The night was cold. The kind of cold that crept in through the cracks of the old cabin, wrapping itself around Dean like guilt. He stood at the doorway, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and looked back one last time. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering fire in the hearth and the soft glow of the moon slipping through the window. Outside, the Impala’s engine ticked impatiently, but Dean didn’t move.

She lay curled on the couch, a blanket pulled tight around her, their newborn resting against her chest. Just three days old. Three days of peace. Three days where the world didn’t need saving, where monsters stayed under the bed instead of clawing at the door.

But then Sammy called.

Dean’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He hated the timing. Hated the job. Hated the weight in his chest that grew heavier with every second he wasn’t holding his son.

The baby stirred, let out a soft sound, and Dean’s heart cracked clean through. He swallowed, hard, his throat burning. He wanted to stay—God, he needed to—but his life had never belonged to himself. It belonged to the hunt, to saving Sam, to the blood-stained road that never let him go.

He stepped closer, quiet so he wouldn’t wake them. He knelt, letting his fingers ghost over the baby’s tiny hand. So small. So warm. So perfect. He could smell her shampoo, the faint scent of baby powder, the crackling wood in the fireplace. It felt like home. Like everything he’d never had and never thought he’d get.

His voice came low, gravel-thick with emotion, as if saying it aloud might make it more real.

"I swear I'll come back. No matter what it takes."