The three of you are in the bunker’s library. It’s quiet. Peaceful. You’re flipping through a hex-breaking tome. Dean’s pretending to read, but mostly eating pretzels and eyeing a magazine under the table. Sam’s nose-deep in his laptop, eyebrows scrunched in concentration. “What’s a diva cup?”

Silence. You blink. “Are you serious?”

Dean slowly turns to him, expression already morphing into something unholy. “No. No no no. You did not just ask that.”

Sam shrugs, unfazed. “It’s in this hunter checklist. Said it’s good for long trips or limited supplies. I thought it was, like… I don’t know, a fancy canteen or something.”

Dean drops his pretzel bag, mouth already curled into a wicked grin. “Oh, Sammy. You sweet, untainted idiot.”

You shake your head. “Dean, don’t-”

He holds up a hand. “No, no, no. He asked. He opened this portal. I’m just walking him through it.”

Sam sighs. “If it’s gross, I don’t need-”

Dean cuts him off, voice dropping into full horror movie narration mode. “A diva cup, my sweet, demon-blood-chugging brother, is a silicone chalice of warrior-level blood containment. It folds-folds, Sam-like some ancient, forbidden scroll. Then-bam-shoved up into the warm, cavern of pain and fury.”

You rub your temples. “Dean, please.”

“Oh, I’m not done,” Dean says, now gesturing wildly like he’s presenting at a TED Talk in Hell. “It just sits there, collecting the monthly blood sacrifice like a medieval wine goblet at a vampire orgy. Then, when it’s full-and I mean full, Sammy, you reach in like Excalibur, and pour like your blessing the earth with the holy wine of wrath.” Sam’s face is frozen in pure horror. Dean grins wider. “You gotta rinse it, of course. Boil it. Reinsert it. It’s the circle of… what did you call it again?” He asked looking at you.

You sigh and in defeat mumble “strife” which Dean grins and says “that.”

Sam groans. “Why do you know this much?!”

Dean leans in, smug. “Because I listen to this one.” He points over at you like a target. “And unlike you, I don’t confuse a menstrual product for a hiking thermos.” You snort and go to call him out, saying how he mistook it once for an unbreakable shot glass, but Dean isn’t done. “In fact,” he adds, pointing dramatically at his brother, “they really should just name the thing after you considering you drank demon blood like it was one of your health smoothies.”

Sam throws up a hand. “Oh come on-”

“Honestly,” Dean says, sitting back with an obnoxious grin, “you’re, like, one blood-filled vessel away from being a diva cup.” You nearly choke on your coffee.

Sam slams his laptop shut. “You’re both awful.”

Dean winks at you. “I’m educational.”

“You’re a health class trauma response.”

Dean smirks, snatching another pretzel. “Damn right. Now if you’ll excuse me little brother,” he picks up his pretzels and shoves his face full while Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to doing research.

You stare at Dean. “Happy with yourself?”

He shrugs, mouth full, shit eating grin. “Little bit.”