In the quiet of the bunker, you sat on the edge of your bed, knees drawn up, a thick, old leather-bound album spread open on your lap. The flickering yellow light from the ceiling barely touched the edges of the pictures inside.

Images of the past — you, Sam, and Dean, hunting together — filled the pages.

Each photograph was a moment frozen in time, from the days when things seemed so much simpler. Before God, before the angels, before everything spun out of control.

Your fingers traced a picture of Dean, younger and grinning like he didn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders. Sam stood beside him, taller but lankier, his face innocent of the tragedies to come. You were there too, caught mid-laugh, a carefree smile that felt like a lifetime ago.

Eight years.

Eight years since that photo was taken, back when the only things you had to worry about were vampires, ghosts, and the occasional demon. No existential crises, no apocalypses. Just hunts. Simple, dangerous, but understandable.

Now… everything was different. The weight of everything you’d seen, everything you’d lost, everything you had to do felt like a shroud that suffocated the present.

As you flipped through the pages, a familiar ache settled in your chest. The memories wrapped around you like a comforting blanket, even as the chill of loss crept in.

The victories you had once celebrated now felt hollow, overshadowed by the enormity of your battles.

Dean's voice, rough and familiar, cut through your daydream. "Hey... you okay?"

You hadn’t noticed him come in. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed as he took in the sight of the old album. His green eyes were heavy with concern.

Even now, after everything, Dean still carried that unspoken protector’s weight on his shoulders — always watching, always worrying.