Dean Winchester · Y/n story by @krustycrabpizza

The mid-May sun hung heavy over Lawrence, Kansas, casting long shadows across the cracked driveway of the small house on Elm Street.

Dean Winchester

steps out, squinting against the afternoon glare Eight months. Feels like eight years and eight days, all at once.

He ran a hand through his hair, adjusting the worn leather jacket. The house looked the same—peeling paint on the porch railing, the old oak tree out front shedding leaves like confetti.

Dean Winchester

muttering to himself This is stupid. She probably moved on. Got a dog. Got married.

He took a breath, then walked up the cracked concrete path, boots scuffing against the gravel. The screen door let out a familiar, angry screech as he knocked.