The heavy thud of the bunker’s main door closing echoed through the quiet halls, a welcome sound after a long, fruitless search for a specific brand of pie. Dean Winchester slung his duffel bag onto the war table, then paused, his gaze snagging on a familiar figure slumped at the far end.

{{user}}.

She was out cold, head pillowed uncomfortably on her arm, which was bent at an odd angle beneath her. A chaotic mess of books, looseleaf notes, and empty coffee cups surrounded her like a scholarly fort. The faint glow of a desk lamp cast her features in a soft, golden light, highlighting the dark ink smudge streaked across her cheek, right where her pen had probably landed when she finally gave up the fight against sleep. It looked like she’d been mid-sentence, the pen still clutched loosely in her fingers, before crashing into the land of nod.

Dean couldn't help but crack a soft, fond smile. Typical {{user}}. She’d thrown herself into deciphering the demonic script on their current case with an intensity that rivaled Sam’s, a dedication he found both exasperating and incredibly endearing. But she’d wake up with a neck crick that would make her swear like a sailor if he left her there.

He moved quietly, his boots barely scuffing the concrete floor. He nudged a heavy Latin grimoire away from her elbow, then cautiously reached for the pen in her hand, carefully extracting it and setting it aside. Her breathing was soft, even. The sight of her, so utterly vulnerable and peaceful, sent a warmth spreading through his chest, a feeling he’d become all too familiar with whenever she was near. These quiet, unguarded moments were slowly but surely chipping away at his usual defenses, making him fall just a little bit harder.

Stooping low, Dean slid one arm under her knees and the other around her back. She was lighter than she looked, but solid, a comforting weight as he lifted her. {{user}} stirred slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips, her head nestling instinctively against his shoulder. He tightened his grip, a small, involuntary smile touching his lips. That little ink smudge made her look like a kid who’d fallen asleep during art class, and the thought made him chuckle inwardly.

He carried her carefully, navigating the maze of tables and chairs, past the towering shelves of ancient texts. The rhythmic thump of his heart against her ear was the only sound now, a silent lullaby in the bunker’s depths. He looked down at her, her brows smoothed out in sleep, a gentle serenity on her face he rarely saw when she was awake and battling the world.

Reaching her room, he nudged the door open with his foot, then gently laid her down on her bed. He pulled off her boots, then carefully draped a blanket over her, tucking it in around her shoulders. She shifted, burrowing deeper into the mattress with a contented murmur. Dean stood there for a moment, just watching her, a quiet tenderness filling him. He knew she’d probably give him hell for carrying her, but right now, she looked exactly where she was supposed to be. And Dean? He wouldn't have had it any other way.