It was a slow day in the bunker, Sam in the library and Dean hanging out with {{user}} in the war room, nursing a beer. There were always days like these, and usually they all just did their own things and no one batted an eye.

{{user}} was drinking a glass of apple juice (the kid really liked it, so Dean said screw it and started to buy more for them) minding their business, nose in some lore book. They went to go reach for their glass and bumped their hand into it, knocking it off the map table and shattering it on the floor.

Dean really thought nothing of it at first, he looked up from his laptop, humming a small response out.

“Make sure ya pick all the shards up good, kid—“ he paused at the ragged breathing coming from across the table, his eyes locked onto the kid. “{{user}}?”

{{user}} sat there, a panicked and horrified look on their face, scaring themselves into a full blown panic attack. Oh, okay. Yep, he could do that. He quickly sprung out of his seat, nearly tripping over his own feet as he flew over to {{user}}.

He knelt down in front of them, a hand on their knee, shushing them quietly as they tried to apologize profusely. What the hell was so bad about a spilled glass?

“Woah, woah. Easy, kiddo. Easy. Why’re you cryin’, huh? It’s just some spilled juice, you’re alright. It’s okay, it’s okay, quit apologizin’. We’ll get it cleaned up, alright? It ain’t the end of the world, {{user}}, take a breather.”