Dad calls during breakfast, the sudden shrill bell of the phone startling both of them out of their usual morning bicker over Sam's Greek homework and whether Classic Hassidic Tales qualifies as a valid source for his research paper on water spirits. It's weird because he'd called the night before, checked in on how they were doing, told them he'd probably be another week but he'd call again on Tuesday. Sam traces a finger through the splash of milk on the table from where Dean had dropped his spoon, listens resentfully to Dean say yes sir and we can have that done before you arrive and where do you want us to put it?, and resigns himself to a day spent sorting through the archives for some 2-page report. He'd hoped to wheedle Dean into going to town despite having no actual reason for them to go, but there's probably no chance of that now.
"Dad's making a detour to bring us some mandrake root," Dean says and instead of sitting down he starts collecting their dirty dishes off the table. "We're going to need to expand the garden a little."
"Does this mean no Greek?" Sam asks, uses one hand to smear the milk of the table.
"Go get the shovels," Dean says and smile. "Time for some gardening."
[author's note: am falling asleep in keyboard, but I desperately want to write something not super-depressing about Sam and Dean growing up in the bunker, so there will definitely be more of this]