You heard the heavy footsteps echo through the halls of the bunker before he even reached the war room. You didn’t stand. Didn’t breathe. Just stared down at your coffee like maybe it could save you.

Then he walked in—your father. Just as imposing as you remembered. Same steely eyes. Same voice that always sounded more like a command than a conversation.

Dean was already leaning against the table when your dad stepped in, arms crossed, that sarcastic smirk playing on his lips. He gave your father a slow once-over.

“Well, look who finally showed up to the family reunion. Thought you were just a myth.”

Your dad didn’t bother with a smile. “You must be Dean.”

“Sharp as advertised,” Dean said, flashing a grin. “And you must be the guy who thought teaching your daughter to hunt was the same thing as raising her.”

You flinched, just barely—but your dad caught it. His jaw tightened, and he stepped closer.

“I didn’t come here to get lectured by some punk with a smart mouth,” he said coolly. “I came for her. I need her on a job. And I don’t need your approval.”

Dean stepped in without missing a beat. “Good news—you don’t have it.”

The room went quiet, heat simmering just beneath the surface. You could feel Dean beside you, tense, protective, a storm barely held back. He didn’t have to say it—he knew what your dad was. Knew what he’d done. Because it was his story too, told in different words but the same pain.

Your father looked at you then, eyes sharp. “Are you coming or not?”