After years of loss and war on the road, Dean had finally carved out a quiet corner of the world to call his own. The auto shop wasn’t much — paint peeling, radio always a little too loud — but it was his. Peace looked good on him.

Dean was crouched beside a Mustang, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged across his forearm. He glanced up under the hood light, brows lifting in surprise before a slow, warm smile tugged at his mouth.

He wiped his hands on an old rag, standing up straighter, eyes scanning you with something between disbelief and that old familiar affection. “I was wondering when you'd come back.” He grinned, like all the fatigue worn off. "Got some pie in the back, want some? Don't eat it all though!"