The bunker kitchen smelled like cinnamon and something buttery sweet. It was well past midnight, and most of the place had gone still—but the light spilling from under the kitchen door hinted someone was still up. You pushed it open gently, half expecting to find Dean raiding the fridge. Instead, Sam was standing barefoot in sweatpants and a Henley, sleeves rolled, hands dusted with flour.

He turned with a little jump, caught completely off guard—wide eyes and flushed cheeks like you'd walked in on something far more private. On the counter sat a half-filled pie crust, his recipe scribbled on a napkin beside it. You couldn’t help but smile. There was something domestic about it. Honest.

“I—uh… Dean usually eats it before anyone notices,” Sam mumbled, brushing flour off his wrist with a shy shrug. “Didn’t think anyone would be up. You, uh… want to try a piece?”