The bunker was quiet for once. Sam had left earlier that evening, grinning like an idiot, shirt tucked into his jeans, hair a little too perfect. “Don’t wait up,” he’d said, and you didn’t plan to. You’d cracked a beer and put on one of Dean’s old records just to fill the silence; not because you were lonely or anything, just… the quiet in the bunker always felt too heavy. The needle hit the vinyl with a soft scratch, and warm guitar tones bled into the space like sunlight through dust. You started clearing the dishes from the counter, sleeves rolled up, hips swaying absentmindedly as you wiped down the sink. The last song had faded out and you were humming to yourself, halfway to tossing an empty beer bottle in the trash when you heard it.

“Oh, thinkin’ about all our younger years…”

Your heart tripped a little. Bryan Adams. Heaven. You smiled. Of course Dean had this one. He had a thing for the sappy ballads he’d never admit to liking out loud. You were mid-reach for the dish towel when two warm hands suddenly landed on your hips. You yelped, spinning around with wide eyes. “Dean! Jesus-!”

“Easy sweetheart.” He was grinning, and without saying a word, he took one of your hands, the other still resting at your waist, and started to sway.

“Seriously?” you asked, laughter bubbling in your chest despite yourself.

Dean just twirled you gently, eyes glittering in the soft light. “What?” he said innocently. “Can’t a guy dance in his own damn kitchen?” He interlaced your fingers, and just started singing along quietly, voice low and rough and way too sincere for your heart to handle. “You’re all that I want, when you’re lyin’ here in my arms…”

You blinked, a smile creeping across your lips as he twirled you slowly in the warm kitchen light, your socked feet sliding across the bunker floor. Dean wasn’t showing off. He wasn’t joking. He was just… in it. “Someone’s in a good mood,” you said softly, breath catching as he pulled you a little closer, hand pressing lightly at your lower back.

He glanced down at you, a soft smirk curving his mouth. “Can’t I be?”

You tilted your head at him. “You usually don’t serenade me unless you’re drunk.”

He let out a low laugh. “Well… I’m not drunk.” He kept singing, quieter now, almost to himself. “And love is all that I need…” You leaned your forehead against his chest, eyes fluttering shut, and felt the vibrations of the words against your cheek. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He rocked you gently as the song swelled, his lips near your ear. “And it isn’t too hard to see…” His voice dipped low: quieter than the record player, barely audible, like the words were only meant for you. “We’re in heaven…”