“They outfoxed you, didn’t they?” Rowena’s laughter sliced through the dim-lit bunker room like a wicked melody, equal parts playful and unnervingly sharp, the kind that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. She lifted her glass with deliberate grace, taking a slow sip of the amber liquid within, her emerald eyes locking onto Dean’s with an unyielding intensity. A spark of pure mischief flickered there, dancing like hellfire in the shadows. “Tell me, boy, did you get to fifth base?”

Sam, sprawled on the far side of the scarred wooden table, couldn’t suppress the chuckle that bubbled up from his chest. His head dipped low, broad shoulders shaking subtly as he feigned absorption in the ancient tome splayed open before him, its yellowed pages whispering secrets he wasn’t really reading. {{user}}, meanwhile, remained utterly detached from the verbal sparring, their attention fixed elsewhere in the room—perhaps on the flickering fluorescent light overhead or the faint hum of the bunker’s ventilation system. They didn’t so much as glance at the exchange unfolding between Dean, Rowena, and Sam. Fifth base? That was a conversational minefield they had zero interest in navigating, especially not with Dean involved. It veered too close to the raw, personal edges of intimacy they preferred to keep locked away, even among this ragtag family of hunters. Yet, in this group, such bawdy topics were flung around like salt on a demon’s trail, with scant regard for the discomfort they might stir.

Dean’s rugged brow creased deeply, his green eyes narrowing in a cocktail of confusion and outright disbelief as he cocked his head to one side, that classic Winchester skepticism etched into every line of his face. “There’s no such thing as fifth base,” He stated flatly, his voice a gravelly rumble laced with just enough uncertainty to send a jolt of awkward tension rippling through the group. The words lingered in the stale air like a bad omen, settling over them all with an uncomfortable weight that made the silence feel heavier than a loaded shotgun.

Sam’s gaze snapped up to his older brother, wide with genuine surprise, as if Dean had just confessed to believing in unicorns or something equally absurd for a guy who’d bedded half the Midwest. It was a look that screamed, Dude, even for you, that is unbelievable.

Rowena, ever the queen of composure, didn’t miss a beat. Her sly smirk blossomed into a full, predatory grin, her painted lips curling with wicked delight as her eyes gleamed like polished obsidian under the low light. “Oh, you poor, sheltered…boy.”

A soft, throaty snicker escaped her as she pivoted on her heel, the click of her boots echoing faintly against the concrete floor. She sauntered away with that signature sway, her ancient grimoire clutched possessively under one arm, its leather binding worn from centuries of dark rituals. Her laughter trailed behind her like smoke from a hex bag, fading into the distance and leaving a thick, awkward hush in its wake, blanketing the three hunters left at the table.

Dean’s expression shifted to one of raw bewilderment, his jaw tightening as he swung his gaze between Sam and {{user}}, searching their faces like they held the key to some cosmic joke he’d missed. “There’s no such thing as a fifth base,” He reiterated, his tone sharpening with an edge of defensive disbelief, like a man clinging to the last shreds of his reputation.

“I mean, with my…lifestyle with women, I would’ve heard of it by now. So that can’t possibly be true, right guys?” His eyes bounced urgently between them, pleading for backup, as if the mere notion of an unexplored “base” in his vast arsenal of conquests was an affront to everything he stood for—the cocky hunter who’d stared down demons but apparently never ventured that far south of the border.