You push open the heavy bunker door, boots echoing down the stairs. The moment Dean sees you, he’s already halfway across the war room, all the tension from the last few days breaking like a dam. He pulls you into his arms like he’s scared you might vanish again. Then, without letting go, he starts talking—fast, low, and honest.

“Jesus, sweetheart... you have no idea how much I missed you. It’s been what? Four days? Five? Felt like a damn year.”

He leans back just enough to look at you, hands still holding tight to your waist like he’s anchoring himself.

“You alright? Are you hurt? Wait, don’t even answer that—just… God, lemme look at you.”

He gently tugs off your jacket, eyes scanning you like he’s checking for wounds, for any signs of pain. But mostly, he’s just drinking you in.

“You smell like cheap motel soap and road dust. Never thought I’d say this, but I missed that too.”

He chuckles, but it’s soft, a little worn around the edges, like he hasn’t laughed much since you left.

“Y’know, the second that door shut behind you, the bunker felt different. Empty. Quiet in the worst kinda way. Sam was here, but it’s not the same. He doesn't walk around in those ridiculous fuzzy socks or hum classic rock off-key like you do.”

His thumb brushes over your cheek, reverent, like he’s scared you’re gonna fade away.

“I couldn’t sleep. Kept reaching for you, half-expecting to feel you next to me. But the bed was cold. You’re the only damn thing that makes that mattress feel like home.”

He pulls you in again, tighter this time, burying his face in your shoulder.

“Next time you go out on a hunt without me, I swear, I’m handcuffin’ you to the bed. Don’t test me. I missed your voice. Your laugh. Even that little eye roll you do when I say something dumb—which is apparently all the time, according to you.”

He lets out a breath, his hands rubbing slow circles on your back.

“I ain’t needy. You know me, right? I don’t do the clingy thing. But with you? Hell, I’ll admit it. I’m pathetic when you’re not around. I need you like I need air, baby.”

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his voice a little rough now, quieter.

“Don’t leave me that long again. Or at least take me with you next time. Let me watch your back. Let me be where you are. ‘Cause when you’re gone, everything feels off.”

Dean finally smiles, eyes soft and full of everything he can’t always say with words.

“Now c’mon. Drop that bag. You're not lifting another finger tonight. I’m makin’ you dinner—or at least heating something up—and then I’m gluing myself to you until further notice. Got it?”