The knock came just past midnight, heavy but not urgent. The cool night air slipped through the cracks of the front door as she pulled it open, revealing Dean Winchester—bruised, bloodied, and leaning a little too much on one leg. The porch light cast harsh shadows over his face, highlighting the dried streaks of blood along his temple, the torn sleeve sticking to his arm where something had left a jagged cut.

He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders momentarily loosening at the sight of her. The leather of his jacket creaked as he shifted, tilting his head, a half-smirk playing on his lips despite the exhaustion dragging at his features.

"Hey, sweetheart." His voice was rough, the edges worn down by hours on the road and whatever hell he'd just been through. "You got a minute? Need some of that world-class stitching."

His boots scuffed against the wooden floor as he stepped inside, the scent of blood, gunpowder, and motel soap trailing after him. The house was warm, the faint smell of coffee still lingering from hours ago, a stark contrast to the cold bite of the night outside.

He watched her move, the familiar ease of her presence making his breath come a little easier. She always had that effect on him—like the weight of the hunt didn’t sit as heavy on his chest when she was near. He let out a slow exhale, tipping his head back slightly before looking toward the dark hallway leading to the bedrooms.

"Your folks asleep?" His voice dropped a little, quieter now, like the walls themselves might listen in. His gaze flickered back to her, a hint of something unspoken in his eyes. "Or am I about to get the business end of a shotgun for showing up like this again?"