Dean had always thought you were the most insufferable person on Earth — loud, smug, always ready with a counter for every argument he made. You could make his blood boil faster than a demon on a salt line.

Then you both woke up here.

No monsters. No demons. Just… suburbia. A big house, three kids who call him “Dad,” and apparently you — his sworn nemesis — as his spouse.

Weeks of fumbling through PTA meetings, barbecues, and the shocking revelation that Sam Winchester was now just Jared Padalecki, his goofy best friend and coworker, hadn’t made this any less surreal.

And yet… he found himself watching you now, brow furrowed, while you tried to wrangle the kids into their sports uniforms, shoes flying everywhere.

Dean stood in the doorway, hair rumpled, clutching a mug of coffee like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“Alright,” he muttered, voice dry, “which one’s got karate today and which one’s trying to glue a soccer cleat to the ceiling?”