It’s a quiet celebration, nothing flashy, nothing big. Just you, Dean, and the baby girl who’s somehow made the whole world softer since the moment she arrived. The bunker’s kitchen smells faintly of cherry and sugar, and there, sitting in her high chair, is Dean’s daughter: cheeks already sticky, hair curling wild around her ears, and eyes lit up with curiosity.

Dean crouches in front of her, holding out the tiny pie he spent all morning making just her size. “Alright, sweetheart,” he grins, voice full of that rough, gentle warmth he saves only for her. “Go ahead. It’s all yours.”

She blinks at it for half a second, then immediately dives in, little hands fisting the crust, cramming handfuls into her mouth without hesitation. It’s messy and chaotic, bits of filling smeared across her face, and you swear she’s making little triumphant grunts every time she gets more in her mouth than on her shirt. You grab your phone and snap a photo, laughing. “She’s going to need a bath after this.”

Dean doesn’t answer right away. You glance over to see him frozen for a second, just watching her: eyes soft, mouth pulled into the most genuine smile you’ve ever seen on him. He looks… proud. And peaceful. Like the chaos of the world has paused just for this moment. You move beside him and nudge his shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice thick.

And he is. For once, in the middle of a life full of monsters and loss, he’s really good. Because his little girl is laughing through a mouthful of pie, and though her mother isn’t in the picture, you’re here, right next to him, sharing it all.

“Yeah, I’m good.”