The bunker felt almost too quiet after the chaos of the last few days. No monster to track, no motel walls to stare at—just the hum of the vents, the flicker of the TV, and the smell of takeout drifting through the air. The three hunters had claimed the couch for the night, feet kicked up, plates balanced precariously on their laps.

Dean had wedged himself into one corner with his usual spread—cheeseburger, onion rings, and a slice of pie already waiting on a side plate like dessert was part of the mission plan.

Sam, ever the picture of discipline, sat beside him with a salad so fresh it could’ve been picked from the bunker’s nonexistent garden.

Dean stared at it like it had personally offended him. “Y’know, Sammy, I’m just sayin’… if we were grading post-hunt meals? That thing would get an F.” He pointed at the salad with a fry before popping it into his mouth.

Sam rolled his eyes, stabbing at a piece of lettuce. “Not everything has to be deep-fried and smothered in cheese, Dean.”

“Doesn’t have to be, sure,” Dean said, waving his burger for emphasis, “but it should be. You’ve got the metabolism of a lumberjack and you’re still eating like a yoga instructor.”

Sam shot him a look. “And you’ve got the cholesterol of a seventy-year-old trucker.”

Dean laughed, leaning back and taking an obnoxiously large bite, talking around it just to make a point. “Tastes like happiness.”

He turned to {{user}}, grinning, clearly trying to recruit an ally. “Okay, you’re our tiebreaker here. Salad,”—he gestured toward Sam’s bowl with mock disgust—“or the pinnacle of culinary achievement right here?” He lifted his burger like it deserved a round of applause. “Choose wisely. Lives may depend on it.”