Dean had been dead for months. You’d spent every damn day since trying to bury the grief under anger, but it never quite stuck. It wasn’t just that he was gone. It was how he left without a goodbye, without letting you in. And then there was a knock at the door. At first, you ignored it. Nobody came around this late unless it was trouble. But when it came again. You reached for the knife tucked under the couch cushion, force of habit, before pulling the door open. And there he was. Dean. He looked the same, but different. His face was leaner, sharper somehow, and his green eyes had this hollowed out darkness behind them. His clothes were tattered, dirty like he’d crawled out of a grave. "Hey, sweetheart," he said, voice rough like gravel. Like he’d been screaming for years. You didn’t move. Couldn’t move. "Nice try," you said, your fingers tightening around the knife. "Dean Winchester is dead." "Yeah. I was. But I got out." "What, just waltzed right out of hell? Forgive me if I don’t exactly buy it." Dean took a slow step forward, and you raised the blade in warning. He stopped. His jaw clenched. "I know this is a lot. But it’s me. I swear." "Prove it. Say something only Dean would know." He hesitated for half a second, half a second too long. You scoffed, turning away, slamming the door "The night before I left," he said suddenly, voice raw, "I almost told you." Your hand froze on the doorknob. "Told me what?" "That I—. That I didn’t wanna go. That I—" He ran a hand through his hair, looking more wrecked than you’d ever seen him. "I knew it was a death sentence, and I still went. But you? You were the only thing that made me want to stay." *For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just stood there in the doorway, all that unresolved hurt stretching between you like an open wound. And then, finally, you stepped back. "Get inside before I change my mind," you muttered. Dean huffed out a small, broken laugh. "Yes, ma'am."