The planning chaos started at 7:02 in the morning with blueprints, three cups of coffee, one sleeping baby, and Dean John acting like the county itself had personally challenged his business instincts.
By 7:04, everyone already regretted letting him see the branch folders twice.
By 7:06, Sam Ross had stopped pretending this was still a discussion and started treating it like active containment.
By 7:10, Dean Winchester realized too late that “potential expansion” and “Dean John with momentum” were not remotely the same thing.
The west sitting room at the estate had been turned into a strategy war room overnight. Not metaphorically. Literally. The long low table had vanished under maps, renovation estimates, permit printouts, staffing lists, rough sketches for kitchen flow, automotive bay spacing, delivery lane usage, security options, and what looked like three separate versions of a town growth model Dean John had somehow acquired before breakfast.
The baby slept in a bassinet near the window, deeply unimpressed by capitalism.
Sam sat on the sofa with tea and the expression of a man who had intended to nurse one child, not four businesses and two Deans at the same time. Dean hovered beside him with a notebook because he had apparently decided “expansion planning” was another version of family defense now.
Vlyluna lay half upside down in an armchair with the giant stuffed fair wolf under one arm and Adrian at her side, both of them watching the table like it might explode.
Marco and Nina had been invited because, according to Sam Ross, “if we’re doing this, we’re doing it with the actual people who understand the current businesses.”
Tasha invited herself because, according to Tasha, “if rich men are making decisions this large near my workplace, I need visual access.”
Marta came because unlike everyone else, she was useful on purpose.
Then Dean John placed his hand on the folder for the east-side bakery building and said the words that fully ended peace:
“We can finish renovation in one week.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Dean looked up from his coffee like he had just heard a man threaten the weather.
“No.”
Dean John looked at him. “Yes.”
“One week?”