The motel door creaked shut behind you as the morning sun bled gold across the lot. The hunt had been easy—ghost, bones, lighter fluid. But the quiet it left in its wake felt louder than any screaming spirit.

You adjusted the strap on your duffel, mind already drifting to the next town, the next hunt, the next attempt to outrun the ache that never really dulled.

And then you saw it.

That ’67 Chevy Impala.

Parked like she had every damn right to be there, her black frame gleaming beneath the early light. The familiar hum in your chest started before you even registered the man leaning against her.

Dean Winchester.

He hadn’t changed much. A little more weathered, maybe. The green in his eyes a little dimmer, like time had stolen something from him. But his presence—solid, magnetic—still hit you like a punch to the ribs.

Your feet stopped moving before your brain caught up.

He just looked at you. Like it was natural. Like he hadn’t left you bleeding out on a cheap motel sidewalk with nothing but his silence and those cruel, final words.

“You mean too much. That’s the damn problem.”

It had been years. Years since that night outside a run-down Kansas motel where you’d kissed him with every ounce of grief and love you’d kept buried. Years since he pushed you off, eyes cold, words colder—telling you it meant nothing, that you were reckless, just a distraction, not worth the risk.

You could still feel that night in your bones—the heat of your lips on his, the second-too-late way he pushed you off like he hadn’t already tasted regret. Sam had quietly disappeared into the motel, giving space for a conversation that never happened. Dean had made sure of that.

And now?

He was standing there like no time had passed. Like your heart hadn’t been packed in ice ever since.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel under boots.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

Just stared at him. Your silence wasn’t sharp—it was tired. Decades of aching packed into one still breath.