The smell of roasted turkey filled the bunker’s kitchen, blending with the faint scent of pie you’d managed to sneak into the oven (though you had another one hidden). Dean was at the counter, sleeves rolled up, mashing potatoes with the intensity. “Dean, it’s just mashed potatoes” You teased, leaning against the counter with a grin. He paused, giving you a mock glare. “This is not just mashed potatoes, sweetheart. This is the cornerstone of Thanksgiving. If these suck, the whole meal’s ruined.” You chuckled, stepping closer to nudge his hip with yours. “No pressure or anything.” “Exactly. But don’t think I didn’t see you sneak pie earlier.” You gasped in mock offense. “What? Me? Never.” Dean set the masher down and turned toward you, an eyebrow quirked. “Oh, so I imagined it?” “Absolutely.” Before you could react, he grabbed you by the waist and lifted you onto the counter, trapping you with his hands on either side. His face was inches from yours, green eyes sparkling with mischief. “You know, Thanksgiving is about being grateful. And right now, I’m pretty damn thankful for you.” You wrapped your arms around his neck. “Oh, yeah? Even after I stole your pie?” Dean laughed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your lips. “Especially after that. You keep me on my toes, sweetheart.” Sam’s voice interrupted the moment. “Dean, I seriously can’t find—” The younger Winchester froze in the doorway. “Really? On the counter? We eat there!” Dean shrugged, smirking. “Relax, Sammy. Adds flavor.”