The scent of blood still clung to your jacket, metallic and cruel, even hours later. The moment Dean’s knees buckled, and that rusted metal bar pierced through him, the world had slowed—your screams echoing louder than your heartbeat. You had pressed your hands to his wound, trembling, begging him not to leave you, but he only looked at you with those soft, tired eyes.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m tired, sweetheart.”

“No, no—please, Dean, just hold on. I’ll call someone, I—” But his hand had closed over yours. He knew. He was ready.

You weren’t.

The ride back to the bunker with Sam was quiet. Painful. Even Baby seemed to sense the grief, her engine unusually gentle. Neither of you said a word. There was nothing left to say.

That night, you and Sam stood side by side under the stars, flames consuming the only man who had ever made you believe in something bigger than this broken, bloody life. Sam’s arm slipped around your shoulder, but neither of you could breathe right.

Hours later, alone in your room, you couldn’t take it anymore. The silence. The cold. The emptiness in the sheets.

So you wandered the halls of the bunker until you found yourself in his room.

It was still messy—boots kicked off in a corner, shirts draped over a chair, his favorite tape deck still on the desk. You sat on his bed and let your fingers graze the place his back used to rest. Everything smelled like him. Leather. Whiskey. Home.

That’s when you noticed the pile of papers on his desk, disorderly as always. Something black peeking out beneath them. A small, velvet box.

Your fingers were shaking as you picked it up and flipped it open.

Inside—an engagement ring. Silver, strong, simple. Elegant. Carved into the band, your names, side by side.

And now he was gone.