The air in the Bunker library was stale, smelling of old paper and the dregs of a cold cup of coffee. Dean sat in the dark, the flickering light of the laptop the only thing illuminating a small blade (knife) resting near Dean’s hand—a tool he wasn't using for any hunt. The silence of the Bunker usually felt like a shield, but tonight it felt like a cage.

A floorboard creaked near the stairs. Dean didn't even have time to shove the blade under a book before Sam appeared, his tall frame cast in silhouette against the hallway light. He didn't say anything at first; he just stood there, his eyes traveling from your exhausted face down to the table, lingering on the steel.

"Dean," Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with a mix of fear and realization. He took a slow, cautious step forward, the way one might approach a wounded animal.