the bunker was quiet, too quiet. you sat at the war table long after the lights dimmed, hands curled around a cold cup of coffee you weren’t drinking. it had been hours since dean left, no word, no sound of the impala pulling back into the garage. you told yourself you weren’t waiting but your eyes kept cutting to the door, every shadow making your heart leap before it sank again.

when the lock finally clicked, it was almost worse. you didn’t move, not even when his boots hit the floor- heavy, tired. he stopped in the doorway, eyes flicking to you, reading everything without you having to say a word. his jaw tightened, but he came closer anyway, sliding into the chair beside you.

he didn’t lecture, didn’t joke, didn’t try to make it better. he just sat there, silent, his hand finding yours under the table, thumb brushing your knuckles like a lifeline. he smelled like whiskey and smoke, like he’d been somewhere he shouldn’t, but he was here now. and the weight of that was enough to make your throat tighten.

“you shouldn’t wait up for me,” he said lowly, but the way he held your hand told you he needed you to anyway.