You didn't talk to Sam Winchester since the passing of his brother, not even Bobby who worried for you more than anything, after the funeral. You didn't speak to anyone, period.
You didn't quit the business, though.
You targeted all sorts of demons in the dark months that followed Dean Winchester's death, exorcism after exorcism, sending them back to hell. You cried your heart out every night. You drank vodka from the bottle in the confinement of whatever hotel room you'd holed yourself up in for the night and at one point, sick of all the men hitting on you, you used a fake credit card to buy an engagement ring to ward them off.
In your opinion, friend-zoned men were worse than possessed men.
And it was on a Wednesday almost four months after Dean had been put underground and chained in the depths of hell when you woke at one in the morning sweating from a horrifying real nightmare.
The sky was hot, so large and the yellow sun bore into the sparse growth of the desert scene, the grasses hot to touch. You stood away as of watching from a distance the setting unfold like an intricate origami piece and you kept still.
You somehow knew you were waiting for something.
And all at once, slowly at the same time, you heard a cry, a yell, and saw the dirt before the small cross dug into the ground shake. Something was coming out. The grave was opening. You watching in silenced horror as a hand burst through from the earth, followed by another. And a head.
The head of Dean Winchester.
He didn't look like he had died months before; he looked new. He looked absolutely new. His green eyes were alight with fright and you wanted to comfort him and rush to him and ask what was happening - this was a damnably good nightmare, compared to all those you'd survived through in the months previous - but you couldn't. Your feet were glued to the burning heat of the open area.
You watched as he hauled himself from the earth, and brushing off the dirt that had congealed to his taut skin, you saw the fear in them.
He knew he had been dead.
"_______?" You heard him ask, incredulous, "this is too good to be a dream."
You had seen Dean rise from the grave you had tossed dirt onto. Gasping for breath, face red, unsure of what was happening.
No. Dean was dead. Just another night terror to be overlooked. But before you could convince yourself anymore, you threw yourself into a freezing shower and packing your things into the car.