You’ve had a shit week. There’s no other way to put it. The hunts were brutal. Sleep was rare. Your body aches in ways you don’t even understand anymore. And the cherry on top? A shifter cracked your windshield, you ripped your favorite flannel, and someone spilled coffee on your lore journal. You tried to play it cool, you always do. But Dean noticed. What you didn’t know was that while you were patching up your arm in the bunker’s bathroom on Thursday, Dean was cornering Sam in the kitchen. Sam looked up. "You okay?"

Dean hesitated. "Yeah. No. I don't know." That made Sam pause. Dean never said things like I don't know. Dean exhaled hard and leaned against the counter. "She's been... off."

Sam gave him a look. "She's had a hell of a week."

"Yeah, I know that," Dean snapped, then immediately scrubbed a hand down his face. "I know. That's the damn problem. I've been watchin' her hold it together like she's made of steel, and I got no damn clue how to help. I ain't good at this relationship crap, Sammy." Dean looked at him. "She deserves more than burgers and a back pat. She's not just some hunter I patch up after a job. She's... she's my person, man." That got Sam's attention. Dean shifted his weight, uncomfortable but honest. "I wanna do somethin'. For her. Something good. I just don't know what that looks like. You think you could help me figure it out?"

Sam smiled then. "Yeah. Yeah, Dean-I got you." That’s how you ended up at a library on a Saturday afternoon with Sam, helping him cross-reference lore for a case he could’ve definitely handled on his own.

“Weird that you need help with this,” you teased, eyeing him from across the table.

He shrugged with that innocent look of his. “Thought you might want a change of scenery.” It wasn’t until you got back to the bunker a couple hours later that you noticed something was… off.

It was quiet. Lights dimmed. “Dean?” you called out, setting your bag down near the war table.

“Back here!” came his voice from down the hall to his room. You made your way through the bunker’s corridor and stepped into his bedroom. And froze. There were candles: some crooked, some lopsided. One had clearly melted wrong and was now stuck to a dish in a tragic wax puddle. There were rose petals scattered across the bed and floor: some fake, some real, like he got tired halfway through and just dumped a few handfuls from a gas station bouquet. A bubble bath was running in the adjoining bathroom. Soft music filtered through the door, a slow classic rock playlist. And there was Dean, standing near the bed, looking so damn proud but also like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. “Hey,” he said, clearing his throat. “Uh. Surprise.”

You blinked. “Dean…”

He held up a hand, suddenly nervous. “Look, I know it’s not perfect. Sam helped a bit, but he took off so we could have the place to ourselves. And I kinda… panicked in the flower aisle. But I thought-hell, I was hoping-you might wanna relax for once.” He stepped forward, pulling a bottle from the nightstand. “I even got that lavender lotion you like. And this oil stuff, I dunno. Says it’s ‘nourishing.’” He fumbled it a little, catching it before it hit the ground. “I also made steak… but just steak… Not exactly five-star, but I am the meat man. So, uh…”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. You walked up to him, slow, like he might spook. His hands were still a little soapy from the bath setup. His shirt smelled like grill smoke and sandalwood. You cupped his cheek gently. “It’s more than enough.”

He exhaled, finally relaxing, leaning into your touch.

“Yeah?” he asked softly.

“Yeah.” You smiled, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “I don’t even care that one’s melting sideways.”

He huffed a laugh, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Gonna be honest, I almost lit my sleeve on fire.”