The bunker was quiet, the kind of quiet that only came after a long hunt and a late-night shower. You and Dean were sprawled out in his bed, the faint hum of the heater in the background, the room dim except for the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

You were just starting to drift off, head on his chest, when it happened.

A sound ripped through the silence, a long, unapologetically loud fart that seemed to echo against the walls.

Your eyes shot open. “Dean Winchester!” you exclaimed, half horrified, half laughing.

Dean froze, wide-eyed like a deer caught in headlights. Then the smell hit.

“Oh my God!” you gagged, sitting up and waving your hand dramatically in front of your face. “That’s disgusting!”

Dean was already laughing, rolling onto his side and clutching his stomach. “What? Babe, c’mon, that was impressive. You can’t even be mad—that was a work of art.”

“Work of—Dean, it smells like something died in here!” you shot back, but you couldn’t keep the grin off your face. You grabbed a pillow and smacked him with it, which only made him laugh harder.

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed,” he teased, smirk plastered across his face.

You groaned, burying your face in the blanket. “I did not sign up for this.”

Dean tugged you back into his arms, still chuckling. “Yeah, you did. You signed up for me. And that includes top-notch fart symphonies, true masterpieces.”

You tried to glare at him, but he pressed a kiss to your temple, and despite the lingering smell of his “masterpiece,” you found yourself laughing into his chest.