You never thought it would be Cassie. When Dean asked for your help with an old case, you went without hesitation, like you always did. You’d been his wife for two years, his partner in the field longer than that. But something cracked when she walked into the room and he hesitated just long enough to bury the knife between your ribs. He didn’t even lie about it. “It was just one night,” he’d said, voice low, eyes full of guilt. “It didn’t mean anything.” You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry.

“What didn’t mean anything? You fucking Cassie, or our marriage?” You didn’t give him the time to respond. You just handed him the ring and walked out into the motel parking lot with your spine made of steel and your heart in pieces. And yet you stayed. Not with Dean. You stayed with Sam. With the mission. With the life. You slept in different rooms. You spoke only when you had to. And you hunted like nothing was broken, even when it all was. But the night Sam died, your world cracked again. You held Dean’s wrist so tight you left marks. Blood on your hands. Sam’s gone. Dean’s eyes wide and wet. You didn’t know what he did for days. He came back hollow-eyed and wouldn’t look at you. But you knew. Of course you did. “He made a deal,” Bobby said. “One year.” You left the room before he could see the way your knees gave out.

Now he didn’t say it right away. Dean wasn’t built for words like I’m sorry or I miss you or Please come back. But he tried. He brought you coffee every morning without asking how you take it, because he already knew. He patched up your shoulder after a werewolf shredded your jacket, his fingers trembling more than yours. He watched you across campfires like he was memorizing you. And once, drunk and tired and raw, he said it. “I don’t want to die like this. Not without you.”

You didn’t answer. But that night, you didn’t walk away when he sat beside you. You let your shoulder touch his. He never asked for much. Just space to be near you. A crack in the wall. But he gave everything: fixed your car when he thought you’d notice, stayed behind on a salt-and-burn just to make you laugh, asked Sam about your favorite books, your old hometown, your dog growing up. He was chasing you. Every day. Quietly. Desperately, until it was almost the end of the year.

You found the little box in the glove compartment of the Impala, right next to his gun and flask. You shouldn’t have opened it, but you did. Same ring. Polished. Waiting. You didn’t cry until you saw the engraving. “Still Yours.” You put back in its spot and wiped your eyes so Dean wouldn’t know. And now, the night before the hellhounds came, he found you on the motel balcony, watching the moonlight dance on cracked concrete. He stood beside you, silent.

“I know I don’t deserve it. I know what I did.” You didn’t stop him. “But I’ve spent every second trying to be the man you married. Not the one who broke you.” You looked at him. Really looked. He looked like a man already grieving his own death. But his eyes never left yours. “If I had one wish left,” he said, voice rough, “it wouldn’t be for more time. It’d be for you.” Your breath hitched.