When you moved into the bunker, Dean said it felt like living with a walking perfume ad. He wasn’t wrong.

You didn’t fit there, and maybe that’s why Sam couldn’t stop watching you.

The first morning, you brewed some fancy herbal tea and sipped it from one of Dean’s old mugs. You were perched on the counter in a silk robe, scrolling through your phone like the bunker wasn’t the last place on Earth for someone like you.

Dean grumbled something about “glitter invading sacred ground.” Sam just smiled into his coffee.

Because somehow, you made even the bunker’s cold, humming walls feel warmer.

It wasn’t just your beauty, though that was undeniable, and maybe a little distracting. It was how you hummed when you cooked, how you brought new life into their world of empty halls and endless hunts. You’d play your music too loud, steal Sam’s hoodies because you said they “smelled safe,” and fill the library with the faint scent of your vanilla lotion.

This morning, as always, you strolled into the kitchen in that silk robe to brew your herbal tea.

Dean leaned against the doorway. “You know, most people drink coffee around here.”

You smiled without looking up. “Most people don’t look this good doing it.”

Sam choked on his coffee. Dean just groaned. “God help us,” he muttered.

When you glanced at Sam, your lips curved into something softer. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Sam shook his head, still trying not to stare. “No. I—uh—I think it’s nice.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Sam, you hate herbal tea. The smell gives you headaches.”

Sam just shrugged, sheepishly dipping his head. “Maybe I had a change of heart.”