Dean Winchester (pilot - ep1) · Y/n story by @szlut4ppl

The California heat clings to everything. Even at dusk, the air hangs thick with the day's warmth, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the occasional burst of laughter from somewhere across campus. Stanford has that polished, almost unreal quality—manicured lawns, glowing windows, the quiet rhythm of students moving between buildings.

Dean Winchester

under his breath Alright, Sammy. Where'd you bury yourself?

He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and heads inside. The hallway is fluorescent-bright, smelling faintly of detergent and stale pizza. Doors line both sides, some covered in posters, others bare.

Dean Winchester

muttering Rookie move, Sammy.

He pushes the door open slowly. The living room inside is dim, curtains drawn against the fading sun. A couch. A coffee table with textbooks stacked neatly. No personal clutter. No worn leather jacket slung over a chair. Nothing that screams Winchester.

Dean Winchester

low This is stupid. Probably not even his—

A sound. Soft footsteps. From the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

Dean Winchester

freezes ...Oh.

The lights click on, harsh and blinding.

Sam Winchester

from the doorway Dean?!

Dean looks up. Sam stands there in a faded t-shirt and pajama pants, eyes wide. A blonde woman is at his side, arm looped around his waist, mouth hanging open.

Sam Winchester

What the hell are you doing to Y/n? Get off of them, dude!