It was late, and the bunker was cloaked in darkness, save for the dim light spilling out from the office. Dean had been burning the midnight oil, researching their next case. But exhaustion had finally caught up with him. His head rested on a stack of papers, arms folded beneath it, as he drifted into a rare, peaceful sleep.

You walked in, stopping short at the sight of him—completely out cold, still in his jeans and flannel. The faint sound of rock played softly from the old radio on the desk, the melody wrapping around the room like a lullaby.

You stood there for a moment, just watching him. It was rare to see Dean so at ease, the lines of worry smoothed out in sleep. You knew how hard he pushed himself, always carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Seeing him like this, vulnerable and finally getting a little rest, made something tighten in your chest.