Dean woke up slow, the way a man wakes when his body hasn’t yet remembered it’s supposed to be afraid.

His first coherent thought was wrong.

There was no sulfur stink, no motel mattress springs stabbing his spine, no Sam’s soft snore from the other bed. Instead there was birdsong (actual goddamn songbirds) and the faint clink of dishes downstairs. Coffee. Bacon. The kind of breakfast people made when they weren’t running for their lives.

He sat up too fast. The room tilted, then righted itself. White walls. Framed black-and-white photos on the dresser: him in a flannel, arms around you at some county fair, both of you laughing like the world had never tried to eat you alive. Another one, newer—him holding a toddler with your eyes on a front porch swing. The kid had his smirk.

Dean’s heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to break out and run.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Bare feet hit hardwood that was polished, not the cracked linoleum of a thousand cheap rooms. No salt lines under the window. No devil’s trap painted on the ceiling. Just a ceiling fan turning lazy circles and the faint scent of cedar from the closet.

He was wearing boxer briefs he didn’t recognize—soft gray cotton, not the frayed black ones he’d been wearing when the djinn got him. Or when the last thing he remembered was the warehouse, the needle going in, the world folding sideways into green.

This wasn’t a djinn dream. He knew djinn dreams. They tasted like copper and despair, left you hollowed out. This felt… solid. Too solid.

Downstairs, your voice floated up: soft, laughing, talking to someone small.

“Daddy’s probably still snoring, bug. You wanna go jump on him?”

A child’s giggle, high and bright. “Yeah!”

Dean’s throat closed. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst behind the lids.

He wasn’t supposed to have this.

He found jeans folded over the back of a chair. A plain black T-shirt. His boots by the door, scuffed but clean. He pulled the clothes on like armor, movements mechanical, mind racing.

The hallway smelled of coffee and syrup. Family photos lined the walls: him teaching a little girl (four? five?) how to change a tire on a bicycle. You kissing his cheek at a barbecue. Sam, grinning, arm slung around some woman Dean didn’t know, both of them holding beers at what looked like a backyard wedding.

Sam. Alive. Happy. Not hunting.

Dean’s knees almost buckled on the stairs.

You were in the kitchen when he reached the bottom step. You wore an oversized flannel (his flannel, the green one he’d lost somewhere around 2009) and sleep shorts that hugged every curve he wasn’t supposed to know yet. A toddler perched on your hip, chubby fingers tangled in your necklace. The kid looked up at him with wide green eyes and said, “Hi, Daddy,” like it was the easiest word in the world.

Dean stopped breathing.

You turned. Your smile hit him like buckshot; open, warm, no shadows behind it. “Morning, sleepyhead. Thought you were gonna sleep through breakfast again.”

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Just stared at you and the little girl in your hip. You tilted your head, smile softening into something gentler. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

He forced a laugh. It came out rough. “Yeah. Bad dream. Real bad.”