The bunker’s kitchen smelled like coffee. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Dean rummage through the fridge like nothing happened. Like you didn’t hear her, that girl, last night. Her laugh echoing down the hallway, soft and breathless, tangled with his voice. It wasn’t the first time. Probably wouldn’t be the last. But this time? This time it hit different. “You’re quiet,” Dean finally said, glancing over his shoulder. Smirk on his face, pretending not to notice the storm behind your eyes. You didn’t move. Just raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t wanna interrupt you. Sounded like you were busy.” His smirk faltered. Barely. But you caught it. “C’mon,” he said, shutting the fridge door with a little too much force. “Don’t start.” “Start what? I’m just saying, you’ve really perfected the whole ‘man in his thirties acting like a hormonal teenager’ thing. Honestly, I’m impressed.” “Jesus, really?” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustration rolling off him in waves. “I didn’t know I needed your permission to-” “You don’t,” you cut in, voice sharp. “You don’t owe me anything. We’re just friends, right? That’s what we keep telling each other.” His jaw clenched. “You know it’s not like that.” “Do I?” you shot back, feeling that ache deep in your chest, the one that always crept in when he touched someone else like he didn’t stay up at night talking to you, like he didn’t steal glances when you thought you weren’t looking. “You sleep with strangers. Then come back here with that same stupid smile like I’m supposed to pretend it doesn’t bother me.” Dean stepped closer, hands at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare. “It’s not like they mean anything.” “That’s the problem, Dean!” you practically laughed, bitter and breaking. “I’m surrounded by manchildren. Guys who don’t know how to feel anything unless someone’s walking out the door.” Silence. It hung thick between you, painful. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t care when you go find someone who doesn’t even know you. Who doesn’t know how you hate sleeping without music on. Who doesn’t know about the scar on your knee or the way you hum when you’re cleaning your guns.” Dean’s breathing was shallow now, green eyes locked on you like you were both the thing he wanted and the thing he was terrified of. “I don’t want pieces of you anymore. If all I get is what’s leftover after you burn out on girls you don’t give a damn about… then I’m done.” Dean’s voice cracked when he finally spoke. “You’re not just… leftovers. You never were.”