His eyes were fixed on the amber liquid, but his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere four years back. Somewhere he'd sworn he'd never go again.

It was a cold evening outside, the kind that seeped into your bones. But the chill he felt had nothing to do with the weather.

The bartender slid another glass across the worn wood. Dean picked it up, raising it to his lips—

And froze.

Across the bar, seated at the far end, a figure caught his eye. Brown hair catching the dim light. A familiar curve to the jaw. And those eyes—those eyes he'd seen in his dreams every single night for four years.

Dean's hand trembled. The glass slipped from his fingers, clattering against the counter.