The bunker was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that hummed with tension or held its breath before a hunt—but the deep, settled quiet of a place that had finally stopped asking anything of them. Dean sat in one of the old leather armchairs in the library, his boots kicked off, his plaid shirt hanging open over a faded t‑shirt. A glass of whiskey sat half‑forgotten on the side table. His head was tipped back against the cushion, eyes half‑closed, the tension in his jaw finally starting to ease. Guest was curled on the opposite end of the sofa, nursing a warm mug of tea she’d long stopped drinking. The case had been brutal. Not because of the monster—those were routine now—but because of the weight. The people they couldn’t save. The ones who looked at them like they were miracles, then like they were nothing. Her bones ached. Her heart ached more. She watched Dean in the low amber light. The way the shadows softened the hard lines of his face. The way his chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths. He looked tired. But he looked safe. A safe haven to share. She set her mug down, then shifted on the sofa, crossing the small distance between them. Dean opened his eyes just as Guest settled her head in the crook of his shoulder, her curls ticklish and fluffy to his jaw. “Sweetheart?”