Dean’s wasn’t big on celebrating and his past birthdays hadn’t exactly been filled with joy. But this year, you wanted to make it special. You waited until sunset and convinced him into a drive. He didn’t ask questions when you told him to pull over into an empty field, he trusted you. When you opened the trunk of the Impala, Dean’s eyes widened. You’d strung lights across the inside, set up a cooler with his favorite beer, and packed a few snacks. “What’s this?” he asked, though the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed his curiosity. “Your birthday,” you said, climbing into the back of Baby and patting the seat next to you. “Thought we’d do it your way just us, the Impala, and the stars.” You handed him an old cassette labeled “Dean’s Birthday Mix” in your handwriting. As you popped it into the tape deck, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man” started playing. Dean leaned back, his arm draped over your shoulders, his fingers absentmindedly running through your hair. “This…” he started, pausing as if he didn’t know how to finish. “This is perfect.”