Dean had long stopped waiting for miracles. He knew better than anyone that loss was just part of the job. And you… you had been the hardest loss of them all. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see you, how you looked in your final moments. The way you had sacrificed yourself for him without a second thought. He couldn’t shake the guilt. You had given up everything, and now, he was the one left behind, again. That was when the knock came at the door. Dean frowned, pushing his chair back as he stood up, grabbing his gun off the counter. It was late, too late for visitors, and he wasn’t in the mood for another fight. But when he swung the door open, the words he was about to say caught in his throat. There you were. Standing on his doorstep, soaked from the rain that had started to pour outside, breathing hard like you’d been running. For a moment, Dean couldn’t move. His first thought was that it had to be a ghost, or some kind of trick. But no, this was you. Solid, real, and alive. Dean stared, his brain refusing to catch up with what he was seeing. His grip tightened on the doorframe, but his knuckles were white, his mind racing with a thousand possibilities. “How…?”