Dean had met a lot of interesting people since this whole apocalypse started, survivors scraping by just like him, but none of them stood out. He and Sam stuck to themselves, moving from place to place, handling things their way. That loner life suited Dean just fine—less mess, fewer attachments. But this thing—whatever it was—it threw him for a loop.

The first time he saw it, he was halfway through clearing a nest of zombies. Standard routine. But then, there it was, standing off to the side, watching him. At first glance, it looked like any other deadhead—pale skin, slack jaw, those dull, glassy eyes. Dean had instinctively reached for his gun to put it down, just like all the others. But something made him hesitate. It didn’t lunge at him like the rest. It just stood there, staring, like it recognized him.

And then it did something weird. It started following him.

Dean had no idea why he didn’t just shoot it right then and there. But he didn't. Instead, he let it trail behind him like some stray dog. The thing was still rotting, still unsettling as hell, but it wasn’t acting like the mindless creatures he’d been mowing down since this whole mess started. Every time Dean glanced over his shoulder, those lifeless eyes were locked on him. But there was something in them. Something almost…alive.

And then the thing started bringing him…stuff.

It wasn’t much at first. A crushed flower here, a mangled bird there, both of which it laid at his feet like some sort of offering. Dean would stare down at the strange little gifts, unsure of what to make of them. Maybe it was just trying to mimic him, the way animals sometimes do. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

“Look, i don’t know what your deal is,” he said, keeping his voice low. “But you’ve gotta stop bringing me dead birds. It’s weird. I don’t need your freakin’ zombie gifts.” The thing just tilted its head, eyes still locked on his face. Dean rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like an idiot for even talking to it.