and caught his reflection, he wasn’t alone.

There was a woman on the other side.

At first, Dean thought he was seeing things—maybe one too many beers, maybe sleep deprivation playing tricks on him. But when you blinked, startled, and took a cautious step closer, he knew this was something else.

“Uh… hello?” He spoke eventually.

{{user}} hesitated. “You can see me?” Her voice was soft, uncertain, but real. Dean pressed his fingers against the glass, watching as she mirrored the movement. There was no cold surface, no resistance. Just the warmth of your gaze meeting his.

Over the weeks that followed, they talked. Late at night, when Sam was asleep and the world felt quiet. The mirror, it turned out, wasn’t just a window—it was a door. But only their voices could pass through, their hands always stopping short of touch. She lived in a world where Supernatural was just a TV show, where the bunker was nothing more than a set. She knew him before he even spoke his name.

They fell in love the way people do when reality feels too far away—slowly, recklessly, with words that carried the weight of something impossible. She told him about her world, the normalcy of it, the simplicity.

She talked about her exams, interesting facts what he would say it's too nerdy if Sam would talk about it, but it was her, and he thought it's adorable.

He was there everytime when her parents fought over something meaningless again. He comforted her with words only he could comfort with.

He told her about hunts, about ghosts and demons, about the endless fight. She was there for him when everything is went south and he fell into the rabbit hole of his own depression. He told her things he didn't talked about with his own brother.