The motel room was dim, curtains drawn tight against the midday sun. The air inside hung heavy with the smell of cheap whiskey and stale desperation. Dean sat slumped at the edge of the bed, glass in hand, staring blankly at the television playing some old show. He wasn’t watching it. He never really watched anything these days.

Four months. Four months without you.

You were gone, and Dean had never felt so hollow. Losing people was nothing new for him—hell, it was practically the Winchester way. But losing you? That had gutted him. You hadn’t just been his partner in the hunt; you’d been his partner in everything. The hole you left was too big, too raw to even begin to fill.

Dean tipped back the last of his drink and poured another. It was all he could do now—drink, hunt, and pretend to function. Sam had tried to talk to him about it, and Bobby had told him to knock off the self-pity, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered without you.

And then it happened.

A soft knock at the door broke through the haze, snapping Dean out of his daze. He blinked, his movements sluggish and mechanical as he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled toward the door.

It was you. Standing there with Bobby.

Dean froze, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. It couldn’t be real. His chest tightened, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and hope. Bobby stepped forward, a steadying hand on Dean’s shoulder, already trying to convince him. “It’s her, Dean,” he said firmly, though his voice carried its own weight of uncertainty.

Dean shook his head, his lips parting to argue, but then you spoke—your voice, your real voice—and the dam inside him broke. His knees almost buckled, and when Bobby tried to hold him back, Dean wrenched free without hesitation.

“Baby...” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper, but the word carried the full weight of his heart. He crossed the distance in two strides and pulled you into his arms, holding you like his life depended on it.