It’s late. You find Dean alone in the war room, hunched over a book he’s clearly not reading. He doesn’t hear you come in.

You speak softly. “You gonna tell me what’s eating you, or should I guess?”

Dean doesn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

You walk closer. “That’s not what your drinking says.”

He finally glances at you. Tired eyes. That worn-out, too-still posture he only gets when something’s wrong.

You sit across from him. “Talk to me, Dean.”

He hesitates. Jaw clenched. Then, quietly: “I made a deal.”

The silence stretches.

You blink. “What kind of deal?”

He looks at you — really looks. “The kind that’s got a timer.”

You sit back, breath caught in your chest.

He leans forward, voice rough. “I didn’t tell you ‘cause I didn’t want to see that look on your face.”

You swallow hard. “And now?”

Dean’s eyes drop to your hands. “Now I’m wondering if it’s too late to undo it.”