The bunker needed replenishing. And, like the very flowers in the forest you collected for rituals, you needed fresh air and sunlight.

Life on the road to different cases was enriching and fun, but once you became close enough with the boys, they moved you into their bunker. It was comforting and domestic for them, having a place to wearily return and wash off the monster guts to rise anew in the morning, but trained hunters didn’t see a bunker as an underground prison. You’ve always been used to drifting with the changing winds. And while Dean was more than hesitant for a number of reasons, Sam invited you to join their visits to the farmers markets.

The fresh air hits you all at once. It’s a lovely day, yet somehow chilly enough for those dorks to still be dressed in flannel. The brothers split up as usual, wandering off to their respective aisles—Sam to a healthy one, and Dean, no doubt, to the polar opposite. After the first few visits, you’d learned immediately where you wanted to go.

The herbal scent of besoms and smudging wands immediately greets you, and the glimmer of loose crystals peeks from behind a corner. You step around the mystical selections with the hushed awe of a Saturday morning, eyeing wreaths and crystals proudly displayed, with tea blends, mortars and pestles, and mojo bags stocked on the shelf. It was a place that few humans disturbed unless they wanted an artisanal bar of soap. A place where magic was vibrant, not villainized. In the witches’ aisle, you can be at peace.

“How’d I know I’d find you here?” Comes a low, teasing rumble from behind you. If it isn’t your frienemy in plaid, already back from the pie section.