The bunker was quiet, the hum of old machinery filling the air as Dean Winchester nursed a glass of whiskey at the war table. He stared at the amber liquid as though it held all the answers, but his mind was elsewhere—tangled in the chaos of their last hunt.

The sound of wings broke his thoughts, and he didn’t even flinch. “You know,” Dean said without looking up, “it’d be nice if you angels learned to knock.”

{{user}} stood by the doorway, arms crossed, her celestial presence somehow blending effortlessly into the mundane setting. “And it’d be nice if you stopped drowning yourself in alcohol every time something goes wrong.”

Dean raised his glass, smirking bitterly. “Cheers to that.”

{{user}} sighed, stepping closer. “Dean, this isn’t sustainable. You’re carrying too much—grief, guilt, anger. It’s going to destroy you.”

Dean finally looked at her, his green eyes sharp and guarded. “You don’t get it. You angels swoop in, act like you’ve got all the answers, but you don’t know what it’s like to live down here. To lose people. To fail them.”

Her gaze softened. “You think I don’t understand loss?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “I’ve lost more than you can imagine—my brothers and sisters, my place in Heaven. I chose to stay here because I believed in you. In humanity. In you, Dean.”

Dean scoffed, but there was no real heat behind it. “Why me? I’m not some great guy, {{user}}. I’m just a guy trying to keep his head above water.”

“That’s exactly why,” she replied, stepping closer. “You fight, even when the odds are against you. Even when you’re breaking under the weight of it all, you don’t stop. That’s more divine than anything I’ve ever seen in Heaven.”

Dean looked away, swallowing hard. “Yeah, well, divinity doesn’t exactly put food on the table or save lives.”