The bunker door groaned open behind you, the creak echoing down the war room steps like thunder in a church. You didn’t turn around right away—just stared at the folder in your hands, the one Dean had tossed on the table hours ago with the word “Coven” scrawled across it in his handwriting.

Old intel. Old fears.

You swallowed hard, fingers brushing over the worn edge of the paper. Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be.

“They’re going to come after me, aren’t they?”

Dean didn’t answer right away. His boots hit the stairs with that slow, purposeful rhythm—the kind he only used when he was carrying too much anger and not enough excuses.

He stopped beside you, jaw set, shoulders tense. You glanced over just in time to see his eyes flicker—not with judgment, but something else. Something caught between guilt and protectiveness.

“Yeah,” he said. “They are.”

You nodded once. Tried to breathe around the knot in your chest. “Because I have a pulse and a spellbook.”

He gave a sharp exhale—almost a laugh, but not quite. “Because they’re idiots. And scared. And too damn stubborn to admit not all witches are monsters.”

“Funny,” you murmured. “That used to sound a lot like you.”

Dean looked at you then. Really looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize the way you stood in his bunker like you belonged there—because to him, you always had.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I was wrong.”

Silence slipped between you again—thick, heavy, full of things you both weren’t saying. You broke it first.

“So what now?” you asked, softer. “I can’t exactly fight off a dozen hunters alone.”

Dean stepped closer. Close enough that you could smell the faint trace of gunpowder and soap on his jacket. He reached out—hesitated—and then brushed a strand of hair from your face, slow, careful.

“You won’t have to.”

His voice was low. Steady.

“You’re staying here. With us.”

You blinked. “Dean…”

“I don’t care what the rulebook says. I don’t care what those bastards out there think. You’re family. You’ve always been. And if they want to get to you—” he pauses for just a moment before he finishes the sentence. “—they’re gonna have to come through me first.”

You didn’t realize your hands were shaking until he caught one gently in his. Held it like something he wasn’t quite ready to let go of.

“Sam’s with me on this,” he added quietly. “We owe you. And we trust you.”

A pause. A breath.

“I trust you.”

He let the words settle. Let you feel their weight. Then he released your hand, but not the tension.

“So. You still got that binding circle etched into your boots?” he asked with a half-smile.

“Why?”

“Because if we’re doing this, you might want to teach me a few tricks. Just in case things get ugly.”