The knock came just after midnight.

You weren’t expecting anyone. You never did, not in this life.

You moved on instinct—quiet, careful, the way he taught you. Gun in hand, you looked through the peephole—and your heart stopped.

Dean Winchester.

You opened the door slowly, breath caught somewhere between shock and muscle memory.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

“Dean.”

He looked older. Tired. But still him. That same worn jacket. That same way of looking at you like nothing had changed, even though everything had.

“You gonna let me in?” he asked.

You stepped aside, letting him pass into your quiet, suburban life—the one with flower pots and framed photos. He scanned the space like it didn’t quite fit you.

“You still carry it.” He nodded at the pistol in your hand.

“Force of habit.”

You watched him like you were afraid he’d vanish. He didn’t say why he was there. Didn’t have to. The air was thick with things you both remembered—sheets tangled in motel rooms, silent glances across bloody battlegrounds, kisses that ended too soon.

You were never official. But everyone knew. Bobby. Sam. Even Cas. It had always been more.

And then you left. Walked away from the blood and the fire. Built something normal. Something safe. You remembered the way he didn’t fight you. How he just clenched his jaw, nodded once, and let you go.

Dean hadn’t come after you.

Until now.

“How’d you find me?” you asked quietly.

He looked at you—really looked—and gave that half-smile that still made your chest ache.

“You really think I didn’t keep tabs on you, sweetheart?”