There was no vegan recipe. There was no pie until Dean wore the face mask. You were a genius.

Now, months later, it’s become routine. Like clockwork. One day a month—no hunts, no weapons, no demon blood, no apocalypse. Just face masks, fuzzy socks, and the three of you squished onto the bunker couch like a pile of emotionally repressed puppies.

Dean’s sprawled in his usual spot, arms folded, cucumber slices over his eyes, grumbling even though he knows he loves it. Sam’s got his feet up and his nails painted in clear polish. You’re filing the edges with extreme concentration. There’s lo-fi playing through the speaker, and someone lit a candle. It might be Dean’s—he never admits it, but you caught him sniffing the “fresh linen” one last month with a suspicious level of interest.

“You know,” Dean mutters, shifting slightly as his sheet mask starts to slide, “I still don’t understand how rubbing green goop on my face is gonna help me kill monsters better.”

You hum, not looking up. “It won’t. That’s the point.”

“Then what’s it for?”

“Making you not a monster,” Sam deadpans, sipping his lemon water.

Dean scowls under the cucumber. “I am not a monster.”

“You punched a soda machine for giving you a Diet Coke last week,” you remind him gently. “I’m just saying. Maybe a little moisturizer helps balance the rage.”

Sam snorts. Dean mutters something about betrayal.

But then, ten minutes later, you catch him reapplying the face mask all by himself, no instructions needed. Progress.

After nails and masks, you move on to the movie segment of self-care day. It’s Dean’s turn to pick, and he claims “Die Hard” is self-care. Sam tries to argue for something educational. You land on a compromise: “The Mummy.” 1999. Brendan Fraser. Everyone wins.

You all pile into the same blanket, bowl of popcorn on your lap, Dean sneaking handfuls without looking like he’s trying to be sneaky, and Sam quoting trivia facts like it’s his job.

Halfway through, Dean leans his head on your shoulder. Says nothing. Just rests there like he forgot how to carry the weight.

Sam slouches into your side too, legs stretched across the ottoman, one of your fuzzy socks still clinging to his foot like it belongs there now.

And you—curled in the middle, your hands resting on both of them—feel it.

That quiet, rare moment where the bunker isn’t full of shadows. Where the silence is comfortable. Where the people you love the most let themselves breathe.

This isn’t the kind of family they ever thought they’d get. Hell, Dean used to joke he didn’t even like people. Sam was always more book than bond. And you? You were the glue. The annoying little tagalong who brought bubble baths and bath bombs and insisted they learn what a cuticle oil pen was.

Now they ask about it.

Dean: “Hey, which one’s the mask that makes me look less like I’ve been punched in the face?” Sam: “Do we still have those peppermint foot things?”

You smile.

You did this. You made this weird, broken, stitched-together little trio into something soft. Not weak. Never weak. But warm.

When the credits roll and no one moves, Dean sighs and pats your thigh.

“Same time next month?”