The early morning light slipped through the thin blinds of the motel room like whispered secrets, painting stripes across the worn carpet and the rumpled bedspread.

The air smelled faintly of stale coffee, leather, and the lingering trace of gunpowder—Dean’s natural scent, worn into the fibers of his jacket and the creases of his skin. You’d woken before him, something rare. Usually, Dean was up at first light, restless, already checking the Colt or polishing the Impala’s headlights like a ritual.

But today, he’d stayed in bed, curled slightly toward your side, breathing slow and even, for once untouched by nightmares.

You watched him for a moment—his chiseled jaw relaxed in sleep, the faint freckles across his nose more visible without the usual smirk to distract you.

His dark blonde hair, cropped short and messy in that effortless way only Dean could pull off, was flattened on one side from the pillow. He looked young. Not just twenty-eight—younger than the weight he carried. It made your chest ache.

It was January 24th.

Dean’s birthday.

He never made a fuss about it. Last year, Sam had sent a bottle of whiskey and a text that read “Don’t die, jerk.” Dean had chuckled, poured a shot, and said, “Same to you, bitch,” before tossing it back like a toast to survival rather than celebration.

To Dean, birthdays were just another day marked by hunting, driving, surviving. You couldn’t let this one pass like that.

So you’d crept out of bed at dawn, careful not to wake him, and driven to the all-night diner ten miles down the highway.

They made a decent apple pie—Dean’s favorite—and you’d bribed the tired-looking waitress with a five to heat one up fresh. You brought it back, candles tucked in your jacket pocket, and arranged everything on the nightstand with quiet precision.

Now, pie in hand, you set it down beside the bed, inserted three small white candles into the golden crust, and lit them with a flick of the motel’s cheap plastic lighter. The flames danced softly, casting a warm glow across the room.

You crawled back onto the bed, careful not to jiggle the mattress too much, and gently straddled Dean’s lap, your knees bracketing his hips. He stirred slightly, his brow twitching, but didn’t wake.

Smiling, you leaned forward, brushing your fingers over the stubble along his jaw. Then, slowly, you trailed your hands up his bare chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips, then another to his forehead, one to his cheek, one just under his ear—soft, deliberate, like a promise.

“Hey,” you murmured. “Wake up, birthday boy.”

“Mmm… five more minutes,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, a lazy grin already tugging at his lips.

“Nope,” you whispered, brushing your lips just below his ear. “It’s your birthday. You’re officially ancient now.”

Dean groaned, shifting beneath you. His eyelids fluttered, then opened, bleary and green, like sunlight through moss. “What time is it?”