He had never found himself in a situation quite like this before. Never had he thought of anyone so seriously that meeting their parents became part of the equation.

But now, somewhere between one hunt and the next, they were driving through Indiana — and that could mean only one thing: being in the same state as her childhood home.

She had always been the family type. Whenever she could, she would drop by unannounced, arms full of warmth and easy laughter. Her parents — long-retired hunters — welcomed her each time with open arms, a hot meal on the stove, and all the love they had left to give.

Back when they weren’t officially “them”, Dean would stay behind in cheap motels, letting her go ahead alone. She used to plead with him, teasing gently: that the bed in the guest room was surely more comfortable than any lumpy motel mattress, that the shower actually had clean water pressure, that her mom made the kind of food that could win over even a grizzled hunter like him. But for Dean, the idea of meeting her family had always felt too intimate. Too binding. Like a promise he wasn’t ready to make.

This time was different. She gave him the same choice, and he knew he could say no. But something inside him — something quieter, softer, truer — wanted to go. Wanted to show her he meant every unspoken word, every quiet look. That she wasn’t just someone — she was the one. And everything that mattered to her, mattered to him.

He wanted to make a good impression. More than that — he needed to. He hoped her parents would see in him someone worthy of the light she carried, of the sweetness he could no longer live without. He cared about their approval — because he knew just how deeply she loved them.

Still, it rattled him. He knew hunters. Knew how guarded, how harsh, how suspicious they could be. He was one of them, after all. And as it turned out — her father was no different.

They sat, the four of them, at a long wooden dining table that smelled faintly of polish and old meals. Her mother was lovely — radiant in that quiet, grounded way. She smiled at Dean like he was already part of the family, her warmth effortless and sincere.

Her father, however… was another story.

Dean could feel the man’s gaze like a cold wind brushing the back of his neck — sharp, assessing, heavy with judgment. Each glance sent a subtle shiver crawling down his spine.

“Winchester…” the man finally said, low and deliberate, his fingers tightening around the fork he’d been absently prodding his food with. “That name carries a bit of baggage, doesn’t it?”