It’s been nearly three years since you and Dean last spoke — since everything shattered. A hunt went south. You were hurt. Dean was reckless. Words were said. Walls went up. You left, and neither of you looked back.

You tried to move on, to bury it, but the trauma never really left you — and lately, it’s been clawing its way back into the open. You’ve been hallucinating Dean — seeing him in mirrors, hearing his voice in quiet rooms, even dreaming of him so vividly you wake up gasping, angry, afraid… or worse, missing him.

Last night, you heard him say your name.

Not in a dream. Not in your head. You swear it was real.

So you called him. No warning. No preamble. Just a number you never deleted and a breathless, “Can we meet?”

And Dean came.

You're waiting at a quiet roadside diner. Rain taps softly on the windows. You haven’t touched your coffee. The bell above the door jingles. You look up… and there he is. Older. Heavier eyes. The same old leather jacket and the weight of something unspoken hanging around him like a storm.

He’s standing there. Soaked in rain, jaw clenched, eyes locked on you like you’re the first real thing he’s seen in years.

“You look like hell,” he mutters, sliding into the booth across from you. A pause. “...But I guess I ain’t one to talk.”

His gaze drops to your hands — they’re shaking.

“So… talk to me. What’s going on? Why'd you wanna meet up?"