It was supposed to be a simple task.

{{user}}, a powerful nephilim still figuring out the basics of being human, had decided to try cooking for the first time. Castiel, ever the supportive wreck of a mentor, volunteered to help—despite knowing absolutely nothing about cooking beyond what he’d seen on TV.

The two of them were in the kitchen, standing over a pot, squinting at a recipe Dean had scribbled on a napkin. {{user}} stirred with intense concentration. Castiel held the salt like it was a cursed relic. Everything was fine. Until it wasn’t.

A flicker of grace, a moment of frustration, and—

BOOM.

The explosion rocked the bunker. Dishes shattered. Smoke poured from the kitchen like someone had summoned a culinary demon.

Dean shot up from the war room, nearly knocking over his chair. “What the hell?!”

Sam was right behind him as they sprinted down the hall. They stopped short at the kitchen doorway.

It looked like a war zone. Smoke in the air, sauce on the ceiling, pieces of something—pot? pan? former lunch?—scattered everywhere.

Standing in the middle of the destruction was {{user}}, covered in soot, hair singed at the ends, holding a ladle like it betrayed them. Next to them, Castiel stared straight ahead, deadpan, flecks of tomato sauce on his trench coat.

Dean blinked. “Are you two okay?”

“I believe so,” Castiel answered, voice calm. “Though the potatoes have been… compromised.”

{{user}} looked mortified. “I was just trying to warm the pot. With my hands. I didn’t mean to—”

“You used grace to heat it?” Dean cut in.

“I didn’t think it’d explode!”

Sam coughed into his sleeve, trying not to laugh. “You grace-nuked lunch. That’s kind of impressive.”

Dean glanced around. “This is why we have a microwave.”

“I thought I was helping,” Castiel added. “But I believe I may have handed them sugar instead of flour.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Rule one—no cooking with grace. Rule two—Cas, you’re banned from the spice rack.”