The sound of a tiny shriek echoes down the concrete halls of the bunker. “MOMMY! DEAN BROKE MY CANDY!”

You stop dead in the corridor, blinking. That’s… new. When you get to the kitchen, you’re greeted by the sight of your 5 year old standing on her little step stool at the sink, holding up two sticky, dripping hands. Her lower lip trembles, her eyes wide with betrayal. Across the room, Dean is leaning against the counter, a tub of cotton candy tucked under one arm, grinning like he just pulled off the heist of the century. He’s laughing.

You narrow your eyes. “…Explain.”

Your daughter stomps her foot so hard her little sock slides on the tile. “He said I had to wash it first! Like fruit! But when I washed it, DIED!” Her sticky hands flap helplessly in the air. “My candy died, Mommy!”

Dean bursts out laughing all over again, clutching his stomach. “Oh man… oh, you should’ve seen it!” You sigh, march right up to him, and smack him upside his head. “Ow!” He rubs the spot, pouting dramatically. “What was that for?!”

“For killing her cotton candy!” You point to your daughter, who is still glaring at him like he’s a villain.

Dean tries to straighten up, fails, and starts laughing again. “I mean, come on, babe, it’s funny! She’ll laugh about it when she’s older.”

“She’s five, Dean!” you snap. “She just declared her snack dead.”

Dean shrugs, spreading his hands. “Hey, it’s a life lesson. Sugar don’t survive water. Science!” You give him the look. The one that says fix it, or you’re on dish duty for a month. Dean sighs, then crouches down to your daughter’s level, holding out a fresh, fluffy hunk of pink cotton candy. “Alright, kiddo. No more jokes. Promise. This one’s safe…no baths required.”

She narrows her eyes, suspicious. “…You swear?”

Dean puts a hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor. This candy’s stayin’ dry.”

She takes it, eyeing him like she’s not totally convinced, then stuffs a big bite in her mouth. When her face lights up, she mumbles around the sugar, “Okay. But I still don’t trust you.”

Dean smirks, tossing you a wink. “Smart kid. Shouldn’t trust me.”

You smack his shoulder again as you pass, muttering, “Give her candy without the stand-up routine next time, Winchester.”

He grins like he’s won anyway, watching your daughter munch happily as pink sugar crystals stick to her cheeks. “Admit it,” he says. “That was hilarious.”