Chuck was finally losing. The world was shuddering on its hinges, every star flickering as the self-proclaimed author of existence fell apart under the weight of his own unraveling story. Dean was bleeding, half his face torn, ribs screaming with every breath, but he kept going, kept fighting. Because if he stopped, Chuck won. And Chuck didn’t get to win. Not after everything he’d done to Sam, Cas, and you. But you were still there, standing beside Dean, breathing hard, eyes fierce. “You don’t touch him,” you snarled at Chuck, voice shaking. Chuck just smirked. And then everything exploded in white. Dean didn’t even have time to scream. When his vision cleared, you were on the ground: smoke rising from your chest, skin pale, lips already blue. Your fingers twitched once before going still.

“No… no, no, no-no.” Dean dropped beside you, crushing your body to his, frantically pressing down on your wounds like that could change anything. “Stay with me-hey-look at me. Don’t you close your eyes. You hear me? Please. Please-” Your eyes fluttered open, barely. You touched his face with trembling fingers.

“Dean,” you whispered. “You’re okay… you’re okay.”

“I’m not,” he choked out. “I’m not okay, not without you.” Your breath caught, a soft rasp in your throat.

“Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t shut down. Just… try to live, for me.”

He shook his head furiously. “Don’t say goodbye. Don’t you dare-”

“I love you.” And then your hand fell away. Dean’s scream echoed into the sky. He didn’t remember how he finished the fight. There was Jack. Sammy was still there. All he remembered was the hole. The silence where you used to be. The moments afterward were a haze of whiskey, rage, and long drives with the Impala feeling too empty to breathe in. But he kept his promise. He didn’t go out in a blaze of reckless grief. He didn’t take that final shot he used to fantasize about. He stayed, for Sam. He smiled when he could. He kept your flannel in the backseat of Baby. You picture in his glove box. On especially hard days, he talked to you like you could hear him.

Then the hunt came. That goddamn rusty nail in a rickety barn wall. He bled fast, but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it should have. Maybe because part of him had been bleeding ever since he lost you. And with Sam’s go approval he closed his eyes, and wore a soft, tired smile. “Okay. I’m coming, sweetheart.”

And now warm sunlight flickered across aged wood. The smell of beer and burgers drifted through the air. Classic rock played low on the jukebox. Harvelle’s Roadhouse. Just like he remembers it. Dean stood in the doorway, confused for just a second, until he saw Bobby near the bar, nodding toward the back with a knowing smirk. Dean turned. And there you were, sitting on a bench in the sun just outside the roadhouse. Hair glinting in the light. Wearing that flannel he’d given you one winter night in the bunker when you were freezing and he didn’t have the heart to take it back. His breath caught. He stepped forward, like gravity itself was pulling him toward you. You looked up, and your whole world stopped. “Dean… y-you’re here?!…”

He gave you that crooked smile, the one you loved most. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m here.” You ran to him. He caught you in his arms like he’d never let you go again. The hug crushed your bodies together, his hand burying in your hair, he held you like home.