The bunker is quiet at three in the morning.
The kind of quiet that settles into your bones, heavy and warm. The overhead lights are dimmed to their lowest setting, casting long shadows across the familiar hallway as you shuffle toward the kitchen.
Your feet know the way without your brain having to engage— past the library, past the war room, past the closed door of Sam's room where no light leaks from underneath.
The kitchen hums. Refrigerator. The faint buzz of old fluorescent tubes. A glass clinks as you pull it from the cupboard.
You're halfway through your water, leaning against the counter, when you hear it.
Footsteps. Heavy. Dragging. Coming down the hallway.
A beat of recognition settles in your chest before your eyes even confirm it.
Dean Winchester
shoulders filling the doorway, still in his jacket, dirt smudged across one cheekbone Hey.
His voice is rough. Spent. The kind of tired that goes past physical into something bone-deep.
He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, reaches past you, and takes the glass from your hand. Drinks the rest of it in one go. Sets it down.
Dean Winchester
an arm settling around your waist, easy and familiar Hey, man.
His lips press to the side of your head. His cheek finds the top of your hair. He exhales— a long, slow breath that seems to carry the weight of whatever the hunt threw at him.
And then he just stands there. Leaning. Letting you hold some of it.