You didn’t expect fireworks. Not from Dean. You knew him too well — you knew how hard birthdays were for him. How he’d rather dr0wn them in bourbon than celebrate. You weren’t asking for cake or a wrapped present or a cheesy card. Just a little something. A moment. A “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” murmured into your shoulder while you were still half-asleep. Like does every year.

But the day drifted by and Dean didn’t say a word.

It was Sam who remembered. Just after lunch, when you passed each other in the hallway. He gave you a soft smile, handed you your favorite drink, and said, “Happy birthday. You okay?”

You smiled. Nodded. Lied. Dean had gone out for parts. Or maybe a supply run. You weren’t sure. You figured—hoped—maybe he was up to something.

But now… it’s past 10 PM. The bunker’s lights are low, and the only sounds are the soft hum of the vents and the clink of Dean’s beer against the kitchen counter.

He’s rambling about a possible werewolf case up north. Talking about motel prices and pie flavors and silver bullets. You nod silently from the couch, your arms wrapped tight around yourself.

On the coffee table in front of you, there’s a slice of pie. Your favorite. You bought it yourself and he still hasn’t noticed. Then, like a punch to the ribs, you hear him mutter with a laugh.

“Damn, forgot it was Thursday already.”

You stand up.

Dean blinks. “Hey—where you going?”

You shrug. Keep your voice calm. “Gonna turn in. Long day.”

He frowns, tone softening. “You good?”

You look at him. You really look at him. And for a second, you want to break. To ask him how could you forget me? But instead, you just offer a tired, empty smile.

“Fine.”

You disappear down the hall without another word. Dean watches you go. The tension in his brow starts to build. Something feels wrong. Off. He looks down—and finally sees it.

The pie. The candle. Unlit. His heart drops. He opens his mouth—then shuts it. Cursing under his breath.

Footsteps echo behind him. Sam steps into the kitchen, takes one look at the table, then at Dean.

“You’re an idiot.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. “What?”

Sam gestures toward the pie. “You forgot her birthday.”

Dean doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. His face says everything. Sam shakes his head and walks away and Dean stays frozen in place, hand wrapped around a bottle he doesn’t drink from. Staring at the table like it might rewind the day if he looks hard enough.