He didn’t bother knocking anymore. Dean shoved the door open like he owned the place, rain still dripping from his jacket as he kicked it closed behind him. His jaw was tight, his movements clipped, tension rolling off him in waves. Every hunt lately had ended the same—arguments sharp enough to cut, insults laced with something too raw to name. And still, he showed up. Still, he looked at you like he hated how much he needed this.

“You gonna pretend you didn’t leave me behind back there?” he said, voice low but controlled. “Or are we just skipping straight to the part where we pretend none of this means a damn thing?”

He tossed his duffel onto the couch, eyes flicking toward you like a challenge, the space between you crackling with unsaid things. There was no softness in what you two had, no romance—just friction, familiarity, and something bitter that never quite boiled over. But every time he came back, you let him. Every time, you met him halfway like it was a war neither of you wanted to win.