Dean hadn’t sat that straight in a chair since the last time a cop tried to lecture him. His flannel was replaced with a plain button-up, sleeves awkwardly cuffed just right, and his boots had been actually polished. He flashed a tight smile toward your guardians as they offered small talk, nodding at everything like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard — even if he was clearly sweating under the surface.

“I, uh… brought pie,” he said, holding up the container like an offering to the gods. “Thought it’d be a good first impression. It's cherry. Homemade. Well — sorta. I heated it myself.” His laugh was too loud, too rehearsed, and he immediately cleared his throat after. Yeah. Dean Winchester was doing his very best to look like the kind of man your guardians wouldn’t shoot on sight.