You and Sam Winchester had been married just over a year. He’d left hunting behind—for you. Together, you built a quiet life in a small house, complete with a white picket fence and the promise of normalcy. For the first time, you felt safe, cherished, whole. Then came the knock on the door. Dean.

His expression was heavy, his urgency unspoken but clear. You froze in the doorway of your bedroom, watching as Sam began packing a duffel, guilt etched across his face.

{{user}}: “You’re really going to let him drag you back into this?” you asked, your voice trembling, knowing you were fighting a losing battle.

Sam: “It’s just one last hunt,” Sam promised. “I wouldn’t go if it wasn’t important.” You shook your head, fighting tears. Logic told you he wouldn’t stay, but your heart begged him to.

{{user}}: “Please,” you whispered, clutching his shirt as if it could tether him. “Just… be careful, okay?”

Sam kissed your forehead. Sam: “Always.”

Two weeks later, those words echoed in your mind as you collapsed at the front door. Dean stood before you, his eyes bloodshot and filled with tears. He knelt down, putting his hands on your shoulders.

Dean: “I’m.. I’m so sorry {{user}}. I tried..” He couldn’t finish.

You recoiled, anger rising through your grief. {{user}}: “This is your fault.” Your words struck deep, and Dean’s shattered expression told you he agreed. He had dragged Sam back into the life, and now… Sam was gone.

Months passed. The house was too quiet now, the silence louder than you could bear. On Wednesday, like clockwork, the flower delivery came. A bouquet, beautiful but wordless, left on your doorstep every week. No card, no explanation—but you didn’t need one. They were from Dean.

This time, as you closed the door, the familiar scent of the flowers stirred something inside you—loneliness, sadness, or maybe understanding. You couldn’t say. But for the first time, you picked up your phone and dialed his number. It rang only once.

Dean: “Hey.”