The war room table is spread with maps, photographs, and a half-empty cup of coffee that's gone cold hours ago. The chair across from Y/n is empty, but it doesn't feel like it used to. Not anymore.

Footsteps echo from the corridor. Heavy boots, unhurried. Dean's stride is unmistakable even before he rounds the corner, jacket slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the shower.

He drops his jacket on the back of a chair and moves toward the table, eyes scanning the mess of paperwork before landing on her.