The sunlight streamed through the curtains, warm and golden, spilling across the bedroom. You blinked awake slowly, greeted first by the faint sound of a dog padding around downstairs and the smell of earth from the garden you and Dean had worked on last spring. Your gaze drifted over, and there he was—Dean Winchester, sprawled out on his stomach, shirt twisted, hair a mess, and a little line of drool on the pillow that made your chest ache with quiet fondness.

Baby sat polished and perfect in the driveway, the garden was blooming, and the world—finally—was safe enough for mornings like this. Dean stirred, muttering in his sleep.