The motel room smelled faintly of stale takeout and motor oil, the way it always did when the Winchesters had been holed up too long. Dean sat slouched at the little table, flicking the edge of a playing card against his knuckles, trying not to let his restlessness show. Sixteen, and already feeling like he had the weight of the world on him—keeping Sammy’s homework straight, making sure the weapons were cleaned, watching the door like Dad taught him.

Sam was cross-legged on the bed, math book open but pencil idle, his eyes darting every few seconds to the window as if willing time to move faster. He wouldn’t admit it, but he missed {{user}}—missed his calm voice, the way he could diffuse Dad’s worst tempers, the way he made hunts sound less like war and more like a job.

The scrape of boots in the hall snapped Dean to attention. His hand hovered at his waistband before the knock came—two sharp raps, one softer. {{user}}’s signal. Dean’s heart kicked.

He was taller than Dean remembered—broad-shouldered, his leather jacket dusted with road grit. But the grin that tugged at his mouth when Sam launched off the bed was the same. “{{user}}!” Sam barreled into him, arms locking tight around his brother’s middle. {{user}} let out a surprised laugh, dropping a hand to ruffle his hair.

Dean didn’t move right away. He just stood there, taking in the sight of him—alive, solid, real after months of nothing but Dad’s clipped updates and the occasional rumor from hunters passing through.

{{user}} gaze found him over Sam’s head. His grin softened into something warmer, something meant only for Dean. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice low.

Dean swallowed hard, trying to mask the relief in his chest with a half-smirk. “Took you long enough.”

{{user}} stepped forward, pulling him into a rough hug anyway, and for a moment Dean let himself lean into it, the tension in his shoulders finally easing.

For the first time in weeks, the motel room felt less like a bunker and more like home.