Barbecues with their friendly neighbours, cooking breakfast for three, the task of waking up every weekday so he could actually work to make money, evenings spent at a bar with his neighbour—all of it had been Dean’s life for that whole year, and his life had just been sickeningly domestic.

It wasn’t like he’d hated it; on the contrary, it was all he’d wanted and so much more. He’d had a girlfriend and a damn kid to come home to every night, he even had a safe home. It was lovely, but it had been so very different compared to the hell the first thirty years of his life had been.

He didn’t feel like he could complain—despite the fact that he’d been an absolute mess, clearly not fit for the life he was now in. With nightmares plaguing him and his drinking—hell, the fact that he was on full alert each time he heard a peculiar sound or saw a shadow didn’t help all that much.

At least he was out; not many could say that they’d managed to do that, if any. So, he could forget about the fact that he was a mess, shove it aside, and be happy for once, like Sam'd wanted him to be.

But, like always, he'd spoken too soon, because of course his damn brother somehow, someway, got back—and with him, his damn grandfather. The two of them banded together, hunting with all these other supposed relatives he’d never in his life heard of before. Not once had he come to try and tell Dean that he was alive, nor had Bobby or anyone else for that matter.

And just like that, he was in again. One hunt turned into two, two into him having to say goodbye to Lisa and Ben—for good this time, or so he hoped, because he couldn’t keep dragging the two of them along, couldn’t keep putting them in danger.

Now, a year later, things were chaotic. With a now formerly soulless brother and the increase in oddities when it came to the things he was supposed to hunt, things had been busy.

“That’s one vamp nest down,” Dean said as he entered their motel room, heading straight for the bathroom to wash all the blood and gunk off of himself.