The warm glow of the kitchen light cast a soft golden hue over the space, flickering slightly as the ceiling fan hummed. The scent of dinner still lingered—garlic, rosemary, and the faint trace of wine on the air. The house felt fuller now, lived-in, no longer just walls and furniture but a home. Their home.

Dean sat at the edge of the counter, rolling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, watching her. Barefoot, swaying, lost in the music as she idly rearranged the dishes in the sink. The soft melody of My Girl drifted through the speakers, blending seamlessly with the quiet clinking of porcelain.

She wasn’t dancing for him, not really. Just moving with the song, her hips swaying gently, arms lifting every so often as if catching some invisible breeze. He smiled, slow and easy, warmth settling deep in his chest. Damn, he loved her. Loved the way she made this house feel like something permanent, something worth coming back to.

Taking a slow sip of his wine, he let his head tip back against the cabinets, boots tapping lightly against the hardwood floor in time with the song. The whole night had been good—the laughter, the stories, Sam rolling his eyes at one of Dean’s exaggerated hunts, Cas making some awkward yet oddly profound comment, her family fitting in like they’d always been there. But this? This moment, just the two of them, was better.

His voice was low, rough around the edges when he finally spoke.

“You keep doin’ that, sweetheart, and I’m gonna start thinkin’ this song was written just for me.”