They make him a pie for his birthday. His family makes him a pie. He knows it was a group effort because there is messy icing on the top of the latticework crust. Lime green and bright pink scribbles that match the stains on Emma’s finger tips, and Claire’s lips, and the sleeves of Cas’ t-shirt. The lumpy shapes almost spell out “Happy Birthday, Daddy” if he squints past the missing letters and the fingerprints. It’s the best damn birthday pie he’s ever seen.
Cas grins at him sheepishly from behind the lit candles, and his girls clamber down from their chairs at the table and sprinting across the room latching onto Dean’s legs with enough force that he stumbles back a step. He scoops them up, one on each side, and returns their happy birthday wishes with raspberries blown against sticky cheeks and carries them both to the kitchen.
“The girls wanted to decorate,” Cas says taking Emma.
“I can see that,” Dean smirks, “They did an awesome job.”
Emma and Claire grin like maniacs.
“Seriously, Cas, we should put these girls to work, open a bakery, what d’you think?”
“No!” they giggle.
Cas smiles and tickles Emma. He winks at Dean, “That would violate child labor laws…perhaps we could set up a catering business, have them work as freelance decorators?”
“No!” they chorus again.
Dean laughs, “All right, all right, I’ll just make a special order when Papa’s birthday rolls around, huh?”
They sing to Dean (Emma looking to Claire to fill in the words she doesn’t know), and he blows out his candles with his daughters perched on his lap to “help” and Cas’ hand warm against his neck, his lips against the crown of his head. Dean eats birthday pie for breakfast the day he turns thirty-seven with his family by his side. They’ll have another pie (sans icing) and more singing when Sam and his family come over for dinner tonight, but doesn’t have a damn thing to wish for. He’s got everything he could want already.