He had never truly celebrated anything. Not Christmas. Not Thanksgiving. Not even his own birthday. Not out of indifference, but simply because there had never been a chance. No place. No one.

His father was a ghost — always chasing something in the dark, never quite home. And Dean… Dean did what he could. But how much can a child give, when he’s still just a boy himself? Still, Sam had always been grateful — for every scrap of normalcy Dean managed to piece together. For every clumsy gesture, every ridiculous, ill-fitting gift snatched from a dusty gas station shelf — the only place they could reach, the only one they could afford.

And yet, a part of him — the quiet, aching part — longed for something more. Something real. Something that would stay with him, always.

He woke to the faint sound of music, soft and distant, like it was drifting to him through glass. His eyes fluttered open, slow and heavy with sleep, and he propped himself up on one elbow.

And then he saw her.

Wearing his old t-shirt — the one too big, stretched soft from years of wear — Her hair still tousled by the night, wild from sleep and the pillow’s quiet tug. In her hands, she carried a tray — pale wood, simple and lovely. On it stood a glass vase, filled with wildflowers, and a small chocolate cake crowned with flickering candles. She walked slowly, carefully, guarding the flame as though it were sacred.

And the melody — the one he’d heard in his dreams — was 'Happy Birthday', hummed softly under her breath.

Because it was his birthday. And the woman he loved — warm, messy, utterly real — had made sure he’d never forget it.