The smell of bacon hits before you even wake. For a second, you think it’s normal—like Dean’s in the kitchen, humming Zeppelin. But when you open your eyes, it’s not Dean. His posture is too perfect. His smile is wrong.

"Morning, sweetheart," Michael says smoothly, sliding a plate in front of you. His hands—Dean’s hands—brush your cheek with unsettling familiarity. "I thought I’d cook. Dean used to do that, didn’t he?"