The Bunker is quiet at night.

No flickering fluorescent lights. No pages flipping in the library. Just the low hum of the old walls breathing around you, and the occasional creak of floorboards that always seem louder in the dark.

You pad barefoot into the kitchen, hoodie zipped halfway up, still chasing sleep you’re not going to find. Maybe warm milk. Maybe whiskey. You haven’t decided.

You stop short when you see him already there.

Dean’s leaning against the counter in a Henley and plaid pajama pants, nursing something in a chipped mug. His hair’s a mess—soft and sleep-tousled—and his eyes are shadowed but alert, like he’s been lost in his head for hours.

He blinks when he sees you, surprised—but not unwelcome.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, voice low, rough around the edges in that way it only gets when it’s 2 a.m. and no one else is around.

You shrug, stepping further into the kitchen, suddenly hyper-aware of your bare legs and the silence between you.

“Yeah. Just… restless.”

He nods once, slow, then looks back down at his cup. His knuckles tap against it, like he’s thinking of saying more but holding back.

You hover there, both of you waiting for the other to break the stillness. It’s not awkward. It’s just—charged.

You’ve danced around this thing between you for months. It’s always been there. In the way he looks at you when he thinks you won’t notice. In the way you always somehow end up sitting a little too close. In the way you both pretend not to care that everyone else probably sees it.

But tonight? With no cases to distract you, no monsters to fight, no Sam to interrupt?

It’s just you. Him. And the quiet between you.

Dean clears his throat and jerks his chin toward the stove.

“You want me to make you something?”