Unpacking More Than Boxes
825 Words
(Lailah’s POV)
If someone had told me this morning that I’d end my day standing awkwardly beside Dean Winchester in my childhood driveway, I would’ve laughed. Or cried. Probably both.
But here I am.
And Dean is… staring at me.
Not in a creepy way.
More like he’s trying to solve a math problem he never signed up for.
The last time I saw him, he was all cocky smirks, flirt-with-anything-that-breathes energy, and a charming ability to annoy me within thirty seconds flat.
Now?
Now he looks older. Broader. Quieter.
Like life carved new lines into him when I wasn’t looking.
I shut my car door and try to steel myself. “Thanks for… checking on me. I guess.”
He nods, shifting his weight like he’s not sure what to do with himself. “Yeah, well. You looked like you were about to combust.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Exactly the impression I was going for.”
He huffs a small laugh—barely there, but real. It catches me off guard.
The porch light flickers as I walk up the steps, reminding me just how long it’s been since anyone lived here. The house smells the same when I open the door—dust, lemon cleaner, and something faintly nostalgic, like summer breaks and simpler years.
I step inside, and suddenly the weight of the past few weeks hits me all at once.
The broken engagement.
The betrayal.
The stupid wedding invitation that still has my stomach twisting.
I feel Dean stop at the threshold behind me but not enter. Like he’s not sure he’s welcome.
“You can come in, you know,” I say quietly.
He hesitates. Dean Winchester hesitates.
Then he steps inside.
It feels strange, having him here. The last time he was in this house, he was twenty and eating all the snacks in my pantry like some kind of human vacuum.
“Place hasn’t changed much,” he says, glancing around.
“Everything else has,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
He looks at me then—really looks—and something in his expression softens.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks.
I shake my head quickly. “No. God, no. If I talk about it, I might scream. Or cry. Or both. And I’m really trying to avoid doing that on day one of being home.”
Dean’s jaw ticks like he wants to track down my ex and introduce him to a wall.
The image is surprisingly comforting.
“Fine,” he says. “No talking. But you should eat. Or sit. Or breathe. Or something.”
I snort. “Didn’t realize you’d turned into everyone’s responsible older brother.”
“Trust me,” he mutters, “I didn’t.”
I walk farther into the living room, running my fingers over the back of the old couch. Everything is familiar, but I feel like a stranger in my own space.
“Why are you even here?” I ask suddenly, turning back to him.
He shrugs. “Dad wanted me to check on the house. Make sure everything was fine.”
“And you just… happened to show up the second I got here?”
His lips twitch. “What can I say? Great timing.”
I arch a brow. “Or terrible.”
He smirks—classic Dean—but it fades quickly as his eyes drop to the floor.
“You really okay?” he asks again, softer this time.
The question knocks the air out of me.
I open my mouth.
Try to deny it.
Try to pretend I’m fine.
But the truth comes out in a cracked whisper.
“No. Not really.”
Dean doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t touch me.
He just stands there—solid, steady, strangely grounding.
“Then we’ll start with not being okay,” he says. “And go from there.”
I stare at him, unsure why that simple sentence makes my throat tighten.
Maybe it’s because everyone else keeps telling me to move on, stay strong, rise above.
Dean’s the first person to say it’s fine to fall apart first.
And God… I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear that.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He gives a small nod. “Anytime.”
For the first time in weeks, something in my chest eases.
Not healed—far from it.
But less suffocating.
I sink onto the couch, letting myself finally breathe.
Dean glances at me, hesitates again like he’s debating whether to stay or leave.
“Stay,” I say before thinking it through.
His eyes flick to mine.
“Just for a little,” I add quickly. “If you want.”
He shifts, hands in his pockets. Then—
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll stay.”
And somehow, that simple decision feels like the start of something neither of us expected
- Writer
