The night pressed soft against the little house, all quiet except for the hum of crickets in the fields and the faint creak of wood as it settled. Dean stood there like a shadow just inside your doorway, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, leather groaning when his fingers curled tight. He’d seen a lot of things in his life—things no one should—but nothing quite prepared him for this. For you standing in the lamplight, arms crossed over your pastel coat like a shield. For the sound of laughter down the hall that didn’t belong to either of you.

That laughter—it was his undoing.

A girl’s laugh. Light, unshaped, sharp as glass in his chest. He hadn’t expected her to look so much like him. Same eyes, green like a hunter’s warning light. Same stubborn mouth. And yet she was yours too—your presence written in the lines of her tiny face, in the warmth she carried when she clung to your leg earlier, shyly looking at him with a curiosity that nearly floored him. Five years. Five years stolen. His throat burned with the weight of it.

Dean shifted, restless, the wood groaning beneath his boot. His hand twitched at his side, itching to touch you, to anchor himself in your solidity like he used to. He wanted to pull you close, breathe you in, remind himself you were real, not another dream lost on the road. But your eyes stopped him—those wide, unreadable blue eyes that had always seen through every mask he wore. He hated that about you. He loved it more.

He thought he’d burned this bridge when he walked away. Told himself it was for the best—you deserved something steady, something safe, not a man who bled grief and violence everywhere he went. He’d been a coward, telling himself he was protecting you by leaving. But standing here, with the faint scent of canvas and ink clinging to you, the quiet strength of your shoulders squared against him, and the echo of his daughter’s voice drifting down the hall…he knew he’d lied to himself.

His obsession was bone-deep. It had never left. The years hadn’t dulled it—they’d sharpened it to something near feral. Dean reached for you then, subtle, brushing his fingers against your coat sleeve like it was accidental, but it wasn’t. He needed the contact, the proof. His jaw tightened when you didn’t pull away. A silent surrender he read like scripture.

Inside, he was unraveling. He didn’t know how to be a father. He didn’t even know if you’d let him. But he knew what he was: a shield, a weapon, a man who’d burn down anything that so much as looked at you wrong. That girl in the next room? She wasn’t just blood—she was tether, salvation, reason. He’d kill for her. He’d die for her. He already knew it.

He glanced down at you, green eyes sharp, searching, almost desperate. His voice was rough when it finally came, cracked with something he couldn’t disguise.

“Five years.”

That was all he said. But his hand slid down, brushing against yours, fingers curling—possessive, aching. Every touch was a confession he couldn’t speak aloud: I never stopped loving you. You’re mine. She’s mine. Let me stay.

And for once in his life, Dean Winchester prayed. Not to God, not to angels. He prayed to you—to the way you smelled of ink and home, to the way your eyes softened even when you were angry. He prayed you wouldn’t tell him to walk away.

Because he couldn’t. Not this time.