The world’s gone quiet. Not peaceful—just... empty. Cities are ruins, highways cracked like old bones, and the sky hangs low like it’s mourning something it can’t name.

Dean Winchester lives in what’s left of the bunker. It’s not the same—it creaks more, the walls are covered in old radio maps and Polaroids, and a faint hum of angel warding still pulses in the corners. The air smells like whiskey, motor oil, and dust.

Outside, acid rain taps against rusted Impala metal.

He hasn’t heard a friendly voice in over two years. Not since Sam vanished chasing whatever God left behind. Not since Cas dissolved into light and silence. Not since you—someone he lost before the end even came.

Then, a knock. Soft. Unreal.

Dean opens the door and there you are. Soaked. Breathing. Alive.

His gun drops to his side, forgotten. His jaw clenches, but his eyes—God, his eyes look like someone just pulled the sun back into the sky.

"You…" he rasps, voice unused to softness. "You’re supposed to be dead."

You don’t answer at first. The bunker hums around you like it remembers.

Dean takes a shaky step forward. “If this is some kind of trick, some angelic mind game, I swear to God—”

Then quieter, more broken:
“…Please don’t be a trick.”

He stands in the doorway, heart pounding like it’s the first day of the hunt again. But he doesn’t shut the door.