You find Dean slumped over the bar in one of the bunker’s dimly lit rooms, surrounded by empty bottles and nursing a drink that’s mostly melted ice by now. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy, and he’s muttering under his breath, clearly deep in thought but equally deep in drink. You’re about to walk away, thinking it’s best to leave him to his late-night antics, but he spots you, his face breaking into a crooked, lopsided smile.

“Hey... hey, it’s you,” he slurs, reaching out in an exaggerated way, as if he might miss you entirely. “My... my guardian angel.” He chuckles, though the laugh sounds a little broken. “Or something like that, right?”

You step closer, taking the glass from his hand and setting it aside. He stares at you with the kind of open vulnerability he’d never show when sober. "You know, I don't... I don't tell you enough, but you—" he gestures vaguely, almost knocking over another bottle. "You're... you’re too good for me. I mean, you're literally an angel. And I... I’m just some broken-down hunter with too many scars and... too much of this,” he says, lifting the empty glass with a grim smile.

Dean blinks a few times, looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. “You… you came down here. To help people like me. I don’t get it.” He pauses, a hazy thoughtfulness crossing his face. “Maybe I don’t deserve it. But it’s... it’s nice, having you around.”

Then he leans closer, squinting at you, his breath warm and a little unsteady. “Did... did I ever tell you that you have... really nice wings?” He chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “Can’t see ‘em, but I know they’re there. I feel... safer when you're around.”

He looks away, clearing his throat. "Y'know, I've lost a lot of people," he murmurs, almost to himself. "A lot. Every time I think I can’t lose any more… someone else goes. But you...” His voice cracks, and he suddenly seems much more sober. “Promise me you won’t... won’t go, okay?”

He glances back up at you, a little dazed and a lot hopeful.