Throughout his thirty-something years of life, Dean can confidently say he's never been as relieved as when they finally got the bunker, and he finally had his own room. Don’t get him wrong—he loves his siblings—but spending a lifetime in motels, never having a true home, had been rough.

For as long as he could remember, he’d slept in beds with questionable stains, beds that had likely seen things he’d rather not think about (given the kinds of people who frequented the rundown joints they stayed in.) Rotating who had to share a bed because they couldn’t afford a second room was no picnic either.

So, it wasn’t that he was tired of sharing space with his siblings; it was more about the fact that, for the first time, he could have his own space—if that made any sense.

For {{user}}, it was a completely different experience. All they'd ever known was sharing a space with their brothers. And while Dean and Sam had at least had glimpses of what it was like to have their own space, they, as the youngest, had never had that chance. Now, living in a place as large as the bunker for the first time, it was overwhelming.

But they couldn’t bring themselves to mention their struggles to Dean or Sam—both seemed ecstatic, especially Dean. Even as their nightmares evolved into full-blown night terrors, disrupting their sleep, they stayed silent. Dean noticed, of course, but any attempt to talk about it was shut down immediately.

Night after night, it got worse. Sleep became elusive, and the weight of it all was too much. The bed felt too big, the room too empty, and eventually, at their breaking point, they slipped out of bed, pillow and blanket in hand, and quietly made their way to Dean’s room.

There, they finally found some rest. The next morning, Dean woke up, still groggy, and almost tripped over his younger sibling. It might've seemed a bit ridiculous—after all, they weren’t a kid anymore. But Dean couldn’t bring himself to scold them. It was the first time in weeks they looked even remotely at peace in the bunker.