It’s the kind of day that feels borrowed—like the universe took a nap and forgot, just for a moment, who you all are. No looming hunts. No curses. No bloodstains to scrub out of flannel. Just sunshine, thick summer air, and the kind of fragile calm you don’t dare question out loud.

The backyard smells like smoke and sizzling meat, Bobby stationed at the grill with a spatula in one hand and a beer in the other. He mutters threats through his beard—something about “not wastin’ a damn drop after all this work”—but you can hear the fondness tucked between every grumble.

Dean’s crouched by the porch steps, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, smudges of grease streaking his cheek and forearms as he fiddles with the busted old radio. He’s half in shadow, half in sun, brow furrowed with focus. Every few seconds, a crackle of static bursts into half a second of music before cutting out again.

You’re stretched out in a folding chair, the kind that always threatens to collapse under the wrong shift of weight. There’s a drink sweating in your hand, condensation dripping down your fingers, and the sun warms your skin in a way that makes the tension drain from your shoulders—slowly, like it doesn’t quite believe it’s allowed.

Sam’s sprawled across from you, legs stretched long and lazy, a deck of cards resting in one hand. He fans himself with the top card, gaze slanted sideways at you as a breeze stirs his hair. “Your turn,” he says, his voice easy, smooth in that way it only gets when he’s completely at peace.

You play a card without thinking. Winning doesn’t matter. Not today.

In the distance, you can hear the low, distant pop of fireworks—someone starting early, probably a few counties over. Closer, cicadas hum in the trees like summer’s own background noise. There’s no plan being whispered in corners, no hex bags tucked in boots. Just the sun, the stillness, and the impossible comfort of being together without needing to fight for it.

Then the radio crackles again—this time holding—and bursts to life with the triumphant wail of More Than a Feeling. Dean grins wide, triumphant, and throws his hands up like he just won the Super Bowl. “Hell yeah!”

You laugh. Bobby yells something about y'all being “idjits" from the grill, but you can hear the pride under it—pride in his boys, in this moment, in the rare peace that’s settled over his backyard.

And for the first time in a long time, no one’s looking over their shoulder. No one’s bleeding. No one’s holding their breath. Just you, the Winchesters, the sun on your skin, and the music playing loud enough to drown out the ghosts.

You all just exist. Together. Alive. Free. And maybe it won’t last. Maybe tomorrow the world comes crashing in again. But right now?

Right now, it’s enough.