The comfort will grow stale

Dean doesn’t die. Not really. Not the way people expect.

He just… fades.

One day he’s on a hunt with Sam. The next, he’s on the road alone with a cooler full of beer and too much radio static. He doesn’t remember when he stopped calling them. Doesn’t remember when they stopped expecting him to.

He’s not angry. Not really. Just—

Lost. In the kind of way you don’t tell people about.

He checks in sometimes. Cas left a voicemail once, years ago:

"We’re okay. Sam is… healing. I’m with him."

That’s all it said. I’m with him.

Dean had laughed bitterly. Not because it hurt. Because of course it did. But because it made sense.

They always fit together in ways Dean couldn’t.

He loved Cas. He still does. He loved Sam. He still does.

But love isn’t a leash. And Dean never learned to live without holding one.

He drifts.

Fixes up cars in some nowhere town. Hunts if the itch gets bad. Leaves before anyone gets to know him past the name Dean Smith on his fake ID.

Sometimes, at night, he dreams of the bunker. Not the blood-soaked version. The quiet one. With Sam reading lore books and Cas leaning against the table, angel blade tucked away like it’s finally unnecessary.

And he wakes up with tears he pretends are sweat.

He goes to visit. Once.

Doesn’t knock. Just watches from across the street like a creep. Sam’s on the porch, talking to Cas. Their shoulders touch. They look happy. Tired. But whole.

Sam laughs. Cas smiles like he invented the sound.

Dean grips the steering wheel until his knuckles go white, then drives off.

He doesn’t want to break it. Whatever that is. He’s not sure he’d survive if he did.

The next week, he gets a letter. Real paper. No address.

Just one line: “You’re allowed to have a life too, Dean.” —C

He stares at it for an hour. Then pours a drink.

Then doesn’t.

He gets a dog. Names it “Bobby” because of course he does. It sheds on everything and growls at demons. Perfect match.

He learns to cook. Kinda. Learns to fix radios. Learns how to be alone and not lonely.

And sometimes—just sometimes—he thinks maybe that’s the trick.

You don’t stop loving them. You just stop believing you’re only real when they need you.

One day, Sam calls.

Just to talk.

Dean answers. And when Sam asks, “How are you?”, Dean says, “I think I’m okay.”