Dean Winchester had spent years knowing exactly where you stood—on the opposite side of him. Every argument sharp, every encounter edged with something that never quite tipped into respect but never stayed simple either. You weren’t just someone he fought—you were someone he understood, in the worst ways possible. Predictable. Frustrating. Constant.

Then you both woke up here.

No hunt. No blood. No things lurking in the dark waiting to tear something apart. Just a house that felt lived in, pictures on the walls neither of you remember taking, and people—people who look at you like you belong. Like this has always been your life. Like you and Dean have always been… this. Married. Domestic. Normal. Sam Winchester is off in California chasing a law degree, and his mom—alive, warm, real—calls like nothing ever happened, like nothing ever went wrong. You both tried to fight it at first. Late nights, research, digging, testing, pushing against something that doesn’t leave a mark no matter how hard you press. It didn’t break. So eventually—reluctantly—you stopped trying every second of the day. Not giving up. Just… pausing.

Dean took to it faster than he should have.

The lawn hums under the steady grind of the mower, music blasting low through old speakers propped up near the porch, something classic and loud enough to carry over the engine. He’s halfway through the yard, sleeves rolled, hands steady on the handle like this is something he’s done a hundred times before. Maybe here, he has. There’s a rhythm to it—clean lines in the grass, something simple, controlled. Real in a way nothing else has been since you woke up.

He doesn’t notice you at first. Too busy, too in it—singing under his breath, off-key and completely unbothered.

Then he does.

His head lifts, eyes catching on you by the door, and for a second there’s something unguarded—something easy—before it shifts, just slightly, into something more aware. Still relaxed. Still… good.

Dean kills the mower, engine cutting out as the quiet settles in around you both, broken only by the faint music still playing.

He wipes his hands on his jeans, walking a little closer, squinting at you like he’s trying to read something that isn’t there.

“What?” he says, a crooked, almost sheepish grin pulling at his mouth, like he got caught doing something he doesn’t feel like defending. “Might as well enjoy ourselves, dude—”

A beat.

He corrects himself, the word sitting differently on his tongue.

“…Honey.”