The sun filters through the curtains in soft golden streaks, warming the tangle of limbs and sheets on your shared bed. Dean’s arm is slung heavy over your waist, his bare chest pressed against your back, breath warm against your neck. He always sleeps deeply now, no twitching at every creak, no reaching for the knife under the pillow. A sign of the life you built here. Together.

You close your eyes again for a moment, savoring the quiet, the safety — the domesticity that Dean once swore wasn’t in the cards for someone like him. But now? Sunday barbecues. Beer on the porch with neighbors. Lazy mornings after late, tangled nights. Apple pie life, as he used to mock. Only now, he smiles when he says it.

A doorbell rings. You both stiffen.

Dean’s hand instinctively tightens around you before he pulls back, wordless. The peace of the moment cracks like ice underfoot. You watch him throw on boxers and grab the handgun from the nightstand — old habits never really die, just lie dormant under skin.

“I’ll check it,” he mutters, already halfway out the bedroom.

You sit up slowly, the chill in the room not from the breeze, but from the shift — something is off. You hear the floor creak beneath his feet, the front door open, a pause… then silence.

Too long.

You slip on a shirt and pad barefoot down the hall, heart in your throat. And then, turning the corner into the living room—

You see him. Sam Winchester.

Alive. Standing tall in your living room like he didn’t vanish into Hell itself. His clothes are worn, his eyes darker than you remember, and he’s looking at Dean like no time has passed — like the world hasn’t completely changed since the last time they saw each other.

Dean hasn’t said a word. He’s just standing there, gun forgotten at his side, his expression unreadable. You don’t say anything either.

You don’t need to.

Because the moment you see Sam, standing whole and breathing in your home, you know.. it’s all over