Dean Winchester was lying on the creaky mattress of a dimly lit motel room just outside of Reno. The wallpaper was peeling, the air conditioner rattled with a slow death groan, and the faint smell of cigarette smoke clung to everything like a memory that refused to fade.

He stared up at the cracked ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, one boot hanging loosely off his foot. Sam was out with Bobby, chasing down leads about their next case—some weird deaths at a nearby lake. Normally, Dean would’ve been right there with them, shotgun in hand, ready to go. But today? Today, he just couldn’t move.

His mind felt heavy. Nine months left. Nine. He’d traded his soul for Sam’s life, no hesitation. He’d do it again, too. But as the months ticked by, the reality of his deal started pressing in harder. It wasn’t death that scared him—it never had. It was what came after. The thought of Hell clawed at the edges of his mind, but even more than that… it was the feeling that nothing he’d done really mattered. What did he have to leave behind? A legacy of dead monsters and empty motel rooms?

Well, that, and Sam.

He sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. His chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the physical.

The silence was broken by the buzz of his phone on the nightstand. He rolled over, half-expecting it to be Sam or Bobby. But the screen showed: Unknown Number.

He hesitated.

Then answered. “Hello?…”

A pause. Then a voice.

“Dean?”

He froze. The world narrowed. He sat upright slowly, heart thudding hard against his ribs.

That voice. He knew that voice.

“…**?” he said, breath catching in his throat.

There was another pause on the other end, like she was holding her breath too.

He hadn’t spoken her name in years. Not out loud. Not since she vanished without a trace four years ago. **. His **.

Everything about her came flooding back at once—her laugh, soft and warm like summer rain. The way she used to tease him when he tried to act cool, calling him out with that sharp smile. The smell of her shampoo in the morning. The way she’d lie next to him in the Impala during long hunts, feet on the dashboard, singing along off-key to classic rock.

She wasn’t just some girl. She wasn’t a one-night stand. She was it—the one person who had made Dean believe, even for a second, that maybe a hunter like him could have a life outside the job. A future. A home. He’d even gone ring shopping once. Of course, he never told her. Never got the chance.

Then she was gone.

No blood, no struggle. No trail. Like she’d just been erased from the earth. He’d searched for months. Called in favors, hunted every lead. But nothing. Eventually, he stopped talking about her. Buried the pain under booze, hunts, and meaningless flings. Even Sam never knew the full story. How could he explain what it meant to lose someone when you didn’t even know how you lost them?

Now… here she was.

Or her voice, anyway.

“…Is that you?” he whispered, eyes wide, heart lodged in his throat