You unlock the front door and immediately smell something that isn’t your usual burnt toast or reheated leftovers. Something smoky. Savory. Your heart skips. You already know what that means. You push the door open, and there it is, your personal domestic fantasy, in all its impossible glory: Dean Winchester. In your kitchen. Tank top loose around the shoulders, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, tanned arms on full display. One is holding your toddler on his hip, who is currently chewing on a carrot like it’s a cigar and jabbering about dinosaurs. The other hand? Spatula. In motion. “Hey, sweetheart,” Dean says over his shoulder without looking, like this is just his life now. “Dinner’s almost done. She helped.”

“I tasted three chicken,” the toddler corrects, holding 4 fingers up. “I’m a chef, Mommy.” You blink. You forgot how to talk. Your body is actively trying to reboot. Dean turns then, flashing you that grin, the one that always gets you, even when he doesn’t mean it to. A bit smug. A bit playful. All heart.

“Something like that kid.” Dean says with a snort. “You okay?” he asks you, setting the spatula down and bouncing the kid on his arm. “You’re starin’ like I just summoned a demon.”

“You’re wearing a tank top,” you say, dumbly. “And cooking. And parenting. At the same time.”

He smirks, walking over to plant a kiss on your cheek. “Multitasking, baby. Turns out, I’m good at it when the apocalypse ain’t breathing down my neck.” You glance around. The house is clean. Toys put away, dishes done, laundry folded in neat stacks on the couch. There’s a juice box on the counter with a tiny bite taken out of the straw. Your child is in one of Dean’s old band shirts tied into a makeshift dress and covered in flour.

“Did you-?” You gesture vaguely to the entire house. “All of this?”

Dean shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Had time while she napped.” You blink again.

“You know you don’t have to do all this, right? I told you, just watching her is-”

“I want to,” he interrupts, softer now. His thumb strokes the little one’s back unconsciously as he speaks. “I want this. The noise, the mess, the dumb cartoons. Hell, even the damn sing-along songs that get stuck in my head.” You see it in his face, the peace. The belonging. He’s not doing this to fill time. He’s doing this because it fills him. Dean Winchester, hunter of monsters, is finally home. In a tank top. Smelling like barbecue. And looking like he was put on this earth to kiss juice-stained cheeks and fix squeaky cabinet doors.

Your kid tugs his beard with sticky fingers. “I want more chicken dada.” You freeze. Dean stiffens too, eyes flicking to yours: uncertain, waiting for a cue, like maybe he’s gone too far. But your chest’s too full to speak. All you can do is step forward and wrap your arms around both of them: your little chaos gremlin, and the man who stepped out of a nightmare and into a home.

“You’re gonna ruin other men for me,” you mutter into his shoulder.

Dean grins, pulling you tighter. “Good.”