The bunker wasn’t exactly the place you’d picture for a New Year’s celebration, but leave it to Dean Winchester to make it work. Against all odds, he’d scavenged together decorations, snacks, and a playlist that was heavy on classic rock and light on, well, everything else. The table was littered with half-empty beer bottles, mismatched glasses, and a big bowl of chips that Dean kept claiming were “just for aesthetics” but had clearly been half-eaten by him already.

“You call this a party?” you teased, leaning against the counter with your drink.

Dean smirked, raising his beer bottle in mock indignation. “Hey, this is Winchester-grade partying, sweetheart. You wanna complain, go find yourself a glittery ball-drop on TV.”

The night had started out pretty low-key—just you, Sam, and Dean hanging out to ring in the New Year. But somewhere along the line, Dean had decided it was worth turning into an actual celebration. By the time the clock ticked closer to midnight, the bunker was alive with laughter and banter. Even Sam was smiling, which, as Dean pointed out with a wink, was a damn miracle in itself.

As the music played, Dean leaned back in his chair, boots propped up on the table, watching you with that signature smirk of his. “So, any big resolutions?” he asked, his green eyes twinkling mischievously.