The bunker kitchen smells… wrong. Burnt eggs, too much pepper, and something suspiciously sweet.

Jack stands at the counter with a “Cooking for Dummies” book open, brows furrowed in intense concentration. Dean is beside him, sleeves rolled up, trying to “supervise” while very obviously improvising. Sam lingers in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the disaster unfold like he’s debating whether to intervene.

Dean glances up at you, Cas, spatula in hand and flour on his cheek. “Hey. Don’t look at me like that. It’s under control.”

It absolutely is not.