THE STARE

The apartment smelled of coffee and roast, rich and heavy in the air, the kind of smell that made the walls feel warmer than they really were. The baseboard heaters clicked every so often as they cycled on and off, steady but never quite enough to chase away the cold that clung to the corners of the room. Outside, Sturgis lay quiet under a sheet of snow, the streets muffled and still. Dean sat at the small kitchen table, an old oak thing that wobbled if you leaned too hard on it. The classifieds were spread out in front of him, but he wasn’t reading them. His eyes skimmed the ink, catching on phrases—seasonal help, mechanic wanted—before sliding away. He drummed his fingers instead, restless, his thoughts somewhere else. From the kitchen, Jamie’s voice floated in, low and humming as she checked the roast in the oven. She moved slower these days, her sweatshirt stretched over her belly, every step a reminder that their child was almost here. She joined him at the table a moment later, easing down into the chair across from him. “You’re staring at that paper like it’s written in another language,” she teased lightly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Dean cracked a smile but didn’t lift his eyes from the page. “Just… thinking. Trying to figure out what comes next.” Jamie reached for his hand, her fingers warm, steady. “You always do that. Worry before you have to. We’ll figure it out.” Dean looked at her then, really looked. The way her eyes lingered on him, soft but distant, gave him pause. There was something in her expression he couldn’t pin down—like a thought she wasn’t sharing. He shook it off. First-time dad nerves, that was all. The oven ticked, the heaters clicked, and the smell of roast and coffee hung between them like a promise of ordinary life. Dean forced a smile. “Yeah. We’ll be fine.” But even as he said it, a part of him didn’t believe it.

The apartment felt too small all of a sudden, like the walls had leaned in when Dean wasn’t paying attention. He pushed the classifieds aside and stood, rubbing the back of his neck. The heater clicked again, a hollow sound against the winter hush outside. Then—light. Not the warm yellow of a lamp or the faint orange glow from the oven window, but a sharp, bending shimmer that cracked the air open in the middle of the living room. Dean froze. What the hell is that? His mind scrambled for explanations: headlights through the window, a power surge, maybe even his own exhaustion playing tricks. But nothing fit the way the space twisted, folding and unfolding like a bad dream. And then someone stepped through. Dean’s breath caught in his throat. The man who emerged was a mirror, but wrong—taller, broader, his face etched with lines Dean didn’t recognize yet. His hair was shorter, streaked with gray at the temples. The eyes, though—those were his eyes. Sharp, restless, carrying a weight that made Dean’s stomach twist. He stumbled back, bumping the table. The wobble sent papers scattering, the noise jarringly loud in the sudden quiet. This isn’t real. It can’t be. His heart pounded, a drumbeat in his ears. “What the hell—who are you?” The man didn’t answer right away. He just looked at Dean, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the room like he was counting down seconds. Finally, he spoke, and the voice hit Dean like a punch—his own voice, but deeper, rougher, worn by years that hadn’t happened. “You already know who I am.” Dean shook his head, hard, his palms sweating. No. No, this is insane. I’m losing it. “That’s not—That’s not possible.” “Younger me,” the man said, stepping closer. “Dean. Listen to me. You don’t have time to argue. I’m you. From the future. And I need you to hear this before she comes back.” Dean's stomach lurched, a cold wave rushing through him despite the heater’s futile warmth. His first instinct was to yell for Jamie, to laugh this off as some twisted hallucination. But something in those eyes stopped him—something familiar, something that mirrored his own fear staring back. If this is real… God, what does that mean? He swallowed hard, his voice barely steady. “If you’re me… then why the hell are you here?” The man’s jaw flexed, and for the first time, Dean saw it—real fear, raw and unhidden, in a face that was his own. “Because she’s not what you think. And if you don’t listen, she’s going to make the biggest mistake of her life.”

Dean's pulse hammered. She? Jamie? The words echoed in his head, hitting harder than they should. His mind raced—mistake? What mistake?—but before he could ask, the man leaned in, his shadow falling over the table. “You have to stop her,” he urged, his voice tight, like every word was a battle. “If you don’t… you’ll lose her. You’ll lose everything.” And just like that, the air shimmered again, the light bending as if to pull the man back. Dean reached out instinctively, but his hand met nothing. The figure faded, leaving only the echo of his words and the cold certainty that nothing would ever be the same. In the kitchen, Jamie paused, her hand still on the oven mitt, the scent of roasting meat filling her nostrils. She hadn't heard the words, not exactly—but she felt the shift, like a ripple in the air, a disturbance in the fragile web she'd woven around them. Foolish boy, she thought, her lips curving into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. He thinks he can change it. But some paths are already set. Her fingers rested on her belly, protective, possessive, as she listened to the silence from the other room. The game was accelerating, and she was ready.