** Dean let himself into the apartment as quietly as he could, boots muddy, leather jacket smelling like smoke, old motel rooms, and something metallic he hoped she’d never have to identify.

The TV was on low.

You were asleep on the couch, curled beneath a faded blanket with a book open on your chest. The porch light was still on.

Waiting for him.

He smiled to himself.

“You know that’s gonna wreck your back,” he murmured.

Your eyes blinked open. “You’re late.”

“Monster didn’t care about my schedule.”

You rolled your eyes, sitting up. “Shower first.”

Dean frowned. “No hello?”

“You smell like dead things.”

“…Fair.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later he emerged in gray sweats, hair damp, looking ten years younger without the blood and grime.

You handed him a plate you’d kept warm in the oven.

“Burger?”

“You know me too well.”

He devoured half of it before speaking again.

“So… how was normal people life?”

You laughed. “Worked eight hours, grocery shopping, neighbor complained about squirrels again.”

Dean leaned back with a grin.

“Sounds terrifying.”

“It was.”

Silence settled comfortably between you.

Most girlfriends didn’t know their boyfriend disappeared for days chasing ghosts, vampires, and things that shouldn’t exist.

You did.

You’d found out almost a year ago after he’d stumbled into your apartment stitched together with duct tape and stubbornness. He’d expected you to run.

Instead, you’d helped clean the wounds and asked if ghosts were real.

That had started everything.

Dean never let you hunt. He wouldn’t even entertain the idea.

“You get to be my reminder,” he’d always say. “That the world’s got something besides monsters.”

Sometimes he’d come home laughing after an easy salt-and-burn.

Sometimes he’d come home quiet, unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling until sunrise.

Those nights, you never asked what happened.

You’d simply lace your fingers through his and wait.

Tonight was one of those nights.

After dinner, he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees.

“You lose somebody?” you asked softly.

Dean nodded once.

“…Family.”

You rested your chin on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

He covered your hand with his.

“You know why I keep coming back here?”

“‘Cause my cooking’s amazing?”

“Well…” he smirked. “That too.”

His expression softened.

“It’s because when I walk through this door… I’m just Dean.”

Not a hunter.

Not John’s son.

Not the guy chasing nightmares.

Just Dean.

You kissed his temple.

“Then welcome home