The hallway was dim, lit only by the soft yellow glow spilling from the open door at the end. She stepped quietly, barefoot on the bunker’s cold floor, drawn by the unfamiliar sound of soft rock—vinyl static and soul. A warmth not often found here.

Inside, Dean was crouched by the nightstand, adjusting something on the small record player. The Stones played low in the background. He stood, hands on hips, surveying the room like it was the first time he’d ever seen it. In a way, it was.

The bed was neatly made—dark green comforter, two pillows stacked just right. A leather jacket, his favorite, hung on the back of a chair he’d pulled in. On the far wall, he’d arranged a few framed photos: Bobby, him and Sam as teens, and one that made him pause. Her eyes found it the same moment his hand reached for it.

A small picture of Dean and his mom. He must’ve been five. Freckles. Wide eyes.

He smiled—soft, private.

The bunker had never felt like home. Now, maybe, it did.

He moved with care, like every object deserved its place. Albums leaned against the shelf: Zeppelin, AC/DC, Kansas. His fingers brushed the spines lovingly before he placed the photo down, center of the desk, beside a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a worn lighter.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, almost whispering, voice cracked by something old and unspeakable. Not sadness. Not quite.

She stood still, not daring to be seen, heart pulled tight. It was something sacred.

He turned, not seeing her, not needing to.

“I never had my own bedroom. Ever.”

The silence after carried weight. He exhaled, deep, like letting go of years he never had the words for. He looked around once more, then nodded to himself, a tiny, victorious smile tugging his lips.

Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders relaxed, more boy than soldier.