I bet Bobby thought about that for a month in advance. Books for Sam, a hot wax for the Impala; small things. He’d get a grocery cake and scrape off the “Happy 40th!” frosting, or stick some candles in a few doughnuts. It wasn’t much, but Sam and Dean would smile the rare kind of smile that reached their eyes, and they’d hug him and pat him on the back and say, “Thanks, Bobby!” And they’d mean it. Every year, they’d mean it. He didn’t have much, but he could give his boys that happiness.