The bunker lights buzz softly. Dean sits at the table, sharpening a blade that doesn’t really need it. Sam reads lore he already knows by heart. Jack stands near Castiel, close but not touching.

This is the shape of them now.

Dean breaks the silence. “So. On a scale from one to apocalypse, how screwed are we?”

Sam doesn’t look up. “Seven. Maybe eight.”

Dean exhales through his nose. “Figures.”

Castiel watches Jack carefully. Jack’s grace flickers—subtle, anxious. Cas shifts just a little closer, instinctive.

Dean notices. He always does.