The halls of the bunker were quiet, save for the soft hum of overhead lights and the ragged, hiccuped breathing of a child clinging desperately to her chest. His little fists were curled into her shirt, knuckles white, body trembling. She walked slowly, barefoot across the cold floor, tracing a tired path around the war room table, as if motion alone might soothe him. It was nearly 3 a.m. again.

His cries had quieted from sharp wails to shaky sobs, but the fear was still etched into his small face—eyes darting to every shadow like they might swallow her whole. Like if she let go, the world would fall apart. Three years old and already carrying a weight no child should.

She whispered soundless comforts, rocking him with a rhythm more desperate than maternal now. Her arms ached, her eyes burned. The helplessness clawed at her throat. Panic attacks, the pediatrician had said. Separation anxiety, severe. No supernatural cause. Just… something inside him breaking too soon.

She wished it was a ghost.

A soft creak from the hallway pulled her gaze. Dean stood there, barefoot, boxers and a black shirt, eyes puffy with half-slept worry. His jaw clenched when he saw the way their son shook in her arms, a quiet rage at the universe flickering behind his eyes. He crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps, like approaching something fragile. And he was.

Dean didn’t say anything at first. Just reached out, brushing the boy’s sweat-damp hair, then her wrist—grounding them both. His voice was gravel-soft when it finally came.

“Let me hold him.”

She hesitated, but the boy was already reaching, whimpering. Dean took him gently, his arms solid, safe. The toddler’s sobs ebbed into hiccups as he pressed his face into Dean’s chest.

Dean tightened his hold, heart cracking with every breath the boy took.

“I got you, little man. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”