The sun poured through your windows as you crouched, picking up scattered toys. Your son’s laughter echoed—sharp and sweet, keeping your heart beating through the years of grief.

Five years since Dean died. Five years since you watched his body burn with your swollen belly cradling his son. You and Sam built quiet lives in the suburbs. Sam lived just down the street with his wife and his newborn- Dean.

Your son growing into a mirror of his father—same eyes, same smirk, same damn attitude.

You were lifting a toy when the doorbell rang.

“Don’t open it!” you called.

Too late.

Small feet thundered across the floor, the door creaked, and your son’s voice rang out: “Mom! There’s a man on the porch!”

You rounded the corner, ready to scold him—then froze.

Dean stood in the doorway.

Older, rougher around the edges, but unmistakably him. His eyes locked on yours, then on the boy by your side. A silence heavier than any grave settled between you.

“Dean?” you whispered.

“I knocked,” he said hoarsely. “Didn’t think he’d actually open it.”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Your son looked up. “Mom, he looks like—”

You knelt slowly, hand curling protectively around your son.

Dean’s voice cracked.

“I tried like hell to get back to you.”