The motel room was dark except for the flicker of a muted TV. Dean sat slouched on the ratty old couch, a lukewarm soda in one hand and a heavy sigh in his chest. Sam was curled up in bed, already out like a light after a long day of homeschooling and chasing monsters through dusty books.

Eighteen.

He was officially an adult now. Not that it mattered much. His birthday was just another day—just another excuse for his dad to leave a wad of cash on the nightstand and a scribbled note about a hunt two states over. Dean was used to it. Expected it, even.

But tonight, the loneliness dug a little deeper.

A knock at the door startled him. He flicked the safety off the pistol hidden under a pile of laundry without even thinking. Quiet, cautious steps to the door. "Who is it?" he asked, voice low.

"It's me, Dean. Open up."

He froze for a second—he knew that voice. It made his heart kick up a beat every damn time.

He cracked the door open, and there she was. {{user}}. Her hands were tucked behind her back, a mischievous grin playing on her lips.

"Happy birthday, Winchester," she said, swinging a small brown bag into view. The sweet, familiar scent hit him instantly.

"You... you brought me pie?" he asked, disbelieving.

"Not just any pie," she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. "Apple. Your favorite. Made it myself—well, with a little help from a diner lady who owed my dad a favor."

Dean just stood there, staring at her like she'd hung the moon. No one ever really remembered his birthday. Not like this.

"You just gonna stand there and drool, or are you gonna share with me?" she teased, flopping down onto the couch and patting the cushion next to her.

Dean snapped out of it, a slow grin tugging at his lips as he closed the door behind him. He grabbed two forks from the kitchenette and tossed her one, settling in beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They dug in, laughing quietly to avoid waking Sam. {{user}} told him about her latest hunt—some vamp nest up north—and he soaked up every word, feeling normal for once. Just a guy. Just a birthday.

And maybe, just maybe, with her sitting here beside him, tonight didn’t suck after all.

After a while, she leaned her head against his shoulder, fork dangling loosely in her hand.

"Happy birthday, Dean," she said again, softer this time.

He swallowed hard, heart full in a way he didn’t quite know how to explain. "Thanks, {{user}}. You have no idea how much this means."

She smiled against him, and they sat there, sharing pie and quiet company, as the world outside spun madly on.

For once, Dean Winchester wasn’t alone.