Dean's never been one to state the obvious without it being a sarcastic quip meant to annoy everyone listening. So it comes as a bit of a shock when he points out that his best friend, who should have been eight feet under a tombstone at this moment, is indeed standing in front of him at two in the morning, looking healthy and, for all intents and purposes, alive.

Dean's eyes can't get any wider without popping out of his skull. He hasn't even turned on the light yet, but from the light of the street lamp outside the window, he knows who's standing at the foot of his bed. He can recognize he silhouette of Seth Rollins anywhere.

"You're supposed to be dead," is what Dean says, and he tries not to fumble over his words while his tongue feels like cotton in his mouth. His skin feels clammy and cold, sweat sliding down his forehead in rivulets. He'd never really believed that ghosts existed, always felt like they might and didn't care too much if they did, but seeing his formerly dead best friend standing at the end of his bed, hands in his pockets and hood over his dark hair, he's kinda willing to rethink that philosophy.

Seth had died with his eyes open. Half-lidded and dark dull, but open none the less. It was something that had bothered Dean ever since, knowing that the last thing that Seth had seen was the face of his killer.

Yes, killer.

There was no way he'd lost his best friend to a heart attack, or some natural bullshit like the hospital drones had told him. He couldn't really prove that; there were no wounds or bruises on Seth's body -no blood at all- not a broken bone to be spoken of. Maybe part of that theory was because Dean's reasoning was clouded by denial and fresh pain for the loss of his best friend. Seth should've still been there, celebrating his twenty-eighth birthday, being way too excited for Crossfit, baffling Dean and everyone around him with his uncanny ability to fall asleep in the midst of blaring metal music. He should have been here on the couch, marathoning the Harry Potter series on the tv for hours on end, stopping on the sidewalk to pet every dog he saw, even if it was walking on the opposite side of the street, grinning stupid and genuine at something Roman said, rolling his eyes at Dean's weird fucking antics. But he wasn't. He was gone.

Dean had torn apart the whole damn basement, the deep dark hellhole that they'd found Seth in, looking for any signs of murder, anything at all. Broken glass, a bloody knife, a suspicious looking black glove that a killer might've dropped.

Two days. Nothing.

Nothing to show for it, except an inevitable for sale sign in his apartment's window, and a best friend who'd been taken from him too soon.

Or, not.

"You're supposed to be dead," says Dean. He's sitting straight up now, still hasn't turned on the fucking light like a normal, smart, sensible human being. "We saw it," he murmurs, almost like he's talking to himself, all the memories of Seth's cold hands and dull eyes flooding back with him being here. "You were gone, man."

He can practically hear Seth smiling in the dark, see his eyes sparkling with some smarmy comment.

"Well, I'm here now," he says, and Dean could almost sob at the sound of his voice. It sounds the same way it did a year ago, a little cocky, laughing underneath, warm, all Seth. It's like music to his ears.

It's all Dean needs to reach over and almost knock the lamp off the bedside table trying to turn it on. His bedroom turns dim, the little yellow light filling up half a corner of the room. Seth flinches at the sudden brightness, and turns his head just enough for the hood of his jacket to darken his face.

Dean doesn't remember ever dreaming so vividly; there's a first time for everything, he guesses. But there's something about the Seth that's standing here now that he knows for sure isn't the work of his frazzled and fraying subconscious. He's pretty sure that Seth is really here in his bedroom, standing very much alive and…and hiding something.

For some reason, that makes Dean angry. He wouldn't really be able to put it into words if you asked him, but the fact that Seth won't look at him drives him up the fucking wall. It's like…like, he doesn't even have the decency to look Dean in the face when he hadn't seen him breathing in over a year.

Dean throws the covers back and practically leaps across his mattress to reach Seth. He could have sworn Seth had been right in front of him when he first moved. Somehow, his aim was off. Seth is now farther away on Dean's right.

It's only a centimeter's worth of distance, but Dean knows Seth has moved. How? He didn't even see his legs move.

"What the hell? You're not really here, are you? I'm dreaming, aren't I?" Dean babbles as he slips off the bed. This time, he sees Seth move, watches him take a wary step backwards to avoid him. "You're supposed to be dead."

It sounds like a broken record by now, but it was true wasn't it? He'd been there when they'd buried the man who stood before him now at an ungodly hour of the morning. For all intents and purposes, Seth shouldn't be standing here defying the laws of physics and quite possibly the circle of life as they knew it.

Seth laughs, a quiet, toned down version of his usual bright, bursting warm ones. Dean still can't see his eyes behind the hood.

"But I'm not," he says calmly. "That's why I'm here."

Dean narrows his eyes. It smells in here. Smells like…

Dirt.

"You are dead aren't you?" he says low and cautious. Eying Seth up and down, he steps towards him, reaching out and catching his arm before Seth can move like he did earlier. Why was he running from him? It was Dean, his friend; didn't he remember?

"I do," says Seth. At Dean's confused look, he elaborates slowly, "I do remember. It's just…let's just say, you don't remember me. At least, not like this."

Dean stares at Seth for a long time. What the hell was he even talking about? Of course Dean remembered him! Seth, whose birthday was the twenty-sixth of May; who had lived in Davenport, Iowa for most of his life before he'd moved to be a music curator. Seth, who had a scar on the back of his neck from a really bad fall when he was younger and spent his days off smashing away at the buttons of his Xbox controller in his underwear for hours on end.

"You're dead, Seth. But," Dean eyes him suspiciously, trying to see under his jacket hood. "But you're not. Not really. What, are you some kind of zombie?"

Seth breathes out sharply, some kind of exasperated laugh. There's a flash of white in the dark, and something twists in Dean's chest.

Teeth.

And not just any teeth; sharp, pointed fang-looking teeth. Like shark teeth, or viper fangs. Seth says, "I guess you could say that. But not quite."

Dean nods stiffly. He clears his throat, trying to stop the tightness in his chest. "Okay. I'm going to turn on the light, okay?" he says slowly. Seth shakes his head. "Um," he begins, sounding small and quiet, "actually, can we leave the lights off? The lamp is okay. I wasn't planning on staying long anyway."

Wait, what?

After all this time, Seth was still going to leave? What, was he just passing through or something? After letting Dean think that he was dead for so fucking long? He wasn't even going to stick around?

Seth shrugs. "Sorry. I just wanted you to know that I'm okay-"

"Fuck that," Dean growls, suddenly and understandably angry now. He yanks Seth forward, hard enough for him to trip over his own feet and end up sitting down hard on Dean's bed. "How long have you been alive, or undead, or whatever? Why didn't you come look for me sooner?" Dean asks, immediately swamping Seth with questions. "How are you even here? I was there when…"

Dean trails off. No need to finish that sentence, they both know what entails with it. Seth dips his head, looking towards the floor. "I know," he says quietly, "I'll be honest, this is still so new to me too. I was pretty sure I was eight feet under that night, but y'know…" Seth shrugs one shoulder. "Here I am."

"And believe me, I'm fucking over the moon that you're here too," says Dean, carding his hands through his hair anxiously, "but…"

Is this real? Am I hallucinating?

"No, I'm really here, but I can pinch you if you want," says Seth sheepishly, looking up at Dean from under his hood, yellow eyes matching the slight grin on his face.

…yellow eyes.

"I have a feeling that would be trouble," says Dean, rubbing the back of his neck. "Don't want you taking bites outta me."

Seth hums, but he looks just as nervous as Dean now. "Yeah, about that…"

"Too soon?"

"A little."

Dean leans back against the bedside table, his form blocking out the lamplight. His shadow looms over Seth. "So, what happens now? You show up in the middle of the night, not dead, but alive somehow; what do you want me to do?" He narrows his eyes and looks at Seth sitting on the bed. "What…what are you?"

He knows already, but it's so far-fetched, so outlandish…he can't believe it. He just has to hear Seth say it. He needs to hear it from Seth's own mouth.

"I think you already have an idea," Seth says, the hood of his jacket obscuring his face.

"I need to hear you say it."

Seth sighs and looks away, further hiding his face from Dean. "Does it scare you?"

Seth goes silent, refusing to answer Dean's request right away. Dean knows he can feel him staring, boring holes into the side of his hooded head. He's dodging the question, he knows. Was he ashamed of what he'd become? Didn't he know Dean would love him regardless? They were brothers, they always had been, and they would continue to be, didn't he know that? Didn't he remember that?

Dean sighs. "As long as you're here, I don't really care if you're a vampire or not."

Seth smiles, laughs softly. "It's that obvious, huh?"

"I saw your eyes. And the weird ass teeth gave it away," says Dean. "You smell like dirt."

"I'd use your shower, but I don't think that would help," says Seth with a half-hearted shrug, "Can't wash away half a year's worth of dirt."

Dean shakes his head. "Shut up and get in the shower."