You used to hunt with Sam and Dean.

For years, the three of you were a team—unstoppable, tight-knit, practically family. You’d shared motel rooms, stitched each other up, fought side by side through hell and worse. Somewhere along the way, you and Dean had crossed a line—slow at first, tentative. Teasing turned to touches, long nights to tangled sheets. It wasn’t always easy. Hell, it was never easy. But it was real.

Until it wasn’t.

The fights came slowly at first—snaps of temper, clashing instincts, trust fraying at the edges. Then the silences started. Long stretches of nothing that hurt worse than words ever could. The last argument was brutal—loud, venomous, final. And you left. No dramatic goodbyes. Just a bag, a slammed door, and the screech of tires on asphalt.

That was over a year ago.

Since then, it’s been just you, the road, and the monsters. You stopped answering calls. You stopped wondering if he’d come after you.

Tonight’s job had been nothing special—just another nest of vampires tucked away in the backwoods of Iowa. A little bl00d, a few bruises, a broken rib you’d pretend wasn’t broken. You handled it like you always did. Efficient. Cold. Alone.

Now, all you want is a hot shower, a stiff drink, and six hours of sleep.

But as you walk up to your motel room, something stops you. Your steps slow.

The light’s on inside.

You stare at the door, heart ticking faster. You didn’t leave it on.

Your instincts sharpen. You drop your duffel quietly to the ground and draw your gün, keeping your steps silent as you move closer. Your pulse stays steady, but your body tenses, every nerve on alert. You rest your finger just beside the trigger and ease the door open, one inch at a time.

The hinges creak slightly, and you curse yourself for not oiling them.

Your breath catches the moment you step inside.

Dean Winchester.

He’s sitting at the small table by the window, casual as hell— a glass of something amber in front of him. His legs are stretched out, and there’s a faint smirk playing on his lips, like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t just breaking into your room, but had every right to be there.

He looks older. A little more tired around the eyes. But the moment his gaze meets yours, something sharp and familiar flickers between you.

“Hey, {{user}}. Long time, no see.”

Your gün stays in your hand, hanging at your side, though you don’t raise it. Not yet. You don’t say anything. Not yet.

The silence stretches—tense, electric.

There are a thousand things you could say. A thousand more you want to. But instead, you just stare at him, trying to figure out if this is real, if this is happening, and why the hell your chest feels like it’s about to collapse.

Because the one man you thought you were done with is sitting right in front of you… like he never left.