Sam and Dean were sitting at the war table in the bunker, talking through their latest hunt- vampires in Ohio, a nest already cleared out, new signs popping up again. Their voices carried that sharp rhythm they always had when they were in work mode: strategy, lore, next steps.

You sat nearby, hands folded in your lap, eyes unfocused on nothing in particular. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, blending with the low rumble of their voices until everything turned into background static. It wasn’t the first time you’d gone quiet like this, and the Winchesters hardly blinked- used to giving you the time and space you needed until you came back on your own.

But Jack noticed.

Every time he glanced at you, it wasn’t silence he felt- it was like tuning into a broken channel, a television screen stuck between signals. His stomach twisted. You looked there but not there, and no one else seemed concerned.

Dean was mid-sentence about silver bullets when Jack leaned forward, his green eyes searching your face.

“Are… are you okay?”

He asked softly, almost hesitant. Sam waved him off without looking. “They’ll be fine, Jack. Just… give it a minute.” But Jack couldn’t shake the way the air felt wrong around you. Static in his head, an ache in his chest, like maybe this wasn’t just zoning out. Maybe you were sick, and no one else could hear the signal cutting out.