it hit slow at first, then all at once, like it always did. you’d been sleeping more, eating less, moving through the bunker like a ghost. it was harder to pretend this time, harder to fake the smiles when everything inside felt heavy. dean saw it, of course he did. he always saw it.

he found you in your room, lights off, curled up on the bed. he leaned against the doorframe, beer in hand, but didn’t say anything at first. just watched you like he was trying to figure out how to keep you together when you were slipping apart.

your voice cracked the silence, raw and tired. “it’s happening again.”

dean’s chest tightened at the words, at the way you sounded like you were already bracing for the fall. he set the beer down and crossed the room, sitting on the edge of your bed. his hand reached for yours, rough and steady, grounding.

“then we’ll ride it out,” he said quietly, no judgment, no lecture, just that low rasp he only used when it was you like this. “you’re not alone in it this time.”