The soft light of morning filtered through the sheer curtains, dancing across the rumpled sheets and casting golden halos over Camille's bare shoulders. She stirred gently against Dean, her breath warm against his chest, fingers curled lightly over his heart. For a moment, there was peace. Quiet. A world where time had slowed down for just the two of them.
But Dean was awake—had been for a while—his eyes fixed on the ceiling, mind far from the warmth beside him.
She shifted, kissing his chest before propping herself on one elbow.
"You're thinking again," she said softly. "Dreams?"
He nodded, but barely. "Just weird ones."
Camille didn't press, even though the tightness in his jaw told her he wasn't being entirely honest. She had learned when to ask and when to let him breathe. Still, it hurt—because she knew him. And something about these dreams had shifted in him.
They packed in silence, the buzz of a quiet goodbye humming in the background as they folded their clothes and zipped up their suitcases. Camille tried to lighten the mood.
"I can't wait to see Dante again," she said, glancing over. "He looked different at the wedding. Happier. Like he was finally letting go of whatever kept him away all those years."
Dean paused mid-fold, his fingers tightening on a sleeve. "Yeah," he said eventually. "It's good to have him back."
But the image from his dream slipped in again—Dante, walking into shadows, unreachable. A voice echoing in his head: "What's returned can still be taken."
He shook it off.
The road home stretched beneath them, soft rain beginning to patter against the windshield. Camille sat with one leg tucked beneath her, watching the gray clouds roll by outside.
"I missed this," she said after a while. "Us. Just… driving together. Being together."
Dean reached over and linked their fingers. "Me too."
But she could feel the tension in his grip.
"You're sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine, Cami."
But he wasn't.
In his dreams lately, things were different. The voices weren't distant anymore. They were vivid. Sharp. They meant something now. The last one had been the clearest of them all—an ultimatum, almost.
"What has been given… can still be taken."
The car pulled into the driveway just as the rain eased into a soft drizzle. Light spilled from the windows of the house, and laughter—Dante's laughter—floated into the air, warm and real.
Camille stepped out first, pulling her coat tighter as she ran to the front door. Dean followed, slower, eyes on the house but mind still tangled in warnings.
Dante opened the door, arms wide. "Look who finally came home."
Camille wrapped him in a hug. "We missed you."
Dean stepped forward. Dante grinned and pulled him in with a rough one-armed hug. "Still can't believe you got married before me."
Dean chuckled. "Miracles happen."
For a moment, things felt… right. Like the family had never fractured. Like time had healed everything.
But that night, long after dinner and laughter and stories had faded into the quiet of a sleeping house, Dean stood in the hallway, alone.
A photograph hung on the wall. One from when they were kids—him, Dante, and their parents at the beach. He reached out, fingers brushing the glass.
And in the reflection, he saw something.
Not himself.
Not Dante.
Someone else.
A face he couldn't place—but knew somehow.
And then the voice came again, just as real as the picture in front of him:
"You've had your second chance. But everything has a cost."