#oh hi dere. ily. so freakin much!

[bloodsalted]

@cursedhunting || inbox awesomeness || i luff this!

❛ you were dead. yet, here you are. ❜ said more to herself as she attempts to wrap her mind around him standing in the room with her. the silver knife still held tightly in her knuckle white grasp. disbelief, apprehension, grief all flash across her features. maybe she's going crazy. maybe she's hallucinating. (or maybe all the phone calls from sam, bobby and jo were about this. she'd stopped talking to the youngest winchester after he told her what happened to dean. hell, anyone who knew them were avoided like the plague these past two months) her heart is hammering in her chest and she can't hear anything beyond the blood rushing in her ears.

the past two months felt like blur of one hunt melting into another. of too much alcohol and a string of nameless women in her bed. all to get over the pain of his loss. all to stop herself from recalling their last conversation. all to move on. all to punish herself. ❛ you were dead. ❜ she says again. this time her voice cracks as she turns her back to him, unable to meet his gaze or even look at him lest she break down.

standing in a room with her, dean doesn't recall the footsteps that lead him to her door. nor the drive to where he knew he'd find her. only that there was a pull in him since he'd crawled out of the grave to come and find her. see her. let her know he was on this side of breathing. even if it meant that it'd throw them into chaos. even if losing him was the best thing that happened to her for her own good. even if the second he was face to face with her, he knew what whatever happened to her after this point? was all his fault. the older winchester couldn't stop the tug. the internal tether that damn near brings him to his knees every time he tries to fight it.

green eyes--apprehensive and darker in their hues--flick his stare across her face. full of disbelief. she's staring at him like he was a ghost. her voice, a balm to a soul that doesn't deserve the comfort. why? because listen to the fear in it. the worry. the knowing that he shouldn't be here. that the ground should never have let him out. hands come up to his sides, showing no weapons (not that he doesn't have any on him--but his palms are empty) and that he is offering himself up to her will. her comfort. (comfort. that's a fucking joke. all things considered.) "i was..but..i'm.. i'm not. it's me. here. and i'm not some monster. i swear to god," his voice buckles. features going softer as eyes widen. begging her to listen.

"we tried to find you.. sam. me. when you didn't answer.. i thought the worst. so i came lookin'... i'm sorry, nat. i'm so damn sorry."