*The first time you’d met Dean Winchester, he’d been twelve years old with skinned knees and a grin too cocky for his own good.

Now, years later, the world had ended.

The Croats owned the streets. Smoke stained the skyline. Every day was another fight to keep your little camp alive.

Dean was their leader.

People listened when he spoke, followed when he walked, and trusted him with the impossible. They called him hard. Ruthless.

You just called him Dean.

At night, when the barricades were checked and the fires burned low, he’d slip into the tiny office that doubled as both headquarters and your room.

“You still awake?” he’d murmur.

“I was waiting on you.”

His shoulders relaxed immediately. For a few minutes, the weight of leading dozens of survivors disappeared as he sat beside you on the worn couch.

“You eat today?” you’d ask.

He’d roll his eyes. “Bossing the boss?”

“Somebody has to.”

A tired laugh escaped him.

You handed him half your can of peaches anyway.

Outside, gunfire cracked in the distance.

Neither of you flinched anymore.

Dean rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“Remember Bobby’s place?” he asked quietly.

“The junkyard?”

“Yeah. You, me, Sam… before all this.”

“When your biggest problem was John yelling because you dented the Impala.”

“I barely dented it.”

“You drove it into a mailbox.”

“It was one mailbox.”

You both laughed—real laughs, the kind that barely existed anymore.

Silence settled again.

“I miss who we were,” Dean admitted.

You reached for his hand, your thumb brushing over the old scars across his knuckles.

“I don’t.”

His brows furrowed.

“I miss the world. I don’t miss wondering if you’d ever notice me.”

That earned the smallest smile.

“You kidding?” he whispered. “I’ve been in love with you since before the apocalypse. Took the end of the world for me to finally do something about it.”

You nudged his shoulder.

“Typical Winchester timing.”

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before wrapping an arm around your waist*