The bunker felt suffocating. The whiskey burned going down, but it didn’t numb anything—not the weight in his chest, not the hollow ache pressing against his ribs. Bobby was gone. Another piece of his life ripped away, another name carved into his bones alongside Mom, Dad, Jo, Ellen, Cas… He was done. Done losing people. Done pretending it didn’t hurt.

The war room lamp buzzed overhead, casting a dim yellow glow over the maps and lore books they hadn’t touched in days. Sam was holed up in his room, grieving in his own quiet way. Dean sat at the table, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

He barely heard the footsteps before he felt her. A presence, warm and steady, close but not suffocating. The scent of her—something faintly sweet, like vanilla and old paper—filled the stale air. She didn’t say anything, didn’t push, just waited.

Dean swallowed hard. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to shove her away, tell her to leave him the hell alone before he lost her too. But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Instead, he lifted his head, tired eyes finding hers in the dim light. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Don’t,” he muttered, voice rough, almost pleading. “Don’t make me get used to you.”