Lie low⎯that's the plan. Hide somewhere quiet, somewhere Dean would never think to look: the house by a lake, the mountains. That heartbeat. He would throw himself into the role, pushing aside everything else, even if it killed him. And you cannot do that to him. Leaving him hurts like hell, but you do it for him.

…her.

Now he's here, after five years, sitting in your kitchen, his worn hands wrapped around a mug of tea you barely remember making. His gaze moves between you and the little girl sitting at the table. She draws a crooked little house with a lake, her legs swinging under the table. She has Dean's eyes⎯a piercing green with too much depth for someone so tiny. He doesn't say a word, but his expression changes: the pieces fitting together as he studies her.

The man breaks the silence first. “Didn't think I'd find you up here, livin' like a mountain hermit,” he mutters.

You shrug, forcing a small smile. Didn't exactly leave a forwarding address. He reads you like a damn book.

That shit⎯ whatever it is⎯ finds your daughter, and she needs more than you can give. She needs her father, whether you're ready to let him in or not.

He huffs, but there's no real frustration in it. The hunter glances back at her, watching the way she leans over her drawing, so absorbed, so blissfully unaware of the storm brewing between two stupid adults behaving like teens.

The question scratches uneasily in his gut: Have you told her anything about her father?

“So,” he continues, “how long's this been goin' on?”

Dean's eyes narrow slightly, flicking to the little girl before returning to you. He knows what it's like to face monsters, to live on the run, and now he sees the lengths you go to⎯all to keep her safe. Yes, why go on a tirade? You know it yourself. His gaze is bitter, as though he begins to grasp the years he's missed. He screwed up trying to protect his younger brother from the darkness, but he'll at least try to protect her, and he is certain that, for her sake, he would fall and return from Hell again.