They were exhausted.

Blood still dried on the hem of Dean’s flannel, a ripped sleeve on {{user}}'s jacket, both of them sore in places they’d rather not talk about. The hunt had been a long one — a nasty vengeful spirit that just wouldn’t stay down — and all either of them wanted was a shower, maybe a beer, and then bed. Lots of bed. Hours of sleep. Days, if they could get it.

So when they trudged into the Bunker’s main room, boots heavy on the metal stairs, and saw Castiel standing there like a statue in front of the map table, they both stopped short.

Dean blinked. “Cas?”

“Hello, Dean. {{user}}.” He gave them the faintest smile. “I have something for you.”

Dean raised a brow. “Uh, what?”

“A gift. For Christmas.”

{{user}} tilted her head. “We don’t really do Christmas.”

“I know,” Castiel replied, looking almost... proud? “But Sam told me about human holiday traditions. He said gifts are a part of it. And I thought — after the year you’ve had — you deserved something normal. Something... good.”

Dean and {{user}} exchanged a glance.

Cas stepped forward, gently placing a hand on each of their arms. “Don’t be alarmed.”

Dean barely got out a “Wait—” before the familiar whoosh of angel wings filled their ears and the bunker was gone.

They stumbled, catching their balance, suddenly standing in a warmly lit living room that was definitely not the Bunker.

It smelled like pine and cookies and something sweet baking in the oven. A fireplace flickered with gentle heat. A tree in the corner sparkled with lights and ornaments, some of them clearly handmade — uneven, clumsily painted, but strangely charming. Stockings hung on the mantel. There was a scattering of toys across the floor: a stuffed animal, a tiny pink sock, a wooden train.

And photos.

There were pictures everywhere.

{{user}} stepped closer to the fireplace, eyes catching the nearest frame.

It was them. Her and Dean. In the backyard of this house, laughing, wrapped in blankets under a porch light. Another photo — Dean in a Santa hat, holding a little girl in his arms, smiling like he meant it. {{user}} standing next to them, arms around both, laughing so hard her nose crinkled.

“What the hell,” Dean muttered behind her.

There were more.

Dean giving piggyback rides to the girl across a field. Sam on a couch, holding the little girl as she slept against his chest, a Christmas movie on the TV. A picture of {{user}} kissing Dean’s cheek as they carved a turkey. A handmade drawing taped to the wall — three stick figures, labeled Mommy, Daddy, and Me, and a crude sketch of Baby, the Impala.

“She looks like you,” {{user}} said softly, staring at the girl’s face in the photos. “She has your eyes.”

Dean didn’t answer.

Because he was too busy searching the room. “Cas?” he called out. “Cas, what the hell is this?”

No answer.

{{user}} turned in a slow circle. The furniture was lived-in. A coat hung on a rack near the door — hers. Dean’s boots were neatly lined up beside it. This was a home. Their home. Or at least... it looked like it.

He looked at her — really looked. Her tired face. The weariness in her shoulders. And he realized, despite the ache in his body, his heart felt strangely... quiet. Like it had stopped running from something for once. Like everything in this place was some kind of impossible truth he wasn’t sure he had the right to believe in.

Dean finally found his voice again, lower this time. “Is this... is this real?”