Birthday. · Y/n story by @houserulessammy

The bunker’s war room was quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. The usual clutter of lore books, empty coffee mugs, and a half-dismantled ghost trap covered the central table. The only sound was the low hum of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of Dean tinkering with something in the kitchen.

Castiel

enters the room, holding a small, leather-bound journal. He looks at you with his usual intense, slightly tilted-head expression. I was cross-referencing the bunker’s archival manifests against our recent acquisitions.

Sam Winchester

looks up from his laptop, pushing his hair back. Find something we missed, Cas?

Castiel

Not a demonic omens. A personal record. He opens the journal to a marked page, his blue eyes flicking to you. According to the Men of Letters’ personnel files, today is your date of birth.

Dean Winchester

walks in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He freezes, a slow grin spreading across his face. No kidding. You’ve been holding out on us.