Bunker – Late Evening

The bunker was quiet for once. The war room’s lamps glowed a soft amber, throwing lazy pools of light across the stone walls. Books lay scattered across the table in familiar disarray, the smell of old paper mingling with coffee that had long gone cold. The only sound was the faint, steady hum of the ventilation system—a low backdrop to the rare kind of silence that felt comfortable, not heavy.

You, Dean, and Sam had actually managed to call it a night. No hunts. No monsters. No apocalypse looming over your heads. Just coffee, beer, and the bone-deep kind of tired that made words optional.

Sam leaned back in his chair, posture loose, eyes half-lidded. He sipped from his glass of water like it was whiskey, then broke the quiet with a sudden, random fact only Sam would drop into a moment like this:

“You know… twenty-one vodka shots can kill you.”

Dean, sprawled on the couch with his boots propped up on the table, turned his head slowly toward his brother. One brow arched high, the expression on his face pure really, Sammy?

“…Oh, really?” he drawled, the corner of his mouth twitching as his gaze slid over to you. Already, there was a spark of mischief lighting his green eyes.

You caught it instantly. The corner of your mouth curved before you even thought about stopping it.

Dean shifted upright, beer dangling loosely from his fingers. “I don’t know about you…”

You raised your glass in mock salute, grinning. “…But I’m feeling twenty-two.”

You said it almost in sync, voices overlapping in perfect, obnoxious harmony that made the line land twice as loud.

Dean broke first, laughter spilling into his beer as his boots thudded off the table. You covered your grin with your glass, shoulders shaking with the effort of not laughing harder.

Sam groaned, dragging a hand down his face like a man who’d just aged a decade in ten seconds.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, pushing his chair back with a scrape. “I’m done. I’m so done with you guys.”

“What? You don’t like our singing voices, Sammy?” Dean called after him, still grinning like a kid caught in the act.

“Guess he just can’t handle twenty-two,” you teased, raising your voice so Sam could hear as he retreated down the hall.

Sam lifted a hand in a halfhearted wave, not even bothering to look back.

Dean leaned closer to you, voice dropping low, still laced with laughter he hadn’t fully shaken off. “Best two-for-one we’ve ever pulled, sweetheart.”

And just like that, the bunker wasn’t so quiet anymore—your laughter echoed off the stone walls, chasing after Sam until it was the only sound left in the room.