Home.
Dean can go home, at last. He can go back to the good life that the unplanned trip to Purgatory tore him away from. Back to his love.
It's still a long way to go, from wherever the hell they actually are right now, but at least they are out. They made it. They're on earth, all three of them: Dean, the gentle buzz of Benny under his skin, and Cas, right before him, his hand lingering on Dean's.
The surrounding looks eerily familiar, only this forest is thicker, and maybe he'd get fooled, maybe he'd get the terror growing in his chest, that they're still stuck down under, that they'll never be allowed to leave, if it wasn't for the silver glint of the moon peeking through the twined branches above him.
But before Dean can say anything, take in a long, deep breath of the good, fresh air of the Earth and let it all out in a long, joyful laugh, a pained gasp tears out of Cas's throat, his fingers dig into his dirty hair.
"What? What's wrong?"
Dean reaches to him in alert, as if his touch could help; grabbing the fabric of his coat in case the portal decided to reopen and swallow him back.
But Cas shakes his head. "Missed calls," he says. "Plenty of them."
Well, at least one of them will be up to date with all the crap they missed out on. Dean's phone has long smashed and gone in the depths of the other forest. He's gonna have to find the nearest payphone stat, call his family, call Sam.
"What are they saying?"
"I'm sorry, Dean"—Cas looks up at him, his palm drops on Dean's shoulder—"I have to go."
"Go? Wh—"
The world spins in that familiar way Dean hates, and his feet hit hard against wood where, just a second ago, was only damp soil. And Cas is no longer there when Dean turns around in search of him.
"Dammit, Cas."
Dean's on a pristine white porch of a suburban house; unknown street, unknown town. Unknown car sitting in the driveway. But there must be a reason Cas dropped him here of all places, otherwise he could have left him in that wilderness as well.
He looks for clues in the flowers sitting on the windowsills, in the gardening tools stuffed in the corner, in the old magazines left on the swing. Not until his eyes catch a glimpse of a worn-out baseball glove, does his heart begin to flutter.
He doesn't think much as he bounces back to the door, rings the bell.
Maybe he should have waited 'til morning. The lights are out in all the windows—they might be sleeping, they probably are. It could be the middle of the night for all Dean knows. Though some neighbors' houses have still got their rooms alight with the blue coming off their TV screens.
He dares to ring again when no sounds come from the inside. Maybe they're not home. Maybe not anymore. Maybe Cas's GPS got broken or confused.
He's gonna need to find a place to wait it out, a motel would be good. No, not a motel—he hasn't got a penny to his soul. He's not too sleepy, so there's that; having survived on stolen minutes here and there for so long, he got used to the new kind of sleeplessness. But he looks like crap, covered head to toe in blood and grime, weeks' worth of beard covering his face—he's probably seconds away from having police patrol called on him if anyone notices him in a neighborhood like this.
He turns his back to the door, looks to each side of the road, internally eenie-meenie-mining the shortest way out, when the porch lamp shines above his head and a voice comes from the inside.
"Who's there?"
A voice he knows well.
He can't help a smile blooming on his lips as he turns back to the door, presenting his dirty, obscured face to the peephole.
His hands are shaking.
"It's me, Dean." He clears his throat, pretending his voice didn't crack. "Dean Winchester."
Silence.
Silence.
Then the lock turns and the door opens.
And she's there, her warm robe thrown over her nightgown, hair mussed with sleep. She hasn't changed since the day he left her to be the hero, to go and save the world, again. Only this time, there's disbelief replacing the worry in her eyes.
"D—dean, it's really—?"
"Hi, Lis," he lets out, softly.
She's here, right in front of him.
He missed her so much.
"Oh, God, you're back!"
She closes the distance, throws her arms around his neck before he can protest 'cause he's so freakin' stinky and gross and really needs a shower and disinfection before anyone should touch him.
But it feels so good in her embrace, her body warm, pressed tight against him, quivering—from excitement, or maybe just from cold. He buries his nose in her hair, the smell of her shampoo is nearly divine after months of nothing but foul stench of death.
He never wants to let her go. But he does and she slips out of his hold.
Only then does the defensive instinct he spent three years trying to instill in her kick in and she steps back, hides behind the threshold. Her muscles tense, her hand finds the doorknob.
She doesn't have holy water at hand, doesn't have borax. She's no hunter, after all. She wasn't supposed to need those once he was out of her life. And she doesn't have the resolve either. She just wants him to be Dean, just as much as Dean wants to be home.
"A little late, but you got there," he teases, keeping his voice down, keeping his frame as small and as non-threatening as possible.
"Sam said you were gone for good," she says and it's like a slap to the face. He doesn't know what to think, what to feel. Sam must have wanted to spare them false hopes as he searched for him. "I didn't want to believe him."
"Good. I was just...stuck in a nasty place." He waves down at his clothes, at the stains they left on her robe. "Literally."
"Purgatory." It's not a question.
Dean nods.
She motions for him to come in, despite all his lessons. The overprotective hunter part of him wants to reprimand her for it.
"Just a warning," she says, as if reading his mind, "if you're not Dean and you kill me, Dean will hunt you down when he's back."
It's a little morbid, but Dean can't hold back a laugh, this time.
"That's my girl."
She flicks the lightswitch as he enters the small, neat corridor. There are the jackets hanging on the left, a line of pictures on the right. He doesn't look at those. It's been a year. A whole year. It's only now getting to him.
"Ben sleeping?"
"At a friend's house."
He nods. He can't wait to see the kid again. He's missed out on so many of his games, his successes and failures. He can only hope Ben didn't grow taller than him in those last twelve months.
Then the silence falls between Dean and Lisa, just a little bit awkward as they soak each other up.
"You must be hungry!" Lisa says, at last. "Come on, I'll make you something."
"I am but I should probably first—"
"Get cleaned, of course."
She grabs him by the wrist and leads him to one of the doors and he's doing his best not to leave ugly stains on the floor. Behind the door, there's a brightly lit bathroom, spacious, with a bathtub sitting by the wall instead of a shower. This will do.
"Strip, I'll go get you some clothes," she says and leaves him alone before he can stop her.
As ordered, he begins to take his clothes off. His shoes, his pants, his ruined, favorite jacket. But his mind's somewhere else—with her—wondering whether she's got his clothes all sorted in the drawers, taking up unnecessary space. Whether she packed them up before moving and took all this time to unpack them here. Or if they're sitting still in those boxes, somewhere, in the attic, in the garage.
Or if they'll be his clothes at all. Not just any men's clothes that are around his size.
He should have asked.
He can't help a pang of jealousy at the imagined man around her. Though he doesn't get the right to be jealous. He's been gone for a year. It's a damn long time.
He wouldn't blame her for moving on.
Maybe that's why—the new house, the new town, the new car. Maybe she wanted to move on, start anew. Start safe, at last. It'd be good for her. After all, it's not healthy to hold on to lost causes for too long.
But now he's here. And he barged in like he belonged here. With his face marred by the blood of dozens, with the call for that uninhibited wilderness somewhere behind his eyes.
"Everything okay?"
Lisa catches him, still half-dressed, staring into the mirror as if he's just seen his own reflection for the very first time. What the hell is wrong with him?
"Yeah, I was just, um"—he drags his palm along his bushy beard for the lack of a better excuse—"thinking about, uh—"
"The ZZ Top?" she offers.
"Yeah." He purses his lips and doesn't miss the opportunity. "You know, it's grown on me."
She lets out a chuckle before trying to play cool, shaking her head at the pun, faux-annoyed, while the smile doesn't fall from her lips. It never does. And that never fails to make Dean's heart melt. She's the only one who laughs at his terrible jokes.
She's the only one.
"Enjoy it while you can, 'cause it's going along with all these," she points to the dirty pile he left on the floor.
She's got a trash bag with her that she breaks out as soon as she lays the clean clothes on the counter.
"Leave it, Lisa. You should go back to sleep, I'm sure you've gotta work early. I got this."
Even as he says it, he knows he doesn't got this. He knows how to pack the rags, wash himself and shave. But the thought of losing sight of her again, even if it's just for those few night hours—it shouldn't feel this hard.
"It's fine, I don't start 'til noon, tomorrow," she answers, simply, then hurries him with, "Chop-chop."
He doesn't try to protest again and obediently reaches to the buttons of his shirt, while Lisa, with a dose of reverence, inspects the sad remains of his jacket.
"What a shame. You loved this jacket."
She hesitates before putting it in the bag, as if there was a way to save it. But even if they somehow managed to clean off all the stains, there were still rips and lacerations that couldn't be mended.
"It served me well."
Still, it was only leather, not armor, and it couldn't withstand the claws, the teeth, the sharp-edged blades. Neither could his own skin. He probably scored more scar tissue on this year-long vacation than in his entire life post hell.
It shouldn't be making him this shy, this hesitant to peel off his layers, to show Lisa more of what Purgatory did to him. Maybe she shouldn't have to watch it. At least, not until the freshest of wounds properly scab and heal.
But then, Lisa's patched too many of his wounds for a little torn skin to scare her away.
However—he looks at his arm—this? This might actually scare her. How could he forget?
"Um, Lisa?" he starts, with most of his shirt hanging loose, to the floor, but for the sleeve still wrapped around his forearm. "Don't freak out, okay?"
As if saying 'don't freak out' ever did anything other than the exact opposite.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, it's just—it's this thing, uh, this glowing—"
"Glowing?" She raises an eyebrow.
Oh well, here he goes.
"I'm smuggling a friend's soul out of Purgatory in my arm."
Lisa's eyes dart from his face to his forearm and back to him, but her expression is blank, as if she hasn't processed his words yet.
Still, she doesn't doubt his judgement. Doesn't ask if it's safe, if he should be doing this and what kind of monster he, the hunter, is bringing to this world. She trusts him. Trusts that he knows what he's doing.
"Okay," she decides, at last, and nods to let him know he's good to proceed.
He pulls the sleeve off his forearm, revealing the shifting, orange light just underneath his skin, looking exactly like it did in Purgatory.
"Well, it is glowing." She lifts her palm, then lets it hover awkwardly, inches from his hand, before changing her mind and dropping it. "Does it hurt?"
"Not really. Just uncomfortable. I'm gonna have to go to Louisiana as soon as I can, to bring him back."
"Alright. We'll go," she promises. "Now, hop into the tub."
He doesn't miss how his 'I' turned into 'we' in her mouth.
And he missed that. He missed being a part of a 'we'. Even though he had Benny, after he's learned he can always, always count on him, even when he found Cas—nothing could compare to what Lisa and he worked out in those three years together, to that unconditional support through good and through bad. To feeling like a whole and like so much more, at once, when he was with her. To knowing that, even when they fought, when it counted, she wouldn't let a petty grudge stop her from listening to his heartaches and his needs, even the kind he's had to hide deep throughout all of his life.
"I promise I know how to shower by myself," he says, as she grabs the showerhead and turns the tap on.
But really, he doesn't want her to go. So he lets her pour warm water over him, as he sits in the tub, his knees pulled to his chest. It's like a balm on his aching skin, on his muscles that didn't get to relax since the moment he opened his eyes in the middle of the monsterland.
She slips out of her robe and sits down behind him, on the edge of the tub, picks a bottle from the shelf. Dean recognizes the smell right away, the sweet fragrance of honey he could never forget; the same that'd cocoon him every night they lay in their bed, Lisa's body pressed close to his, her arms around him. The same he'd miss in the musky stink of motel rooms, the absence that would keep him up 'til late night hours.
Oh, how she spoiled him.
Now, she's spoiling him even more, with her slow, thorough hands rubbing circles into his neck, his shoulders, washing the dirt off, washing off the tension, too. Even his bones seem to sigh in relief under her touch.
She's so gentle as she moves down his spine, mindful of each bruise and each fresh cut. Though he can't see her and she dares not make a sound, her careful caress betrays her concern. Her fingers stumble on the paled lines of scar tissue that mar his back, they brush along the brand new patterns she'll have to learn by heart all over again.
There's a question on her lips, he knows, that she's fighting not to ask. Maybe afraid of the answer. Maybe just not wanting to ruin the moment.
"It wasn't so bad," Dean says to ease her worry.
"Right."
"No, really. I mean, it wasn't great, but"—I've been through worse—"they were just monsters. And killing monsters is what I'm great at."
It might not seem like it from where she's sitting, 'cause yeah, it could get overwhelming at times. But he did good and she knows that he did. Still, when he darts his head to look at her, he's met with concern wrinkling her brow.
He hates seeing it now. Even more, he hates knowing the worry's been there, days and nights, when he was missing. All this time that she could only sit around, helpless, wondering if she'd ever see him again, if he was even alive. Purgatory sucked, but he didn't envy Lisa this year on Earth.
And he won't stand another second being the one who puts that worry on her face.
"Babe," he begins softly, but a playful smile sneaks back on his lips. "Do the thing more, it felt so good."
Lisa snorts and throws him the bottle of the shower cream. "I'm not doing everything for you!"
It works. And he keeps making it work, just to hear her laughter. That he's always been good at, too; deflecting with humor instead of dealing. But this isn't the same, is it? There's nothing to deal with, here. He's home. He's with Lisa.
And he's never leaving her again. Not to go missing in his world-saving action. Not for a hunt, if he can help it. He's tired. He's done. He's more than deserved to have this, to have a home. To have Lisa by his side, loving him more than he ever thought he could be loved. And to be there for her, too, when she needs him.
Going on like this, half-here, half-across the country, isn't fair to either of them, never was. Even though she was the one who proposed it and said it's okay, he doesn't have to choose, Dean always knew how much it cost her. Saying goodbye to him, never knowing if it's the last time, waiting by the phone 'til late night hours.
And it took its toll on him, too. Though he wouldn't let himself lose focus on what was in front of him, this kind of split never let him feel like it was for real—his life with Lisa and Ben, the comfortable bed instead of poking springs in shoddy motel rooms, the long ride home between hunts. It could only ever feel so temporary, like a dream that would have to end, eventually.
It worked, but it didn't work well. Maybe he needed that stolen year, stuck in a war zone, so far from home, to realize that.
Or maybe it's only the cross-realm jet lag speaking and he'll change his mind by morning. Maybe he'll hop back into his car because it's true what they say about habits. He'll find his brother as he always does and will get swept off to another hunt. And another and another, 'til this fairytale's done for and he's proper dead. As it's always been the plan.
Maybe it's only for tonight that he can listen to Lisa talk about the most mundane things he's missed out on, and dream of never missing her again.
So he doesn't say a word about it. He can't give away promises he can't keep.
When they're done cleaning his body, Dean pulls out the plug and watches the water's edge descent, the dirt circling into the drain. Lisa changes her place, sits on the side of the tub, the shower in her hand. She tilts his head back not to pour water into his eyes as she wets his hair, combs out most of the muck with her fingers.
She trades the shower cream for a shampoo. It's a different smell, like mint and ice, and she lathers it in her palms before rubbing it into his outgrown hair.
She starts at the top of his head, her fingertips digging into his scalp in rhythmical motion and Dean can't help obnoxious, pleasured moans, as she moves down to her temples, then slowly to the back. Inch by inch, she massages his head oh-so-good before moving down to his beard.
If only this could never end.
But then it does, it's over, all too soon.
"Close your eyes," she says as she moves to wash the shampoo out of his hair.
At the regrettable last, she sprays water all over him, to get rid of the foam. As soon as the tap's shut, goosebumps rise where the air clings to Dean's wet skin and he misses Lisa's loving touch already. It's silly, he knows, she's right there, she's not going anywhere, not now.
It's needy, too, disgustingly so.
But he can't help himself. He's insatiable. He's craved touch—her touch—for so long.
For all those cold, lonely nights in Purgatory when setting up fire was too much of a risk, for its bright glow would only lead the bloodthirsty monsters straight into his little camp. And it was a risk he'd still take, sometimes, just to get some warmth. Just to get a semblance of humanity in a place where letting someone—something—close enough to touch him, meant death; everything he had in his hand's reach, he slain.
Every minute that he managed to close his eyes, when it wasn't the monsters, the leviathan, or Hell, plaguing his dreams, it was Lisa's face he saw. And when he woke up, back in the heavy grasp of that lonesome place, when he had to get up and fight another day—those days were the hardest to march on through, the hardest to believe he would ever get out of there, get to see her smile, for real, get to touch her, get to hold her and be held.
"I got you," Lisa says, under her breath, as she wraps a big, fluffy towel around him. She throws a smaller one over his head, and rubs it energetically to dry his hair off. With a gentle swipe of her fingers, she brushes the hair back, away from his eyes, then climbs to her toes to land a peck on his lips. "I got you."
If it was anyone else, his cheeks would be burning red. He'd be pushing away their pampering hands, their care. But not Lisa's. With her, even in vulnerability, there's comfort. It's comfort he latches on to, like to a soft pillow when the alarm clock goes off.
"Get dressed and I'll go make you something to eat," Lisa says, moving towards the door, though casting him looks over her shoulder.
"No, wait." He stops her before he can think it through, or make up an excuse for when she turns to him.
"Do you need anything else?"
"No, it's just, uh—" He sinks fingers into his beard. "What about this?"
Or maybe he will never get truly vulnerable, not even with her. Not enough to admit he just can't let her go, yet. There's something surreal about here and now, in this bathroom, the two of them. If this ends, if she's out of his sight, again, won't everything inadvertently change?
Who can promise him that, when the door closes behind her, or when he enters the warm kitchen light, he won't wake up back in that warzone and this will all have been just another achingly perfect dream? If this is all he gets, he wants to make it last, if just for a little longer.
"Don't you want to eat first?" The worry again, as if she knew. There was no hunger down there, at least not the physiological kind. But as soon as he got back to Earth, his stomach reminded him there's been nothing in it for twelve months. "The beard can wait 'til morning."
So yes, of course he's hungry. Of course, the beard can wait, washed and clean, 'til morning. He's got two good hands, he can deal with it himself, too; he should. It's the middle of the night and he's keeping Lisa awake for nothing.
How selfish does he get to be?
"Let's get it over with?" he tries with an innocent smile.
Lisa shrugs. "Okay."
Does she know? Can she read him so easily, read through the mess that place made of him? Could she feel the same about this night, about this weird, little ritual of theirs, in the middle of the night?
'Cause she's back, right by him, right away. Her body's in his space, her chest pressed against his. She looks up, her palm cupping his face, inspecting the wet, widely bush covering it.
It's not all business. It's not 'let's get it over with.' Could she have craved his touch just as he's craved hers? Could she have missed his lips on her lips? His hands on her body?
Her thumb brushes along his lower lip, her eyebrow's cocked, inviting. And he responds without hesitation.
There's not much distance left between them, and he closes it, slowly, though he aches for the warmth of her lips. And when he's finally there, he can't get enough of it. Of her lips against his lips, of her teasing tongue, of her hands caressing his neck.
"There's one problem though," Lisa murmurs, as she breaks the kiss. "I've no idea where your trimmer is, so we're going razor. And you'll look like a baby."
Dean scoffs, offended, as Lisa laughs. "I'm very manly. Five o'clock or not," he says. "I'll show you."
He lifts her up, effortlessly, sits her on top of the counter. His hips fit just right between her knees when he leans to kiss her, deep, passionate. His palms bite into the soft skin of her thighs, they slide up, slipping under the hem of her night gown.
"I believe you, I believe you!" Lisa squeals as Dean lays fervent kisses on her neck, his beard tickling her skin. But as he moves lower, down the cleavage of her gown, instead of pulling him in, her hands press on his shoulders. "Hold on."
Dean stops and, though loathe to, pulls away. "What is it?"
"Just had this thought, your friend"—she casts her eyes at the glow of Benny on Dean's forearm—"can't he perceive us, or something?"
"Huh." The idea never occurred to Dean, though maybe it should have. He watches the soul swirling softly beneath his skin, focuses on the tension he's gotten used to enough to forget about it. "Actually, I don't know." Dean sure hopes he can't. Or else, he's gonna have to resurrect Benny without ever looking him in the eye.
"Well, then, just in case, let's try not to make things too awkward."
Dean lets out a flustered chuckle as his face twists in a grimace. "We might already have," he says, tipping his head to the bathtub.
"He'll live," Lisa says with a shrug.
Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing faster and she looks so hot in her short nightgown all crumpled, wet and dirty. It takes effort not to show his disappointment, but Lisa's right, as she usually is. They need to hold back for a day or two, until they get Benny out of Dean's forearm and into his own body. Dean's waited for so long, a few more days won't make much difference.
"The top drawer," Lisa says, running her fingers through Dean's beard.
Dean reaches for the drawer, digs out a pair of scissors and a safety razor from a package, while Lisa shifts to the edge of the counter and adjusts her position. Her fingertips slowly drag up along his throat, push his chin up. She holds a tuft of his beard and chops it off without ceremony, keep moving in quick, unhesitant motions.
"Tell it what you really think," Dean mutters, slightly afraid to move his jaw.
Lisa smiles. "Now I can't wait to see your face."
Dean's standing patiently, watching the tip of her tongue slip out as her eyes focus on her work, while she's taking her time and making sure everything's short enough to come off nicely. At last, content, she sets down the scissors and grabs the soap from the sink. She lathers it in her palms, letting out a gentle scent of aloe vera into the air. She puts it on his chin and rubs it ionto his cheeks and neck with circular motions.
Then she breaks out a fresh safety razor.
"Hold steady," she warns, putting her left palm under his chin to keep his head still and steer it as she sees fit.
Dean's got no idea what barbering practice Lisa's got, but what's a cut or two more to his current collection? He trusts her, fully, would trust her with a straight razor to his throat, with a blade to his heart.
She's taking long passes, pulling the razor along his cheeks, neck, chin. There's no sharp sting of pain, only her touch, the warmth of her breath on his skin.
Of course, Lisa could never hurt him.
For a while, the only sounds filling the bathroom is the scraping of the razor and trickling of water when Lisa cleans the blades. And then it's done and Lisa inspects her work closely before putting the safety razor away.
"Here you are," she says, caressing his cheek. The gaze of her eyes more loving than Dean could ever deserve.
"Here I am," Dean says, covering her palm with his own.
He only tears his eyes off her for a moment, to wash the rest of the soap off his face. When he glances into a mirror, he can finally recognize himself. Though he looks more tired than usually, his hair too long, his face too smooth—at least the bruises and scabbed cuts seem familiar.
"Huh, I do look like a baby," he mutters, rubbing his palm over his cheeks.
He turns to Lisa, sends her the biggest, dumbest smile, but the smile falls when he sees her face, the heavy tears streaming down her face.
"What's wrong, honey?" he asks, cradling her face.
He wipes the tears away with his thumbs, but more come, though she's trying so hard to hold them back. She takes a moment, trying to calm down.
"I just missed you so much," Lisa says, shaking her head. "I knew, deep down, you'd come back but—it's been so long I—"
She wipes the tears with the back of her palm and smiles through her tears, looking a little ashamed, as if she was being ridiculous. But she's not, of course she's not. All this time, from the moment she opened the door, Dean's been on the verge of tears himself.
"I know," he says, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone. "I'm so sorry. I wanted to come back to you so badly."
She believed, of course she did. She believed even when he didn't think he'd ever get out of there. She's been around the Winchesters long enough to know they tend to come back kicking.
"It's okay, you're here now," she says. She takes a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. But after a beat, adds, "You are here, right?"
So it's not just him.
"I'm here," Dean says, softly. "And I'm pretty sure this is real." He purses his lips and cocks his head. "Like, 85 percent sure."
Lisa lets out a small chuckle at that but the look in her eyes is solemn, as she cups his cheek.
"When I was walking down with the clothes for you," she begins, quietly, a little hesitant, maybe afraid of what Dean would think, "all I could think of was that I'll walk into an empty bathroom, that it's impossible you're there. That I must have dreamed you."
Hearing Lisa say these words, telling him her fears, the same fears Dean's been holding in, feels like a relief. It frees something in his chest, in his throat, and he can finally admit it too.
"And you don't wanna leave the bathroom again because you might wake up."
Lisa nods. She understands what he's saying. That he's not just talking about her anymore. "I dreamed of this so many times, of seeing you on the street, of Sam calling that he found you. Or just waking up with you next to me, in our bed."
"That dream was my favorite," Dean says with a soft smile.
He can't wait for it to come true. He can't wait to wake up by her side, and to fall asleep there. Not tonight. Not yet. Not with his head still in the warzone. Tonight he'll take the couch, or the floor, probably—that'll feel a little more right.
But soon.
And 'til then, in every waking hour, he never wants to lose her out of his sight.
"I'm so glad to be home. With you." Because he's here, and he's got no better way to show her. He pulls closer, his lips brushing hers. "I love you so much, Lis."
He kisses her slowly, deeply, devout, his fingers playing with her hair, her touch on his jaw, his neck. He's solid and she's solid, both here and Dean's not ever letting this bubble burst. Even as his empty stomach turns, a loud, embarrassing growl tearing into the silence.
Lisa bursts out laughing against Dean's mouth.
"Get dressed," she orders, pushing him away and hopping off the counter. "I'll make you a burger."
"A burger?" Dean echoes, his mouth watering at the very thought. "And you didn't start with that?"
He slips into his own washed out t-shirt and his old sweatpants. Lisa changes too, swaps the wet and dirty nightgown for a soft pajamas. And just like that, they're ready to leave.
Lisa takes him by the hand, fingers interlocked. She doesn't hesitate when she opens the door but she doesn't take her eyes off Dean as she steps backwards, leading him out, into the dark corridor, into the warm light of the kitchen. And Dean doesn't take his eyes off her.
But it's not a dream, Dean doesn't wake up back in Purgatory. He's here.
Dean's here.
He's home.