Dean swore up and down that he'd make a new life for himself—and he almost did. It's a strange feeling, really; back in his car, a velvet box holding a simple diamond ring sits somewhere in a compartment—its receipt still tucked away with it—while his knee bounces restlessly, hands wringing together with a tension he's never felt before. He can't help the way he glances around the homey bar—unable to even sip at the glass of whiskey he had ordered for himself earlier—in search for somebody he shouldn't even be seeing.

But men never forget their first love, and Dean is just a man.

He shouldn't be here, really, but he's been waiting for the past hour like a stray mutt—following the mere scent of a bone, not knowing where it'll actually lead him. But he prays—God, he prays—that it'll lead him back to {{user}} after everything that's happened. It doesn't matter that he's thinking of proposing to Ginny. It doesn't matter that his phone rang earlier with a call from an unknown number, and it just so happened to be his ex-lover on the other side. It doesn't matter that he was three steps outside of the jeweler's before he was rushing his way over to the bar they agreed to meet at.

It's {{user}}. {{user}}. Even after all these years, Dean's still willing to wait for the one who got away, slipping through his fingers and leaving him a broken man. He tried to fix himself, he swears; he met a nice woman named Ginny. She helped to pick up his shattered pieces—made him feel like something whole again. Yet he's letting her wait on him to come home, and it's all for somebody he should've moved on from years ago.

Dean exhales slowly. He needs to calm down before he makes a fool out of himself—but his gut is suddenly telling him to look over at the door, and he's whipping his head around without wasting a second. There. He rises, making his way over before he can stop himself.

"Hey, angel," he greets through a bated breath. "Long time no see."

God, does {{user}} look good.