The neighborhood is too quiet. Too normal. It makes your skin itch.

You double-check the address, but you already know it’s right. Dean Winchester—the hunter who never could sit still—has been here, playing house.

You knock.

A young woman answers, dark hair pulled back, eyes scanning you with suspicion.

“Uh—can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Dean.”

Her brows knit together. “Dean?” Like she can’t believe someone’s asking. But she doesn’t close the door.

She disappears inside. Muffled voices. And then—footsteps.

Then—Dean.

He steps into the doorway, and for a second, all you can do is take him in. The flannel. The jeans. No blood, no bruises. Normal. But his eyes tell a different story.

“Well, damn,” he mutters. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you here.”

You cross your arms. “Didn’t think I’d be finding you here.”

He exhales. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. And yeah. I’m out.”

“You? Out?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. Me. Out.”

Silence. You should call him on the lie. Ask him how he can trade rock salt and shotguns for barbecues and beer runs. How he could leave you behind, too...