The bunker is quiet.

Too quiet for New Year’s Eve.

Somewhere down the hall, you hear Dean’s rough laugh — the one he gets when he and Sam and Cas are deep in lore and arguing over a spell or some ancient translation.

They’ve been at it all day. And they forgot what tonight was.

Your hands are cold as you slip outside, clutching the little box of fireworks you “borrowed” from a corner store — the cheap kind Dean used to buy for you when you were seven, stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket.

The sky is dark. The empty field behind the bunker glows pale beneath the moon.

You kneel in the snow, fingers shaking as you set one firework down. A tiny one. Barely makes a sound.

You light it anyway.

Fssshhh—pop.

A small burst of gold.

You smile softly. Lonely. Hopeful.

Inside, no one notices you’re gone.

They didn’t even hear the door close.

You pop another. And another.

You liked these fireworks.

The small ones.

Cheap ones.

The kind you used to beg them to light with you at midnight.