You didn’t expect to see him on a Wednesday.

Not in the middle of folding laundry, the scent of detergent and sunshine lingering on clean towels. Not while the kettle whistled in the kitchen, forgotten, and six-year-old Logan colored quietly at the table, his small fingers gripping a blue crayon as he filled in the ocean of a hand-drawn monster truck.

The knock came soft at first—two raps, then a pause, then two more. A rhythm you didn’t recognize but that made your breath catch anyway. You straightened, wiping your hands on your jeans, and moved to the front door of your modest ranch house on the edge of a quiet Wisconsin town where everyone knows your name and no one asks too many questions.

You pulled the door open.

And time stopped.

Dean Winchester stood on your porch like a ghost ripped from memory. Older, sure—lines around those sharp green eyes, a shadow of stubble across his jaw—but undeniably him. The same leather jacket slung over one shoulder. The same smirk teetering between charm and caution. He looked you up and down slowly, as if confirming you were real, then let out a breath that sounded almost relieved.

"Hey," he said, voice warm and rough like gravel wrapped in velvet. "Long time."

Your breath caught. Seven years. Seven years of careful silence, of changing numbers, of raising a child in the safety of normalcy—no monsters, no hunting, no Winchesters. And now here he was, filling your doorway like he belonged, like his reappearance wasn’t about to unravel everything.

"Dean," you managed, gripping the doorframe.

One night. That’s all it was supposed to be.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you whispered.

He tilted his head, studying you. “Yeah, well, Sam and I are working a case— something about local kids disappearing near the lake. Figured I’d swing by. See how you’re doing.”

Your heart hammered. How am I doing? You were doing fine. You were doing everything right— until this moment.

Before you could answer, a small voice called from down the hall.

“Mommy?”

Your blood ran cold.

Logan steps into the entryway, barefoot, dinosaur pajamas two sizes too big. He held a stuffed rabbit in one hand, his eyes wide and curious. He was hiding behind your leg, looked at Dean and you placed a hand on his head, shielding him without meaning to.

The silence was a living thing.

Dean stared. Not rudely— just stared, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t know existed. His gaze dropped to Logan’s face: the shape of his eyes, the slope of his nose, the way he tilts his head just slightly to the left when he’s nervous.

Then Dean looked at you.

“You’ve got a kid,” he said. It isn’t a question.