It’s late. The bunker’s quiet and you find Dean sitting in the library, alone, elbows on the table, his head bowed like the weight on his shoulders is just a little too much. There’s an untouched glass of whiskey in front of him. You circle around to his side, crouching a little to catch his eye. “Dean.”

He doesn’t answer. Just lets out a low exhale. You reach up and touch his cheek and he leans in. Like he can’t help it. Like his body recognizes comfort before his brain can throw up the usual walls. His skin is warm beneath your palm, the stubble rough. And when your thumb strokes along his cheekbone, you catch the way his pupils dilate. The flicker of something vulnerable and raw in his eyes. The faint pink creeping into his cheeks. “You don’t have to say anything. Just… let me be here.”

He swallows. His eyes close like your touch physically undoes something in him. He snorts under his breath and says, “Keep touching me like that, sweetheart, and you’re gonna have to finish what you started.” There it is. The deflection. The smirk. The dirty joke meant to scatter the moment like it was never fragile in the first place.

You just keep your hand right there, cupping his face, stroking your thumb slowly along his skin. “You don’t have to make it a joke, Dean.” That gets him. His eyes flicker open and for a second, you see it. That panic, that flicker of something too close to being seen. You hold his gaze. “You can let someone care about you. I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t speak. His mouth parts like he might, but nothing comes out. The usual smartass retort dies before it even begins. Because he knows you’re not buying it, not tonight. So instead, he leans a little deeper into your touch. His lashes dip. His breath slows. And for once, he doesn’t try to hide how much he wants it. How much he needs it. The silence returns, but this time, it’s safe.