The bunker felt too quiet. Too empty. The air was thick with dust and the scent of old books, but all Dean could smell was absence. Her absence. A week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. He counted every second.

Sam and Bobby had taken turns keeping an eye on him, making sure he didn’t grab the keys and tear through the night in a reckless, desperate search. It wasn’t like him to lose control like this—not over a hunt, not over a lead—but this wasn’t just anyone. This was her.

The dim glow of a single lamp barely pushed back the darkness in his room. Dean sat on the edge of his bed, hands gripping his knees, his knuckles white. His heart hammered against his ribs, too fast, too erratic, like it was trying to escape. His breathing was uneven. He felt like a caged animal, trapped inside these walls when every fiber of his being screamed to be out there, finding her, saving her.

His fingers itched for the bottle on the nightstand, but he didn’t want whiskey. He wanted her. The way she rolled her eyes when he said something cocky. The warmth of her hand brushing his. The sound of her voice cutting through the chaos of his life, grounding him.

He clenched his jaw so hard it ached. Every minute that passed felt like another nail in his chest. His mind was an endless loop of worst-case scenarios.

Dean stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, fists shaking at his sides. "I swear to God," he muttered, voice raw, breaking under the weight of it, "if you’re out there, you better be breathing."