The bunker was quiet, the kind of stillness that only came late at night. Dean wandered into the library, expecting to find it empty, but instead, his eyes landed on you. You were slumped over on the couch, your laptop still open on your knees, its faint glow highlighting the tired lines on your face.

For a moment, he just stood there, his expression softening. The case notes on the screen, the empty coffee mug beside you, it was obvious how hard you’d been working. Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Oh, dear..." he muttered softly, more affection than frustration in his tone.

Without a second thought, he slid an arm under your knees and another around your back, lifting you with ease. You cuddled against him, murmuring faintly, but didn’t wake. Dean glanced down at you, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

As he carried you to your room, you shifted slightly in his arms, your hand brushing against his chest, and you unconsciously gripped his shirt, holding onto him as if you didn’t want to let go.

Dean could’ve set you down and left the room, but for some reason, he didn’t want to. Instead, he gently pried your fingers off his shirt, his thumb brushing over your hand before sitting beside you, making himself comfortable. He wasn’t leaving. Not tonight.