The bunker was unusually still that evening, the echoes of the last hunt fading into the background like a distant memory. You’d been patching up the Impala for the better part of an hour, Dean by your side, sleeves rolled up and smudges of grease on his arms. It wasn’t often you got moments like this, quiet, undisturbed, where the weight of the world felt just a little lighter.

Dean leaned against the Impala’s hood, a beer in hand, his gaze following your movements. "You’ve got a good touch with her," he remarked, his voice low and easy. A faint smile tugged at his lips, though his eyes seemed distant for a moment, like his mind was miles away. He hesitated, the quiet stretching out before he finally added, "Ever think about it? Staying put, living... normal?"

The words hung in the air, softer than usual, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what he hoped the answer would be.