The world came back in pieces.
First, the smell—burnt ozone, charred meat, and the sharp sting of magical residue clinging to the air like smoke after a Fourth of July disaster. Then came the sounds—Lena's panicked breathing, the distant groan of twisted metal, and Dean's unmistakable whistle, which usually followed something going very right… or very, very wrong.
Then the pain. Oh boy.
I groaned as I blinked up at a sky that looked way too peaceful for the hell we'd just crawled out of.
"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty," Dean said, crouched beside me, a busted-up shotgun resting across his shoulder like a baseball bat. His grin was a mix of relief and mischief. "You missed the finale."
I tried to sit up. My arms felt like they'd been put through a woodchipper. Twice. "Did… did we win?"
Dean gestured broadly to the blackened field behind him, where the remnants of the last blood god on Earth had been vaporized into ash. "You tell me, Frodo."
Lena was there in a second, easing me up against her. Her palms were warm against my bare skin, and I suddenly realized my shirt was gone, scorched off during the fight. "Take it easy. Your regeneration's in overdrive."
I glanced at her, my voice hoarse. "You okay?"
She nodded, tears brimming but refusing to fall. "I am now."
Sam tossed me a water bottle, the label half-melted. "You took the brunt of that last blast. We didn't think you were getting up."
I took a swig, then winced as the cold water hit the raw spot where my right eye used to be. "Regenerated fine. Vision's back. Still not worth getting blood-whipped in the face by a demonic frog, though."
Bobby's heavy boots thudded closer. I braced myself. Maybe, just maybe, he'd say something touching.
Whack!
"OW! What the hell, old man?!"
"That's for turnin' my junkyard into a war zone," he growled, then muttered, "...And for not dyin', I guess."
Dean faked a gasp. "Bobby Singer, was that... dare I say... a moment of affection?"
Bobby flipped him off without breaking stride, but I caught the faintest glimmer of pride in his eyes.
We packed up what we could salvage. Kharon's destruction had scorched half the yard, taken out a handful of classic Chevys, and left magical residue crackling in the air like static. But the bastard was dead. Permanently. No more reincarnating, body-hopping, cryptic prophecy-making, or eye-gouging.
That alone made the aching in my ribs worth it.
The drive back to Sioux Falls was surreal. Classic rock from Dean's Impala stereo filled the silence—Boston, maybe? I was too fried to tell. Lena dozed with her head on my shoulder, her new, borrowed heart thudding steady beneath my palm. Sam rode shotgun, scrolling through notes on his laptop while Dean cracked bad jokes no one laughed at. Not because they weren't funny—just… the kind of funny that hits after a war, when your body's still coming down from fight-or-die mode.
When we finally pulled into Bobby's driveway, it felt like coming home from a decade-long deployment.
The house looked the same as ever—slightly tilted, cluttered porch, reeking faintly of gun oil, whiskey, and musty books. I almost got emotional.
Almost.
I collapsed onto the threadbare couch, groaning like an old man. Every inch of my body screamed, but my healing factor was patching me up bit by bit. Broken ribs were already fusing. Burned skin was flaking off like bad sunburn. The eye socket still twinged, but the worst had passed.
Dean rummaged through Bobby's fridge like a raccoon in a dumpster. "Alright, post-apocalypse feast rules—if it ain't nailed down or moldy enough to walk away, it's dinner."
Sam slapped his hand away from a leftover pecan pie. "That's for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow is breakfast," Dean argued.
"Then wait until tomorrow!"
Lena settled beside me on the couch, running her fingers lightly over the new scar trailing across my ribs. It tingled faintly under her touch. "You scared me back there."
I caught her hand, pressing it to my chest. "You think I wasn't scared? That bastard turned into mist, goo, and shrapnel in less than sixty seconds. I had no idea if I was actually hurting him or just pissing him off."
"You were," she said, quietly.
I looked at her, studying her face under the soft lamp light. There were lines there—worry, fear, hope. She'd been through too much. Hell, we all had.
She leaned in, whispering near my ear. "My room. In ten."
Dean chose that moment to toss an empty beer can across the room. "Hey! No sex in the war room!"
"Then stay outta her room," I called back.
Bobby, from the hallway, barked, "Dean, inventory. Now. Before I mount your head on a pike like a damn Winchester trophy."
Ten minutes later, the spare room creaked under our weight.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It was raw—two damaged people grasping for something alive to hold onto in the aftermath of hell. When we finally collapsed into the sheets, a tangle of limbs and sweat and healing bruises, she pressed her hand over my chest again.
"You never told me how you got this scar," she murmured, tracing the jagged line over my heart.
I smirked. "Oh, you know. Got stabbed by a Frankenstein monster with a bone sword. Tuesday stuff."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're the worst at deflecting."
"I'm the best at surviving," I whispered.
She kissed me like she didn't care about the scars, or the monsters, or the secrets I'd buried in the pit of my soul.
Because if she ever found out what I really was… that this wasn't my first life, or even my first death... it would all come crashing down.
The next morning, I sat on Bobby's porch with a steaming mug of coffee—black, three sugars, the only correct answer. The sun rose over the charred remnants of the yard, casting a golden glow across twisted metal and scorched earth.
Sam joined me with his own mug, blowing on it absently. "So… what now?"
I shrugged, watching a crow land on the hood of a melted pickup. "Same as always. Hunt monsters. Save people. Maybe find a lake and drink beer without something crawling out of it."
Sam chuckled. "You really think we'll get downtime?"
"Hope springs eternal."
Dean stumbled out, hair a mess, shirtless and still half-asleep. "Who the hell drank all the good coffee?"
"Lena," I said, pointing behind me.
She emerged from the hallway in one of my shirts, barefoot, her hair a glorious mess. She took the mug out of my hand with a smirk. "Thanks, babe."
Dean made a gagging noise. "I'm gonna puke."
Bobby's voice echoed from inside: "If you lovebirds are done makin' everyone sick, we got a demon sighting up in Bismarck!"
I stood, stretching my still-sore limbs as Lena passed me my jacket.
The air felt different. Lighter. Cleaner.
Maybe that was what victory tasted like.
Maybe it was just the lack of blood gods threatening to hollow out my chest cavity.
Either way, I was ready for whatever came next.
Let the monsters come.
I was still standing.
And I was just getting started.