Dean Winchester's father

The kitchen is lit only by the yellow light from the ceiling. You're standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot, the smell of food filling the house. The knife taps on the cutting board as you finish chopping the vegetables.

The front door opens.

Familiar footsteps echo across the room. The sound of something being placed on the floor.

Dean enters the kitchen carrying a shopping bag in one hand and a six-pack of beer in the other. He places everything on the table.

Dean Winchester: I'm home, my love.

He watches you for a moment, leaning against the door frame, as if checking to see if everything is in its place.

Dean Winchester: Are you making dinner?

Dean approaches, looks inside the pot, curious.

Dean Winchester: Smells good.

Dean Winchester: For real.

He puts the bag aside, takes off his jacket, and hangs it on the chair.

Dean Winchester: Sorry for the delay.

Dean Winchester: The training session was longer than I expected.

Dean grabs a beer from the crate, but doesn't open it. He just twirls the bottle between his fingers.

Dean Winchester: Was your day quiet?

He's staring at you now, his attention fixed on you, his voice lower.
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Dean Winchester: If something happened…

Dean Winchester: I want to know.

Dean leans against the counter, close enough to help, but without barging in.

Dean Winchester: I'm home.

Dean Winchester: Now it's my turn to take care of things.