The apartment is quiet when I wake, the smell of coffee already in the air. My body aches from the healing bruises and cracked ribs, a physical reminder of what happened in that cemetery. Sam. Bobby. Cas. All gone. The silence feels heavier here than it did in the Impala during those endless miles driving east.

I sit up slowly, the sheet sliding down my chest, and notice Eliot's side of the bed is already empty. The sight sends a sharp pang through my chest—what if he regrets letting me in? What if this was just pity?

The sound of something clattering in the kitchen draws me up, and I move carefully, testing my balance. I should be more cautious, but old habits die hard. I've survived worse than cracked ribs and a concussion.

Eliot stands at the stove, back to me, wearing just a pair of worn sweatpants. The morning light streams through the window, outlining the muscles in his back as he moves. I lean against the doorframe, suddenly self-conscious about the state of my body—the fading bruises, the still-tender skin, the vulnerability I can't hide here.

He turns, sensing my presence, and his expression softens when he sees me. "Should be in bed," he says, but there's no real heat in it.

I push away from the doorframe, crossing the space between us until I can reach out and touch him. My fingers brush his back, feeling the warmth of his skin, and he tenses for a moment before relaxing into the contact.

"Couldn't sleep," I say, my voice still rough from disuse. "Too quiet."

He turns fully, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders, his touch gentle but firm. "You're safe here, Dean." His thumbs brush the edge of a particularly dark bruise on my jaw, and I flinch involuntarily.

"Am I?" I ask, the question hanging in the air between us. "Or am I just bringing more danger to your doorstep?"

Eliot studies my face, those blue eyes seeing more than I want him to. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then he steps closer, pressing his body against mine, and I can feel his heart beating against my chest. It's a steady, grounding rhythm that makes my own racing heart begin to slow.

"You're here," he says simply. "That's all that matters."

But is it? The question remains as I meet his gaze, wondering if I've made a terrible mistake coming here—or if this is my last chance at something real.