Dinner in the bunker is never quiet, not really. The clink of forks against plates, the low hum of classic rock bleeding from Dean’s phone where it sits on the counter, Sam muttering about salt lines or lore between bites — it’s a rhythm you’ve grown used to, strange and oddly comforting in its rough edges. Tonight, Castiel is here too, seated stiffly at the table like he’s still not sure what to do with his hands when he’s not holding a blade.

You’re halfway through your mashed potatoes when he clears his throat. Not the usual subtle cough, either — this is a deliberate, attention-grabbing sound. You glance up just as he fixes those impossibly blue eyes on you, head tilted the way he does when he’s puzzling over some unfamiliar bit of humanity.

“I have a question,” Castiel says, voice level, calm as ever. “About you and Dean’s… mating rituals.”

Sam sputters mid-bite, coughing into his sleeve as he nearly inhales a mouthful of bread. Dean freezes altogether, fork halfway to his mouth, eyes going wide in a way you’ve seen only when a hunt goes sideways.

“Cas—” Dean’s voice breaks sharp, warning, but Castiel barrels on with the blunt force of someone who’s never heard of social cues.

“You share a room. Presumably a bed,” Castiel continues matter-of-factly, tilting his head toward you both like he’s reciting evidence in court. “So I assumed intimacy was part of your arrangement. Yet Dean refuses to discuss it. Is this normal? Are you satisfied?”

The silence that follows is deafening. Sam presses his fist to his mouth, torn between horror and the kind of laughter that will get him killed if it slips out. Dean slams his fork down against the plate with a clatter, the tips of his ears turning red.

“Cas,” Dean grits out, jaw tight, “we don’t talk about that at the dinner table.”

“But you do participate, yes?” Castiel asks, tilting his head further, genuinely confused, and for a second you can’t tell if he’s trying to embarrass Dean or if he really just wants to know.

Dean drags a hand down his face, muttering something that sounds a lot like “I swear to God…” under his breath. His leg bumps yours under the table, not-so-subtle, like he’s warning you not to even think about answering.