Calloused hands adjusted the stiff cuffs on Dean’s dark uniform suit. It was polished, pressed. Everything he wasn’t. He could only wear flannel in the comfort of his home these days.

The Apocalypse had taken almost everything from the earth. Nowhere was it worse than in the former United Staes, where the Archangels decided to rebuild their paradise. Gilead, as it was known by the devout wackos. But Sammy, he fit right in. Joined an official church, earned a law degree, the works. He was smart enough to be a Commander, as he harped on Dean about daily prayer and the complexity of Biblical law. It took some pulling strings to get the older Winchester to the same level of sophistication. Nepotism was an ugly word for it.

His wife was an arrangement. A convenience. Nagged him frequently, followed too blindly, wore a blue dress that didn’t show off her God-made gifts. Not the type of chick he would’ve picked for himself, but she was alright. At least, for a life that fit him like the wrong pair of shoes. But he learned to hold his tongue in cabinet meetings, to recite blessed be the fruit.

He didn’t much care for fruit unless it was in a pie.

The rain was drumming gently against the roof like a pagan chant as the former hunter sat in his parlor. The sofa was comfortable enough, the coffee lukewarm since just before sunup. Dean’s fingers tapped impatiently against the upholstery. No more living in motels, he supposed, but in a creepy gentrified neighborhood across the road from his brother. The exterior of his grand house was the perfect blend of charming and plain, imposing enough to warn away strangers. It seemed to hold its breath in the silence—as if it, like him, were awaiting Aunt Ellen to bring a Handmaid into his care. A sharp knock on the front door breaks through the hushed quiet of dawn. No amount of “civilized” training can completely phase out the instinct to grab his trusty old sawed-off.

The Commander turns the handle.

And there, beside Ellen’s frumpy dress and bitter face, stands you.

You stand in the misty dawn light like a ghost, leaving his empty hand twitching for the salt. Head bowed. Identity forgotten. As if you didn’t know you’re a firebrand in that scarlet red dress. An opportunity to raise someone besides Sammy, to claim the domesticity he never dared imagine, all wrapped up in a little bonnet. Dean’s breath caught in his throat.

“There she is, Commander Winchester. As assigned,” Ellen’s impatient voice cuts through the moment as she gives you a light shove up the porch steps, and he gets a second to really look at you. The face under the bonnet stirs some protective feeling in his gut. He gulps.

Did he already introduce himself? He must have, because you’re silently gliding away. He feels you burned into his retinas. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to ravish you or protect you.