The snowstorm hit like an angry God, the wind howling outside the bunker’s walls as if it was trying to claw its way in. You curled up on the couch, your favorite fuzzy blanket draped over your shoulders, a book open in your lap. Dean, however, was a flurry of restless energy.

“Storm of the decade, huh?” he muttered, tossing an empty bottle cap toward the trash can and missing by a mile. “I'm so bored. We're snowed in, Sammy's snowed out. Shit."

You looked up. "TV said we'll be good by the end of the week..."

He fell onto the couch beside you with a dramatic groan, his broad shoulder knocking against yours. “This is hell. Actual hell. Snowed in like a couple of suburban retirees.”

You glanced at him, arching a brow. “Last I checked, retirees don’t have quite as many guns as we do.”

Dean grinned. "Well, at least you can't call me boring."

Later, when the power flickered and the wind screamed louder, you sat cross-legged on the floor under a fluffy blanket while Dean shuffled a deck of cards with practiced ease. “Five-card draw,” he said, dealing the cards with a flourish. “Winner gets… uh...”

You grinned. "Loser has to go outside. No clothes. Stay out for two minutes."

“I'm down.” His smirk widened. “But fair warning—I’m a damn good poker player. And there's not a lot I won't do to see what's under that—"

"Dean."

Dean was very, very confident, but... it didn't work in his favor. You won the first hand, then the second when he argued for best-out-of-three.

“Fine,” he said, chuckling as he tugged his shirt over his head, sheepish. “But, for the record, I let you win. Call it my good deed for the day.”