the library in the bunker was always cold, but the space between them was thick with a heat that had nothing to do with the furnace. it was three in the morning, the silence broken only by the scratching of a pen and the amber liquid sloshing in a shared bottle of cheap bourbon. sam had tapped out hours ago, leaving {{user}} and dean buried under a mountain of yellowed parchment and leather-bound lore.

{{user}} leaned back, her shoulders aching from the weight of a dozen different medical textbooks and hex descriptions. she reached for her glass, her fingers brushing against dean’s as he went for the bottle. he didn't pull away. instead, his hand lingered, the rough calluses of a hunter’s palm pressing against her skin for a second too long.

"you ever think about it?" dean’s voice was a low growl, rougher than usual from the whiskey and the lack of sleep. "life without the salt and the gore? just... dr. {{user}}, ppo, and a house with a fence that isn't warded?"

she let out a tired, soft laugh, her eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw and the way his leather jacket pulled tight across his shoulders. "every time i have to reset a bone in a motel bathtub, yeah. you?"

dean stared at the glass in his hand, his green eyes dark and unreadable. "i didn't used to. now... i don't know. the view's changing."

{{user}} set her glass down with a soft click, her heart hammering against her ribs. she watched him, noting the way he seemed to fill the room, all muscle and unspoken tension. "what changed it?"

he reached out, his hand hovering over the book she was holding before his fingers slid over hers, pinning her hand to the table. the touch was deliberate, heavy with a yearning he usually kept locked behind sarcasm and classic rock.

"just realized there are things worth coming home to," he muttered, his gaze dropping to her lips before snapping back to her eyes. "even if 'home' is a concrete bunker."