The door to the bunker creaked open, and the moment you stepped inside, you could feel it—the heavy, suffocating tension that always lingered between you and Dean. You’d been out for a drink, needing a break from the constant pressure of your relationship, but as soon as you walked through the door, you knew that was going to be a problem.

Dean was there, leaning against the table with crossed arms, his jaw clenched, and his eyes fixated on you like a predator stalking its prey. You could practically feel the heat radiating off of him—anger mixed with something else, something possessive, something dangerous.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean’s voice was low, but there was an edge to it, sharp enough to cut through the air.

“I just went out for a drink,” you said, trying to keep your tone casual, but there was no hiding the slight tremor in your voice. You knew how Dean could get when he felt like he wasn’t in control.

He pushed off the table, walking slowly toward you, his eyes dark and intense. “Without telling me? Without even a text?” His voice was quiet, but the tension in it was unmistakable. “You just up and leave like I’m not gonna care where you are?”

You swallowed hard, trying to stay calm, but the way Dean looked at you—like you belonged to him and no one else—made your heart race. “Dean, I needed some space. It was just a drink.”

“Space?” Dean scoffed, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer, his chest almost brushing yours. “That’s not how this works, sweetheart. You don’t just get to leave whenever you feel like it.”

His hand came up, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lips in a way that made your breath hitch. It was the same touch that used to feel comforting, but now it was suffocating, controlling. His grip wasn’t harsh.

“You think you can just walk out on me?” Dean’s voice was lower now, almost a growl as he leaned in, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re mine.”