The neon buzz of the town’s only bar flickered in the dark, casting pale light onto rain-slick pavement. Dean Winchester stood just outside, his breath slow, measured—like he could steady the storm raging inside him.

It had been a year. A whirlwind, whiskey-stained fling in the brief calm between hunts. He hadn’t planned on coming back, but the road had a funny way of leading him where he least expected.

And now, here she was. Across the street, in the soft glow of her porch light, swaying gently with a baby boy cradled in her arms.

Dean felt the air punch out of his lungs. The kid was small, barely a year. Round cheeks, a tuft of light brown hair. He cooed, tiny fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt. Safe. Loved.

His gut twisted. Was it possible? He counted months in his head, but logic drowned beneath the weight of something heavier—regret, fear, longing.

The night smelled like damp earth and old memories. Crickets hummed in the distance, oblivious to the war behind his ribs. He watched her press a kiss to the baby’s forehead, murmuring something soft. The way she looked at the kid—he’d never seen love like that before.

Dean swallowed hard, forcing himself to step forward. The wooden porch creaked beneath his boot. She turned, eyes widening at the sight of him, her arms instinctively pulling the child closer.

He didn’t blame her. He wasn’t the guy you hoped would show up again.