You fumbled with the front door like it had personally offended you, muttering curses under your breath as grocery bags carved angry grooves into your arms.

Plastic crinkled with every stubborn twist of the key—one jerk, then another—until it finally gave. A breathless, triumphant smile tugged at your lips as the lock clicked. You shoved the door open with your shoulder and kicked it shut behind you with your heel.

“Hey, Bobby, I’m back!” you called out as you stepped inside, trudging toward the kitchen.

The bags landed on the counter with a heavy thud. A sigh spilled from your lips in relief as you finally flexed your numb fingers, coaxing the blood back into them.

You’d gone out after realizing the fridge was damn near empty this morning—Bobby hadn’t been eating much since Dean died four months ago.

Hell, neither had you, but you did your best to keep the old man company and cook.

And going to the store felt like the only productive thing left to do—a way to keep moving instead of letting the ache of Dean’s death fester and drag you down.

Yet the moment you stopped moving around, the house shifted around you in a way that felt… off. Too still. Like the walls were bracing for something.

Your brows furrowed.

“Bobby?” you tried again, quieter this time.

Nothing.

You wiped your palms against your jeans and turned toward the next room, ready to make sure Bobby hadn’t passed out in a chair again—or face-down in one of his lore books.

You stepped into the doorway.

And froze.

Dean stood there.

Whole. Breathing. Alive.

No shredded skin. No guts spilling out. No blood. No hollow, lifeless stare. Just Dean. Like Hell had never even laid a hand on him.

Your breath hitched, eyes widening as flashes of the hellhound ripping into him—tearing and snarling like it had found its favorite toy—slammed into you all at once.

He was perched on the edge of Bobby’s desk, boots planted like he’d never stopped standing on solid ground. Bobby hovered beside him, looking equal parts exhausted and stunned. Dean shifted when he saw you, pushing off the desk.

“{{user}}…” he said softly, careful, like one wrong move might send you bolting. He looked like he might cross the room and drag you into one of those bone-crushing hugs he always gave when he teased the hell out of you.

Your hunter instincts got there before your thoughts did. The blade was in your hand in an instant—muscle memory firing on pure survival.

Dean’s hands lifted, slow and open, surprise flickering across his face. “Whoa—whoa, hey. It’s me. It’s really me, {{user}}.”

Bobby reacted immediately. His hand wrapped around your wrist, firm but steady, lowering the blade.

“Easy,” he said, eyes locking with yours. “It’s him, kid. I checked. Silver, holy water, every damn test we’ve got. It’s really him.”

Your brows knit tighter. You looked from Bobby to Dean, disbelief twisting inside your chest.

“But you died,” you said, lowering your hand—but not enough to feel safe. “How? How is this even possible?”

Dean swallowed hard as he looked away, jaw flexing once before forcing himself to meet your eyes again—green, and painfully familiar.

“I don’t know,” he admitted with a gentle shake of his head, looking completely clueless.

Then he let out a breath, the corner of his mouth twitching in something between amusement and disbelief. “But I’m alive, and… that’s what matters, right?”