AN: Here's the next instalment, hope you enjoy!
Taking place 4 months after the previous chapter, like in the show x
Dean Winchester woke with a gasp.
It was the first real breath he had taken in forty years.
His lungs burned, his throat raw, like he had been screaming for a lifetime. His body felt wrong—heavy, stiff, aching in ways he didn't recognise. His ears rang with an eerie, hollow silence.
And then, suddenly—panic.
He couldn't move.
The air was tight, thick. His fingers twitched against something cold—wood. His breathing came short and fast, chest rising and falling in rapid bursts as his brain tried to process what was happening.
No. No, no, no, no—
He shoved upward.
The lid didn't budge. The pressure in his chest tightened.
He pushed harder, hands pressing against the smooth surface, shoving with everything he had—
Crack.
A sliver of light.
Dirt rained down into his mouth, into his eyes, and Dean realised with horrifying clarity that he wasn't just in a box.
He was buried.
His pulse roared in his ears, panic surging like a wildfire as he clawed at the broken wood, fingers splintering as he forced the coffin lid apart. The weight of the earth pressed down on him, suffocating, unrelenting—
He scrambled. Pulled. Dragged himself upward, hands digging desperately through the dirt, through the roots, through the grave.
Then—
Air.
Dean's hand broke through the surface, fingers trembling, the night sky above blindingly bright as he hauled himself out of the ground.
He collapsed onto his back, gasping like a drowning man, lungs heaving. Dirt clung to his skin, to his clothes—clothes that should have been rotted away—but they were still there, torn and filthy.
He was shaking.
His body hurt.
His mind was spinning.
What the hell—
A high-pitched ringing filled his ears, a pressure that made his skull feel like it was about to split open. His hands pressed against them instinctively, trying to drown out the sound, but it was inside him—deep, vibrating through his bones.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Then, as suddenly as it came, it stopped.
Silence.
Dean's breathing slowed. He forced his eyes open, staring up at the sky—cloudless, blue, impossibly normal.
Where the hell am I?
He sat up, groaning as pain flared through his muscles. His fingers were scraped raw, caked in dirt and blood. He could taste the earth on his tongue, feel it in his teeth.
His grave was a gaping wound in the middle of an open field, an old wooden cross marking its place.
His cross.
Dean pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. The world around him was quiet.
Too quiet. No wind. No birds.
Just… silence.
He turned in a slow circle, his gaze sweeping over the abandoned landscape—no roads, no buildings, nothing but emptiness.
His chest tightened.
What the hell happened?
He stumbled forward, legs stiff, body still adjusting to being alive. He had no idea where he was, no clue how long he had been gone.
But something had pulled him out.
And whatever it was…
It sure as hell wasn't natural.
Dean wandered.
His steps were slow at first, unsteady. His boots felt wrong—like they weren't really his, like his body wasn't his. He flexed his fingers as he walked, watching the way his hands trembled, dirt still clinging under his nails.
He felt disconnected. Like a puppet moving on strings that weren't his own.
The world around him stretched out silent and empty, an eerie stillness pressing against him like a vice. There were no cars, no voices, no distant hum of life. Just the sound of his own ragged breathing and the crunch of dry earth beneath his feet.
His mind reeled.
He had died.
Dean remembered the pain, the searing, gut-wrenching agony of the hellhound tearing through him. He remembered Sam's face, horror-stricken, covered in his blood. He remembered the weightlessness that came just before the dark—before everything had blinked out of existence.
And then—
Hell.
He shuddered.
The memories weren't clear, but he could feel them. The way you feel a nightmare when you first wake up—fleeting, but lingering just enough to twist in your gut.
Dean knew he had been there.
He didn't know for how long. Didn't know how much time had passed up here.
Did Sam know what was going on?
Did Bobby? Ali?
Dean swallowed hard. His pulse quickened at the thought of them—of what they must have gone through.
Sam must've tried to bring me back.
He could see it, clear as day—Sam kneeling at a crossroad, shouting himself hoarse, demanding a deal. He could picture Bobby, slamming books shut, drinking himself into oblivion, refusing to give up.
And Ali—
Dean exhaled sharply, the image of her making his chest feel tight.
He didn't know what she would have done. But he knew her. She wouldn't have stopped looking. Wouldn't have just moved on.
And yet—
Where were they?
Why wasn't Sam here, waiting? Why wasn't Bobby scowling at him, calling him an idjit? Why wasn't Ali there, her voice full of sharp-edged concern, where the hell have you been?
Instead, there was nothing.
Dean's heart pounded.
Something wasn't right.
A sharp pain bloomed in his palm, and he realised he was clenching his fist too hard. His nails dug into his skin, grounding him just enough to focus.
Find a phone. Find Sam. Find Bobby. Find Ali.
That was the only plan he had.
That was all that mattered.
Dean set his jaw and kept walking, forcing his body forward, each step bringing him closer to answers. Closer to home.
Dean pulled up to Singer Salvage in the stolen truck, the tires kicking up dust as he eased to a stop. The place looked exactly the same—junked cars stacked like broken memories, the house standing solid against the horizon. But something felt off.
Maybe it was just him. Maybe it was just the fact that everything else had changed.
Dean stepped out, gravel crunching under his boots. His pulse thrummed. He hadn't even knocked before the door swung open, and Bobby was there—shotgun raised, barrel aimed right at Dean's chest.
Dean froze.
Bobby's face was unreadable, but his eyes held something raw, something dangerous.
"Hey, Bobby," Dean greeted carefully, lifting his hands. "It's me."
Bobby cocked the shotgun.
"The hell it is."
Dean sighed. Should've figured this wouldn't be easy.
"You wanna lower that thing before you send me straight back to hell?"
Bobby's grip didn't waver. "Dean Winchester's dead."
"Yeah, well… not anymore."
"Don't play games with me, boy. I buried you." Bobby's voice was tight, lined with something deeper than suspicion. Something like grief. "Whatever you are, you ain't him."
Dean felt something cold settle in his gut. It was one thing to know he had died. Another thing to hear it out loud.
"Bobby, I swear—"
"Silver first." Bobby reached into his belt, pulled a small knife, and tossed it at Dean's feet. Dean huffed but didn't hesitate. He crouched down, picked it up, and dragged the blade across his forearm. A thin line of blood beaded up. He winced at the sting but held his arm up, letting Bobby see.
"Not a shifter," Dean muttered.
Bobby narrowed his eyes. Then, with no warning, he flicked his wrist and splashed holy water right into Dean's face.
Dean spluttered, jerking back. "Son of a bitch."
Bobby watched. Waited.
Nothing happened.
No burning. No smoke. No screaming.
Just Dean standing there, dripping, glaring.
"I'm not a demon either."
Bobby's fingers flexed against the shotgun. He had seen too many things in his lifetime—things that looked human but weren't. His eyes flickered over Dean's face, scanning for anything out of place.
Dean held still, letting him look. Letting him see.
Finally, Bobby exhaled sharply and lowered the gun.
"Damn," Bobby muttered under his breath. He reached out suddenly and gripped Dean's shoulder, his fingers digging in hard, like he was making sure Dean wouldn't disappear. Dean just let him.
"You're really here," Bobby whispered.
"Yeah," Dean said. "Guess I am."
A beat of silence stretched between them. Then, Bobby decked him.
Dean barely had time to react before pain exploded in his jaw, sending him stumbling back. He swore, bringing a hand to his face. "What the hell?!"
Bobby shook his head, eyes misted with something Dean didn't wanna name.
"That's for making me go through burying your sorry ass," Bobby muttered.
Dean blinked at him, then sighed. "Yeah, alright. Fair."
Bobby exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "C'mon inside, boy. We got things to talk about."
The house smelled the same—old books, coffee, and the faint scent of oil and metal. Dean sat at the kitchen table while Bobby grabbed a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured one and slid it to Dean, who took it without hesitation.
"So." Bobby leaned back in his chair. "You gonna tell me how the hell you're sitting here?"
Dean shook his head. "Wish I knew. One minute I'm in the ground, the next I'm clawing my way out of it." He took a sip of whiskey, letting it burn down his throat. "Didn't see a bright light. Didn't hear no angel choir. Just bam—awake."
Bobby frowned but didn't push it. "So you came here first."
"Yeah. Figured if anyone could tell me what the hell happened, it'd be you."
Bobby snorted. "Hate to break it to you, kid, but I got nothin'."
Dean exhaled through his nose, running a hand down his face. "Figures."
A beat of silence.
Then—
"Where's Sam?"
Something shifted in Bobby's face.
Dean caught it immediately. His grip on the glass tightened. "Where the hell is he, Bobby?"
Bobby sighed. "Sam took off. Didn't stick around long after we—after we lost you."
Dean frowned. "What do you mean, 'didn't stick around'?"
"I mean he packed up and left. Wouldn't listen to a damn thing I said. Hell-bent on leaving, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop him."
Dean felt something cold twist in his chest. Sam wouldn't have just left. Not without a reason.
His mind raced. If Sam was gone—then what about—
"And Ali?"
Bobby's mouth pressed into a tight line, and a deeper grief flickered across his expression. "Went with him."
Dean's stomach dropped.
"She just left?" He couldn't stop the disbelief from creeping into his voice.
Bobby's expression softened, but only slightly. "She didn't wanna let him go alone."
Dean inhaled sharply, remembering the last real conversation he'd had with Ali—the way she had found him drinking that night, the way he had asked her to keep an eye on Sam.
Dean ran a hand through his hair. "I might've had something to do with that."
Bobby's gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"
Dean exhaled. "Before I… y'know… I made her promise. Asked her to look out for Sam when I was gone."
Bobby scoffed, shaking his head. "Well, looks like she took that promise to heart."
Dean was silent for a moment. Then he looked at Bobby. "Do you know where they are?"
Bobby scratched his beard. "Not exactly. But I can find 'em."
Dean nodded, gripping the edge of the table.
"Do it."
The motel hallway smelled like stale beer and cheap cleaning supplies. Dean shifted on his feet, glancing at Bobby before knocking again, harder this time.
A few seconds passed, and then the door cracked open.
A girl stood in the doorway. It wasn't Ali.
Dean blinked, frowning as he looked down at the unfamiliar woman standing in front of him. She was pretty, dark-haired, wearing an oversized T-shirt that wasn't hers.
"Uh…" Dean's frown deepened. "Think we got the wrong room."
But then, behind her, movement.
Sam stepped into view.
Dean's stomach twisted.
His eyes flicked over Sam, taking him in. He looked different. A little leaner, maybe. More worn down. His eyes were sharp, but something in them looked darker.
Dean's stomach twisted.
"Dude, you look like crap."
For a second, Sam just stared. His whole body tensed, his eyes wide with something between shock and disbelief. His mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to say something, but no words came out.
Dean's chest ached at the sight.
Sam stepped forward, his stance threatening like he might attack.
Bobby cleared his throat beside him. "He's real, kid."
That was all it took.
The breath whooshed out of Sam, and suddenly, he was moving.
Dean barely had time to react before Sam's arms were around him, holding on tight, his grip desperate, like he was afraid Dean would disappear if he let go.
Dean clenched his jaw and patted his back. "Easy there, Sasquatch, you're gonna crack my ribs."
Sam let out something between a laugh and a choked breath, pulling back just enough to look at him. "You're really here?"
Dean nodded once, forcing a smirk. "Yeah, man. Told you Hell couldn't keep me."
Sam swallowed hard, something flickering in his eyes, but he nodded.
Behind them, the girl cleared her throat.
Sam blinked, suddenly remembering she was there. He glanced at her. "Uh—"
"I guess I'll head off," she said quickly, grabbing her bag from a chair.
Dean watched as she left without another word.
When the door shut, he turned back to Sam. "So," he said, crossing his arms. "You gonna tell me what the hell's been going on, or do I gotta guess?"
Sam exhaled. "I—I don't know, man. I don't know how you're here. I tried—I tried to get you back, I swear, but no one would deal." His voice was tight, edged with frustration.
"You sure about that?" Dean asked evenly, raising a brow at him. Sam's expression turned defensive.
"Yeah, Dean. I tried…" he trailed off, like the memories of the struggle were too much to bear.
Dean studied him carefully, weighing his next words. "Ali here?"
Something flickered across Sam's face.
Guilt.
Dean's stomach dropped.
Sam hesitated. His gaze flickered to the floor. He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling slowly, then shook his head.
Bobby scowled. "Then where the hell is she?" His voice was rough, like he was holding himself back from doing something stupid.
Dean shot Bobby a look, silently telling him to cool it. He turned back to Sam. "Do you know where she is?"
Sam let out a slow breath, glancing at his watch. "This time on a Thursday?" His lips pressed into a thin line. "Yeah. I know where she is."
Dean narrowed his eyes.
Sam grabbed a motel notepad from the table, scribbling something down. When he finished, he tore off the page and handed it to Dean.
Dean looked at the address.
Then back at Sam.
"Dude," he muttered, exhaling sharply.
Sam just held his gaze, saying nothing.
Dean clenched his jaw and shook his head. "I'll go get her." He stuffed the paper into his pocket and took his keys from the table. "Coming?"
Sam hesitated, glancing at Bobby before clearing his throat. "No, uh…" He rubbed a hand over his jaw. "You should go alone."
Dean studied him, waiting for an explanation.
Sam didn't give one.
Dean huffed, shaking his head again. "Fine. Be back soon."
Then he turned and headed out the door.
The young woman stalked through the crowded bar, her black dress hugging her figure dangerously. Her hair was dark and straight, lips a cherry red. She was the epitome of confidence and class, though to the trained eye, it was all an illusion.
She took a seat towards the middle of the bar, the stool either side of her unoccupied. She knew it wouldn't take long before they were filled.
The air in the bar was thick with smoke and cheap cologne, the scent of desperation clinging to the men who prowled the floor like wolves. The young woman sat poised, one leg crossed over the other, her fingers lazily tracing the rim of her glass. She didn't have to wait long.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
She turned her head slightly, the movement slow, deliberate. The man standing beside her was just like all the others—overconfident, eager. His suit was expensive, but his smile was cheap.
She let her lips curl at the corners. "You already are, aren't you?"
He grinned at that, pleased. Waved down the bartender with a flick of his wrist. "Another for the lady. And one for me."
The drinks arrived quickly, and she picked hers up delicately, bringing it to her lips without ever breaking eye contact.
"So, what's a woman like you doing in a place like this?" he asked, leaning in slightly.
She chuckled, the sound smooth as silk. "You sure you wanna use that line?"
His smirk widened. "Worked well enough, didn't it?"
She tilted her head, watching him over the rim of her glass. "I suppose it did."
They flirted like that for a while—back and forth, a game of push and pull. She laughed at his jokes, leaned in just enough to keep him hooked. Let him think he was winning her over. Let him want her.
He placed a hand on her thigh. She didn't move it away. Instead, she leaned in closer, her fingers brushing against his chest as she dragged them down slowly.
"You're trouble, aren't you?" he murmured.
Her lips curved. "You have no idea."
As she leaned in further, she let her fingers dip lower, slipping into his jacket pocket with practiced ease. She felt the cool metal of his keys, the smooth leather of his wallet. A small shift of her wrist, and both were in her grasp. She slipped them into her own pocket without so much as a flicker of hesitation.
She drained the last of her drink, setting the glass down with a quiet clink.
"I'll be right back," she murmured, sliding off the stool.
He smirked. "Don't keep me waiting too long."
She didn't plan to.
She made her way toward the restroom, her stride slow, measured. Once inside, she walked past the stalls and straight to the window. With practiced efficiency, she unlatched it, pushed it open, and climbed out into the night.
By the time he realized she was gone, she'd be halfway down the road—his car, his cash, and whatever illusion he'd had of control left behind in the dust.
She walked through the night, stilettos clicking against the sidewalk. She opened up the wallet she had lifted from the man's jacket and pulled out the cash she found before discarding the rest into the road.
Four months ago she would have felt guilty for it, but now all she felt was the numb coldness of the night biting her skin under the black leather jacket.
Once she made it to the man's car she used the keys to unlock it, smiling to herself when the lights flashed and she could pull the door open. She shoved her bag onto the passenger seat and shut the door again, leaning against it and pulling out a pack of cigarettes, lighting up and taking a long drug, blowing out the smoke between her lips.
"Those'll kill you, you know."
The voice came from her left and she froze. The sound was deep and gritty. It was a sound she hadn't heard in over four months but she would never forget it. It twisted inside of her, pulling somewhere so deep within that she had to squeeze her eyes shut and swallow it down.
She turned around.
Her vision blurred for a moment as she looked at him, adrenaline and disbelief leaking through her skin and into her veins.
"Dean," she whispered. The name felt foreign on her lips and she choked it out rather than speaking it. The man before her was the splitting image of a man she had once known. He had been her best friend, her confident, her family. But he had been brutally ripped away from her, leaving nothing but a path of destruction in the wake of his death. He was gone, yet he was now standing metres from her.
"Hey Ali," he whispered back. She stared at him for a moment, taking in his form. He hadn't changed a bit.
Before she knew what she was doing she had advanced forward, throwing herself from the side of the car to meet him. Her leather clad form slammed into his with all the force she could muster. She didn't mean to almost knock him down but she couldn't help it. Her arms clung tightly around his neck, a hand holding his head against her shoulder so she could keep him near, the same desperate way she had held his bloodied body four months ago. She could never let him go again.
"Are you real?" She managed to gasp out, her chin resting on his shoulder. His arms squeezed her to him. He was glad that even after all this time on her own, she was still happy to see him. Out of the three he had reunited with after his return from hell, she had been the only one not to hesitate before greeting him. In a way this scared him - it just showed how desperate and alone she had become over the past four months.
There was a long pause, where all Ali could hear was the wind, the distant hum of the city, and the faint thump of Dean's heart beating inside his chest.
"Yeah, Ali, It's me." She held him moment longer, her fingers gripping into his jacket. They felt numb against the fabric. She abruptly pulled back, looking into his eyes as she frowned at him.
"How did-," she started, beginning to shake her head. "Did Sam-?"
"No, no," Dean said, guessing her question. "We thought you might've."
Ali bit her lip. She knew that Sam had tried to make a deal with a crossroads demon, but none would. She herself had tried to find a way to bring Dean back, but after weeks of dead ends she had given up. She had feared perhaps too soon.
"Then how are you here?" she asked her returned friend. "How are you alive?"
"Beats me."
Ali just stared at him, searching his face for some kind of answer, something to prove that this was real and not some sick, cruel trick. But Dean was standing there, solid and alive, his green eyes watching her with an intensity that sent a shiver through her.
She shook her head, taking a step back, suddenly aware of how fast her heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking. "No. No, this doesn't just happen, Dean." Her voice was hoarse. "You died. I saw you—"
Her throat closed up before she could finish.
Dean's jaw tightened. "I know."
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Ali sucked in a breath and let it out in a shudder. The cold night air bit at her skin, but she barely felt it. Four months ago, she had stood over his body, covered in his blood, knowing she would never see him again. She had mourned him. She had broken for him.
And now he was here, standing in front of her like none of it had happened.
She turned away sharply, her fingers raking through her hair. She suddenly felt sick.
"Ali," Dean's voice was softer now, careful. "You okay?"
A hollow laugh escaped her lips, bitter and sharp. "Yeah, Dean, I'm fine" she breathed out, turning back to face him. "I was just starting to accept that you were gone—and now, what, you're just alive?" Her voice wavered, and she hated it. "You died. I lost you. And now you're just back?"
Dean exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know what to tell you, Ali. One minute, I was there, and the next—I wasn't." His expression darkened, like he was remembering something he wasn't ready to say out loud. "I clawed my way out of my own damn grave, and I don't know why."
Ali swallowed hard.
That was the thing. Dean didn't just come back. Not without a reason.
Something—someone—had done this.
And she wasn't sure if she wanted to know why.
She looked him over again, really looked at him this time. He was exactly as she remembered—same cocky stance, same worn leather jacket, same sharp green eyes. But there was something off, something dark lingering beneath the surface.
Her fingers twitched at her side. "So… what now?" she asked, voice quieter now.
Dean huffed. "That's what I'm trying to figure out."
She nodded slowly, folding her arms across her chest. Her mind was still racing, still struggling to process this impossible reality.
After a long beat, Dean cleared his throat. "Sam said you've been off on your own."
Ali tensed at the mention of Sam. She hadn't seen him in months. She had avoided seeing him. "Yeah," she said shortly.
Dean studied her carefully. "You could've stuck with him, you know."
Ali scoffed. "Oh yeah?" Her voice was laced with something bitter that she was sure Dean caught. She wanted to say more, but she stopped herself, shaking her head. "It was better this way."
Dean frowned, something unreadable passing over his face. "Ali, that's not - ." Dean stopped himself this time. Not because he didn't want to know. But because of the look on her face. The way her eyes subtly pleaded with him. A look that told him not to press the issue any further.
He'd honour her wish. For now.
Silence fell again, thick with everything they weren't saying.
Finally, Dean shifted, nodding toward her stolen car. "C'mon," he said. "We gotta talk. And I'd rather do it somewhere that's not a damn parking lot."
Ali hesitated.
She had spent months trying to outrun the past. Trying to bury everything that had broken her.
And now, standing in front of her, was the one person she had never been able to let go of.
She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. "Fine," she muttered.
Dean smirked, tossing his head toward the passenger seat. "Then let's hit the road."
Ali felt strange sitting in the passenger seat of a car that wasn't the Impala with Dean behind the wheel. She calculated it had been nearly three months since she had even seen it.
The two sat in silence, Dean having not turned the radio on which Ali thought odd. The silence was deafening. Choking. She needed the noise. She needed something. Finally, Dean cleared his throat, glancing at her briefly before speaking.
"So uh, what've you been up to the last four months?" Dean asked.
"This and that," Ali replied, pulling a cigarette out of her purse.
"Don't even think about it," Dean said sternly. Ali rolled her eyes as he glared at her but still tossed it back into her purse.
"What's with the tobacco chewin' anyways?" Dean asked. Ali shrugged.
"Traded in my rock salt," she replied smoothly.
"Oh yeah? Not hunting anymore?" he asked, a little surprised.
"Did a couple of jobs here and there," Ali replied. "Didn't feel the same without..." she trailed off, feeling like she didn't need to finish her sentence. He knew who without.
There was a beat of silence as they drove.
"Can I ask why you're not with Sam and Bob-?"
"What was it like?" Ali asked, cutting Dean off.
Dean heard Ali's question but didn't turn to face her. His fingers curled tighter around the wheel, knuckles whitening. He swallowed once, eyes locked on the road ahead. "You mean hell?" She didn't respond and Dean took that as a yes.
He shrugged stiffly, keeping his focus straight ahead.
"Honestly, I can't remember,' he replied.
Silence. He felt Ali's stare burning into him, and the car suddenly felt smaller. He rolled his shoulders, shifting in his seat, then reached up to rub his jaw.
Ali tried hard to believe that he was telling her the truth, but in the end, she realised she couldn't.
"Probably for the best," she replied anyway.
The two fell into a not uncomfortable silence, though Dean somehow found it too quiet. He sensed she did too. He wanted to know what she was thinking, just like he had been able to do before his trip to hell. He wondered how she could seem the same as before and completely different all at once. He wanted to make sure she was okay and not of all what her world and everyone else's had been like whilst he had been gone.
But Dean knew he couldn't have the answers to all these questions. Not on the first night back anyway.
Instead, he considered the girl-turned-woman before him.
"Your hair's different," he commented, trying to sound light-hearted. She twisted a lock of the now darker and straighter hair around her finger. Ali sighed before she spoke.
"Lots of things are different," she murmured.
Dean glanced at her again, noting the way she was staring out the window, fingers still absently twisting her hair. She wasn't just talking about her hair.
"Yeah," he muttered. "I'm starting to get that."
Ali didn't say anything. She just exhaled slowly, pressing her forehead against the window. The streetlights flickered across her face as they passed, casting fleeting shadows over her tired features.
Dean wanted to say something—needed to say something. But everything felt too damn heavy. He wasn't even sure what to ask first. Four months had passed for them, but for him? He didn't even want to think about it.
Maybe that was why it felt like he was looking at a stranger. She was still Ali, still the same sharp-witted, stubborn pain in the ass he'd known—but there was something different in the way she held herself. A weight that hadn't been there before.
She had changed.
They all had.
He tightened his grip on the wheel. "Sam knew where you were." It wasn't a question.
Ali's jaw tensed, her breath hitching just slightly before she masked it. "Yeah."
Dean waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't.
He sighed, shaking his head. "So, what? You guys keeping tabs on each other but not actually talking?"
Ali let out a dry, humourless chuckle. "Something like that."
Dean scoffed. "Well, that's just great."
Ali turned her head slightly, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. "What do you want me to say, Dean?"
"I don't know. Maybe start with why the hell you two aren't together."
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, like she was choosing her words carefully. Trying not to give too much away. "Because we couldn't be."
Dean frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Ali hesitated, her fingers tapping against her thigh. "Sam and I… we weren't dealing with things the same way."
Dean's stomach twisted at that. He already had a sinking feeling that Sam hadn't been handling things well—and now he knew Ali hadn't been, either.
Still, he pressed. "And?"
Ali turned her gaze back to the window, watching the road blur past. "And I couldn't be around him anymore."
Dean studied her for a moment, reading between the lines. Whatever had happened between her and Sam, it hadn't been easy. But that didn't mean this was right.
"You were supposed to stick together," he sighed out through gritted teeth, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "You promised me –." Ali huffed, cutting him off.
"Yeah well, a lot of promises were broken, Dean." The edge to her voice wasn't mad. It was hollow. Like something sacred had been broken.
Dean let out a slow breath through his nose, his fingers tightening around the wheel. He could feel the words between them, heavy and sharp, but he didn't know how to pick them up without bleeding. Dammit, Sammy.
He didn't like this. Didn't like how fractured everything felt. Sam had been off doing who the hell knows what. Ali had been on her own, stealing cars and picking pockets. And Bobby… well, Bobby had probably been drinking more than was healthy.
All because of him.
"Guess we all have different ways of coping," Dean muttered, glancing sideways at her.
Ali hummed in agreement. "Yeah. Guess so."
Her fingers twitched against her thigh before she reached for her purse again, pulling it open with a sharp tug. The cigarette pack was right there, and she almost had one between her fingers before she caught Dean's pointed look.
She sighed through her nose, shutting the purse with more force than necessary. "Don't look at me like that, Winchester."
Dean just raised a brow. "Didn't say a word."
Ali huffed, turning her gaze back to the window, her fingers drumming restlessly against her leg.
Silence settled between them again, but this time, it didn't feel quite as suffocating. Maybe because, for the first time in four months, neither of them were alone anymore.
Dean reached for the radio, flicking it on.
The familiar sound of Zeppelin filled the car, and for a split second, Ali's lips twitched—almost a smile.
Almost.
Dean tapped his fingers against the wheel in time with the music. "For the record," he said, casting her a smirk, "I like the hair. Makes you look badass."
Ali huffed, shaking her head. "Shut up, Winchester."
Dean chuckled, rolling his shoulders as the tension in his chest loosened just a little. For the first time since crawling out of his grave, something inside him felt just a little less broken.
Still, he wasn't sure the feeling would last.
AN: So Dean is back from hell and things are very different to how he left them.
Next up: Sam and Ali reunite...
