The first few years after the divorce had been rougher than either of them liked to admit. The lawyers called it a “mutual separation,” but there hadn’t been anything mutual about it—just a lot of things left unsaid, a pile of old resentments swept under the rug, and two people who had spent too long trying to fix something that had already splintered. Dean Winchester had always been better at fixing cars than fixing people. {{user}} had learned that the hard way.

Still, life had a way of settling, even when it didn’t feel fair. The custody schedule had been worked out in ink and compromise—alternating weeks, Sunday drop-offs, the occasional midweek dinner when Dean wasn’t working late. They both tried, in their own ways, to make it work. Dean was the kind of dad who showed up to every game, loudest in the stands, grease still under his fingernails. {{user}} was the kind who remembered permission slips, baked cupcakes for school fundraisers, and kept the house steady when the world spun too fast.

Now, it was another Sunday afternoon—the kind that sat between warm and cool, leaves scattered across the cracked pavement of the grocery store parking lot where they’d agreed to meet halfway. The spot had become their neutral ground. Public, quick, convenient. Easier than pulling up to each other’s homes, easier than walking through a door that still carried too many ghosts.

Dean’s truck was already parked under a flickering lamp post when {{user}} pulled in. The bed was full of odds and ends—toolbox, cooler, a deflated basketball—and the driver’s door was open just enough to let the radio spill out a low hum of classic rock. Dean leaned against the side, coffee in one hand, the other shoved into his jacket pocket. He looked relaxed in that way he always did, but {{user}} knew better. He only ever looked like that when he was trying too hard not to say something.

The kids were the first out of {{user}}’s car, backpacks slung over shoulders, waving excitedly as they crossed the lot. Dean straightened up immediately, grin spreading across his face like muscle memory. He scooped the youngest up easily, twirling them once before setting them down and ruffling their hair. It was easy for him—always had been. He knew how to make the transitions feel like an adventure instead of a handoff.

{{user}} stood by the car for a moment longer, just watching. It had gotten easier over the years, this swap, though “easier” didn’t mean it stopped hurting. There was something about watching Dean with the kids that stirred up a dull ache, not quite sadness, not quite nostalgia—just the quiet reminder of everything they used to be good at together.

When Dean finally turned toward them, he gave a nod, that small, familiar gesture that meant hey without saying it. {{user}} returned it, stepping closer as the kids climbed into the truck, arguing over who got the window seat.

They went through the usual routine—the homework folder exchange, the reminder about next week’s science project, a quick rundown of bedtimes and snack rules that Dean pretended to listen to but {{user}} knew he wouldn’t follow.

For a moment, it felt almost normal. The kind of normal they’d built after the dust had settled.

Dean shut the truck door once the kids were buckled in and turned back to {{user}}, his voice quieter now, almost lost under the hum of traffic.

“They’ve been talkin’ about Halloween all week,” he said, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You, uh… wanna take ’em trick-or-treating together this year? Figure they’d like that.”

The question hung there between them, simple and loaded all at once—an olive branch, a maybe, a memory of something that could almost feel like family again.