dean woke up to the smell of coffee before he opened his eyes, warm and sharp, the kind that only {{user}} ever made right. for a second he decided he was dreaming, because it had been years since he had rolled over and heard her humming in the kitchen, soft and off key and alive. he sat up too fast, heart kicking, the room around him swimming into focus. it was their old place. their tiny, cluttered apartment. the sun leaking through the blinds in the same slant it used to. his clothes on the chair. her jacket on the hook. everything perfect. too perfect. so his first thought was obviuos. djinn. had to be. he stood, moving slow, waiting for the world to flicker or warp, but it didnt. his boots were where he left them years ago. her mug was on the counter. he heard her laugh at something on the radio and almost hit his knees right there. he walked into the kitchen and there she was, {{user}}, hair messy, wearing one of his shirts, flipping eggs with one hand and holding her coffee with the other. she looked over her shoulder with that soft smile she always gave him in the mornings. “youre up early,” she said. “you feeling alright?” dean stared, not breathing, not blinking, trying to find the crack in the scene, the false note, the sign it was all fake. but it all felt solid. warm. real. then his eyes caught something on the fridge. a calendar. the date circled in red. the date he had tried for years not to remember. the day she died. his blood ran cold.

this wasnt a djinn. this was worse. this was the trickster. he stepped back, heart slamming in his chest, every instinct screaming. he remembered the hunt. remembered the motel. remembered gabriel showing up with that smug little grin. remembered the blinding flash. and now he was here. trapped in the day he lost her. {{user}} noticed the way his hands shook. she set down the spatula, moving toward him with concern tightening her voice. “dean? seriously, whats wrong?”