It had started as something easy. Dean would roll into town for a hunt somewhere in your state, maybe crash on your couch—or in your bed if you both felt like forgetting the world for a night. He’d bring greasy takeout, a cocky smirk, and a couple of stories about “weird crap” that you stopped asking too many questions about.

It wasn’t love—not exactly. But it was something steady in a life that wasn’t.

Over the years, the visits became a rhythm. You never asked when he was coming; you just learned to recognize the rumble of the Impala pulling up outside. You’d open the door and there he’d be—green eyes tired, duffel slung over his shoulder, that half-grin that made your chest ache.

Then… nothing.

Three years passed without a word. No late-night calls, no knocks at the door. You figured he’d gotten caught up in whatever dangerous, impossible life he lived—until you heard rumors about meteors, angels, and disasters that sounded straight out of Revelations. You told yourself you were better off not knowing.

The knock came on a rainy afternoon.

When you opened the door, Dean stood there, hair a little longer, eyes sharper but heavier. His leather jacket dripped water onto your porch. For a long moment, he just looked at you, like he was memorizing your face all over again.

“Hey,” he said finally, voice rough.

“Dean,” you breathed, equal parts relief and hurt twisting in your chest.

“I was in the area,” he said with a shrug, like that explained years of silence. But before you could answer, a small voice piped up from behind you.

“Mom, who is it?”

Dean’s eyes flicked past you, narrowing slightly as a little boy toddled into view. He was three, with messy hair and a small hand clutching the edge of your jeans. Dean’s gaze lingered—long enough to notice the boy’s green eyes. His green eyes.

Your heart stuttered.

“This is…?” Dean started, his voice dropping.

You swallowed hard. “My son.”

Something unreadable passed over his face—shock, guilt, maybe even hope. “How old?”

“Three,” you said, watching the math click behind his eyes.

Dean took a step inside without waiting, crouching down so he was eye-level with the boy. He didn’t touch him—just studied him, that guarded expression softening almost against his will.

“Hey, buddy,” he said quietly, the usual bravado stripped away.

Your son stared at him for a second before giving a shy, crooked smile. The same crooked smile Dean gave you after his first terrible pickup line all those years ago.

When Dean looked back up at you, there was no smirk, no jokes—just a man who’d faced every kind of monster and still wasn’t sure he could handle this.

And yet, you could see it in his eyes—he wanted to try.