You notice it the moment you walk into the bunker. It’s quiet, too quiet. Dean’s sitting at the table, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, a bottle of beer in front of him, barely touched. He’s physically there, but his mind is somewhere else. You step into the room quietly. Dean’s good at hiding when something’s off, but today it’s obvious. He’s wearing that look, one that feels heavy, like he’s carrying a weight too big for anyone to bear.

“Dean?” you ask softly, not wanting to startle him. You take a few steps closer, your voice careful, like walking on thin ice. He doesn’t look up at first. His fingers grip the bottle a little tighter, his jaw set like he’s trying to hold himself together. But it’s not working. “Hey,” you repeat, your voice a little firmer now, trying to pull him back to the present. “You good?”

Dean finally lifts his head, but there’s a hollowness to his eyes. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “Just tired. Been a long day.” You don’t buy it. You can see right through him. You take a step closer, settling down on the chair across from him.

“Dean,” you try again, softer this time, leaning in a little closer. “You can’t keep doing this. You know that, right?”

He’s quiet for a long time. Just when you think he’s not going to answer, he lifts his gaze to meet yours. “I should’ve been faster,” he says, voice raw, like it physically hurts him to speak. “I should’ve-should’ve been there, should’ve done something. Every time, man… every damn time, I’m the one who’s supposed to protect him. And I failed.”

The rawness of his voice hits you in a way that makes your heart ache. You want to reach out, comfort him, but you know Dean. He doesn’t ask for comfort. He doesn’t take it well. “I brought him back,” he mutters, his eyes dropping again. “I did. But… it shouldn’t have happened. Sammy shouldn’t have died at all. I should’ve-I should’ve done something differently. Maybe if I hadn’t gotten distracted, or maybe if I-”