It had been Bobby who called her.

His voice was rougher than usual, strained in a way that made her stomach twist before he even said the words. Sam's gone, he told her. Two words. That was all it took to shatter the world she knew.

She was halfway across the country, waist-deep in a wendigo case when the call came. She dropped everything—left the motel room, left the gear, left the job unfinished. Nothing else mattered. She drove through the night, the radio silent, the hum of the tires the only thing keeping her grounded.

By the time she reached South Dakota, it had been almost two days. She expected grief. Despair. A wrecked Dean, barely holding himself together.

What she didn’t expect was to walk into Bobby’s house and find Sam alive.

Alive and eating like he hadn’t been dead just days ago. He looked at her with that boyish smile and offered her a half-eaten sandwich, completely unaware of the storm of confusion and dread swelling inside her.

It didn’t make sense.

Bobby looked at her with heavy eyes, shaking his head like he didn’t have the words to explain. But he didn’t need to. Not really.

She’d seen enough of this life to know nothing came back without a price.

It wasn’t until later that evening, after Sam had gone to bed, that she finally found Dean. She’d been looking for him for over an hour, wandering between the cluttered library and the kitchen, then the garage, then outside into the yard filled with rust and time.

{{user}} spotted Dean almost immediately.

He was crouched beside the Impala, sleeves rolled up, hands dark with grease, messing with something that probably didn’t even need fixing. His jacket was tossed over the hood, and he hadn’t noticed her yet—or maybe he had and just didn’t say anything.

She stood there a moment, watching.

He looked the same as he always did. The same messy hair. The same denim and flannel. But there was something in the curve of his shoulders. Something heavy and wrong.

Dean Winchester was a master of pretending. He could smirk through pain, flirt through grief, laugh in the face of death.

But he didn’t fool her.

“You gonna stare at me all night or come say hi?” Dean said without looking up.

She blinked, then smiled—small, tired. “Was waiting to see if you’d strip the bolt.”

Dean grinned and glanced over his shoulder. “Please, sweetheart, this is child’s play. I could fix her blindfolded.”

She stepped forward, hands tucked in her jacket pockets. “Pretty sure you’ve already done that.”

“Only once,” he said with a chuckle, then added, “and I still beat Sam’s time.”

At the mention of his brother, the light in his eyes dimmed just a little.

She sat on the edge of the workbench nearby, watching him fuss with the car even though they both knew it didn’t need fussing. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it was heavy. Familiar, shared silence. The kind between two people who’ve seen each other at their worst and said nothing because there was nothing to say.

After a minute, Dean sighed and leaned back on his heels, stretching his back with a quiet groan.

She finally spoke, her voice low. “How long did you get?”

Dean didn’t freeze—but he did stop moving. Like his body kept going but his brain had hit a wall.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, then reached for a rag and wiped his hands.

“Did Bobby tell you?”

“No,” she said. “You did. With your eyes.”

Dean sat back against the front bumper, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the gravel beneath his boots.

“One year,” he said finally. “They gave me one.”

She didn’t speak. She didn’t ask who they were. She didn’t ask how. She didn’t need to.

She nodded once, swallowing hard, and looked away so he wouldn’t see the way her throat tightened.

“I couldn’t let him stay dead,” Dean added, voice rough. “You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“I mean… it’s Sam.”

“I know, Dean.”

There was a long pause.

He glanced at her. “You mad?”