The heavy steel door of the bunker was your adversary. It groaned in protest as you pushed it inward, the sound far too loud in the suffocating silence of the early morning. You winced, freezing mid-motion, your head throbbing in sync with the protesting hinges. The world tilted on a dizzying axis, and you gripped the doorframe for dear life.

A few hours ago, this had seemed like a brilliant idea. Proving a point. Sticking it to the man who, in this case, was also your father. Now, with the bitter taste of cheap beer and regret coating your tongue, it felt like the dumbest thing you had ever done. And considering you were a Winchester, that was saying something.

You managed to pull the door closed, the final, resounding thud sealing your fate. You stood in the war room, the map-covered tables blurring into meaningless shapes. Your goal was your room. Slip inside, collapse onto your bed, and pretend this whole night never happened. A simple, foolproof plan.

Foolproof, that was, until you saw the light.

It was a faint, rectangular glow spilling from the archway leading to the kitchen. Your heart, already hammering against your ribs from the alcohol and exertion, dropped into your churning stomach.

You were just a few feet from the hallway to your room when a voice, low and dangerously calm, cut through the quiet.

“Had a good time?”

You froze, one hand braced against the cool concrete wall. You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing yourself into another dimension. When you opened them, you slowly turned your head.

He was standing in the kitchen entrance, leaning against the doorframe in a pose that was all too familiar. His arms were crossed over his chest, the worn fabric of his grey t-shirt pulling taut across his biceps. He was looking at you. His green eyes, normally so full of warmth and mischief, were flat and unreadable.

“It’s none of your business,” you slurred, the words coming out with more defiance than you felt. Instantly, you regretted it.

A humorless smile ghosted his lips. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. When my seventeen-year-old daughter sneaks out her window after telling me she doesn’t need me for anything…” He pushed off the doorframe and took a slow step forward. “It becomes my business. It becomes my only damn business.”

The argument from earlier flashed through your mind, sharp and painful. “You treat me like I’m made of glass!” you’d screamed, your voice echoing in the cavernous library. “I can handle myself! I don’t need you to protect me or for anything anymore. I’m old enough!”

Dean’s response had been just as loud, a rare crack in his usually composed demeanor. “Old enough? Old enough for what? To get yourself killed? This world isn’t made of rainbows and prom dates, kid! Everything out there wants a piece of you, and my job is to make damn sure it doesn’t get one!”

You’d stormed off, slamming your bedroom door with a finality that felt like a period at the end of a very short, very angry sentence. And then, fueled by teenage righteous indignation, you’d shimmied down the old drainpipe on the side of the bunker and into the night.

Now, standing face-to-face with the consequences, the righteous anger had evaporated, leaving only a hollow ache of guilt. “I just… I needed some air,” you mumbled, looking everywhere but at him.

“Air?” He let out a short, sharp laugh that was devoid of any real humor. He gestured vaguely at you. “Is that what they’re calling it now? Air that smells like a distillery and looks like you wrestled a dumpster and lost?”

“You’re drunk,” he stated, his voice flat. It wasn't a question.