The bunker had been too quiet for days—the kind of quiet that pressed on Dean’s ears until every clink of a bottle, every creak of the floorboards, felt louder than it should. The argument had been stupid. He knew that. One of those things that started small and sharp and somehow grew teeth, turning into something that sat between you like a loaded gun. Pride had kept him on his feet, jaw tight, words short. Until now.

You stood near the map table, arms crossed, staring at anything but him. Dean lingered a few feet away, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. He cleared his throat once, then again, like he could cough up the right words if he tried hard enough. Finally, he took a breath and closed the distance.

Before you could say anything, Dean dropped.

It wasn’t dramatic. No grand speech. Just the solid thump of his knees hitting the floor in front of you. He tilted his head up, green eyes wide and a little too shiny, mouth pulled into that familiar crooked line—the one he used when he knew he was screwed and hoping charm might save him. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward until his chin rested against your stomach, warm through your shirt, his hands coming up to lightly grip your sides like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“Okay,” he muttered, voice rough and quiet. “I know I messed up.”

His thumb brushed a small, absent-minded circle against your hip, a nervous habit he didn’t even seem aware of. He sighed, forehead tipping forward just enough to bump against you.

“I hate fighting with you,” Dean admitted. “Especially over something this dumb. I should’ve listened. I should’ve just—” He shook his head, a humorless huff escaping him. “I should’ve shut up. And you know how hard that is for me.”

He looked up again, eyes searching your face like it held the answer to whether he was about to lose you or not. The bravado was gone. No cocky grin, no sarcastic shield. Just Dean—tired, stubborn, and trying.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never do. You matter to me. More than my stupid pride. More than being right.”

He stayed there, unmoving, chin still resting against you, completely vulnerable in a way only you ever saw. No rushing you. No demands. Just waiting, hoping, wearing that pathetic puppy-dog expression like a badge of surrender—because if dropping to his knees was what it took to fix this, Dean Winchester would do it without hesitation.