The Impala’s tires screeched against the asphalt as Dean floored it down the highway, his grip on the wheel turning his knuckles white. His heart pounded, harder than it had in years—harder than when he faced death, harder than when he clawed his way out of a grave. Because this? This was worse.

{{user}} sold her soul for him.

A crossroads deal. It should’ve been ten years, but no—just one. One damn year, because she hadn’t just asked for his life back; she’d asked for him to walk away from that hunt like it never happened. Too much, too fast. Now the hellhounds were already sniffing around, and Dean was losing his mind trying to find a way out.

He barely saw the road ahead, mind racing through every scrap of lore, every half-assed plan, every desperate, impossible way to break the contract. No one cheated a demon deal. Not really. But screw that. He wasn’t about to let her die for him.

The second he shoved open the motel door, his eyes locked on her sitting at the edge of the bed, too damn calm for someone standing at the edge of the abyss. That made it worse.

Dean’s face was tight, his jaw locked so hard it hurt. He dragged a hand through his hair before pointing at her, eyes burning with something between fury and desperation.

"You’re outta your damn mind, you know that?" he bit out, voice rough. "Selling your soul? For me? What the hell were you thinking?"