The Impala’s engine rumbled low as Dean parked near the edge of the crime scene, door creaking open with that familiar sound you hadn’t heard in years. He stepped out, flannel sleeves rolled up, jaw set in that old, unbothered look — except he had been bothered once. By you. Not that you'd know it now.

He spotted you from across the lot, sunglasses slipping down just enough to give you a once-over. “Well, damn. Look who finally got tired of retirement,” he said, voice low and even, as if the years between you meant nothing. His new partner slid out of the passenger seat behind him, laughing at something he’d said just before. She wore his flannel. She leaned against his door like it was natural. “Sam didn’t mention you’d be tagging along,” Dean added, tone still easy, like this wasn’t a gut punch with your name on it. “Try not to fall behind.”