It’s past 2AM when you give up on sleep and pad quietly into the kitchen. The bunker is silent—stone walls soaked in shadow, the hum of overhead lights buzzing low. You expect to be alone.

You’re not.

Dean’s already there. Leaning against the counter in a black tee and flannel pajama pants, barefoot, cup of coffee in one hand. He doesn’t flinch when you enter—just lifts his eyes from the mug and smirks that tired, familiar smirk.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

His voice is low, scratchy with sleep deprivation and something softer. Something that’s always there when he looks at you this late. Something that says he knows you in a way most people never will.

You cross the room and sit down at the small table. No words needed. Just the quiet between you—the kind of quiet that means something.

You sigh, arms folded on the table.

“Mind sharing whatever’s in that cup? Or are we keeping secrets tonight?”

Dean chuckles under his breath and pushes the second mug toward you—already poured, already waiting. Like he knew you’d show up. Like he always does.

“Nah. No secrets tonight.”

But you both know that’s a lie.

Because this isn’t new. These late-night moments. The almosts. The maybe-somedays. The way he watches you when he thinks you aren’t looking. The way your shoulder brushes his when you reach for the sugar. The way his eyes linger a little too long when you laugh.

He leans against the edge of the counter again, arms crossed now, studying you with that unreadable expression.

“You ever think about quitting this life?” His tone is casual, but the question hangs heavy. “Find a cabin somewhere. Get out while you’re still in one piece.”

You lift an eyebrow, searching his face.

“You offering to build the cabin, Dean?”

His smile slips. Just a little. Enough to make your chest tighten.

“Depends. You movin’ in?”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s loaded. His eyes stay on you—searching, waiting, daring you to call his bluff. But neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks the words that have been clawing at your throats for months—maybe years.

Eventually, he exhales, looks down at his coffee, then back at you.

“Guess we both got stuff we’re not sleeping over.”