Dean's ninth birthday
Another snippet in little-Dean-land, the next birthday. This will probably turn into a little series of vignettes, each of Dean's birthdays as he grows up with Sam -- the alternate what-if-Dean-hadn't-grown-back-up universe I played with in Dean's eighth birthday snippet, posted some time back. Careful; it might cause diabetes (even if there's no cake in this one). My thanks again to innie_darling for applying her beta magic. Hope you enjoy! Em
He spends Dean’s ninth birthday in the hospital. Doesn’t remember the first couple of days as anything more than a pain-filled over-medicated blur, and Dean’s been nine for three days before Sam asks his nurse who’s keeping an eye on Dean.
“Dean?” she asks, her forehead wrinkling when she frowns. “I’m sorry, who’s Dean?”
Sam says, “My little,” and stops.
No one is taking care of Dean, no one HAS been taking care of Dean since the night Sam can barely remember, the Arkansas woods and the hangover from his visions lurking behind his eyeballs like a ball of hot mercury. A woodwose with an acquired taste for human flesh, a fight with something hairy and stinking and so very LARGE, and it all wavers like a mirage, untrustworthy.
“I have to go,” Sam says. When he sits up it takes his breath: he’s here for a reason, he can feel the reasons in his torn belly, the ache in his jaw, his splinted wrist. He still can’t remember where Dean was, where he is now.
The nurse tries to stop him, and then calls a code orange, and Sam disconnects himself from monitors and extracts his IV line with two overweight security guards standing nearby, looking uneasy and staying silent. Three nurses and a tired-looking doctor try to convince him to stay.
“Mr. Winchester, this is a really lousy idea,” the doctor says bluntly. “You have serious injuries. I can’t in all good conscience -“
“I can take care of myself,” Sam says. He keeps his hand flat on his belly while he stands erect. “You got some scrubs I can wear? I don’t see my clothes.”
“Sir, if you leave it will be strongly against medical advice.”
“I’m aware of that. Clothes?”
The first nurse brings him blue scrubs, and doesn’t help him dress. Her face is offended, as if it’s some kind of personal affront that he’s bailing. He doesn’t give a shit. All he can think is, Where is Dean? It’s been days, is he okay? Why does no one know who I’m talking about? He was WITH me. He must have been the one to call the ambulance.
He accepts a wheelchair, because the act of getting dressed has worn him out a hell of a lot more than he likes. His heart pounds, a ceaseless thrum while they roll him into the elevator, down to the lobby. The transporter even calls him a cab, and Sam digs through the sack of personal items they’ve stored for him, finds his wallet and fishes out cab fare.
Did he kill the woodwose? Jesus God almighty, where is Dean?
It takes him a long moment of sifting through memories before he can tell the cab driver where to take him. Cabins, and his is number seven, lucky seven, Dean had said, chomping on a cookie while Sam laid out his gear on the kitchenette table.
Does this mean I’m your son now instead of your brother? Dean had asked, and Sam said, What, the papers? Not really. You’re still my brother, but now I have legal guardianship.
Dean hadn’t asked about Dad. Sam hadn’t volunteered anything. It had taken a year to make it official, and all he knows of Dad is that he signed the papers Sam sent to the PO box in Dallas, and sent them back. No letter, no voice mail, and a money order for $600. The money’d paid for the fees and helped them make the trip to Arkansas a couple of months later, when Sam’s visions of blood and a hairy-faced creature got too strident to keep ignoring.
He’d kept a hundred aside to buy Dean some birthday presents. It’s in his wallet now, minus the twenty for the cab ride.
There is no car in front of cabin number seven. He has no car keys, but the single key for the cabin is in his hospital bag. “Dean?” he calls, and slides it into the lock. God, it’s freezing outside.
The cabin’s empty. But it’s warm, and there’s food, a bag of potato chips and a half-eaten loaf of bread, and mustard and cold cuts in the fridge. Milk and Cokes that Sam doesn’t remember buying. Three comic books on the table, one open and half-read.
“Dean?” Sam calls, louder, and feels a little dizzy. Dean’s not here. But he’s been here, maybe today, that means he’s okay, right? “Right,” he whispers, and hears footsteps on the wooden planks in front of the door.
“Sammy?”
Sam wavers and sees Dean’s wide eyes gazing at him from the doorway, and then has to sit down suddenly, landing on the couch with a thud that squeezes a groan out of him. “Dean,” he tries to say, and Dean grins and scrambles over to hug him. It hurts, hurts bad, and Sam doesn’t give a shit, clings to Dean for all he’s worth and says, “Are you okay?”
Dean nods. “I hid because yesterday the manager came over and said you had to pay him for the next week, and I didn’t have any money,” he says. “Thought it was him again.”
Hell of a way to inaugurate his custody of Dean: getting hurt, leaving a nine-year-old totally on his own for three days. Dean looks fine, sounds fine. Feels sturdy and strong in Sam’s arms, still chattering about hiding like Dad used to tell them, and it worked, see?
“Are you okay now?” he asks, retreating a little so he can stare at Sam’s face.
Sam touches Dean’s cheek with his thumb. “I’m okay. Dean, how did you get help? It was you, wasn’t it?”
“Took your cell phone.” Dean fishes it out of his pocket. He’s perfectly comfortable with cell phones now; their mysteries are all unveiled. “It was pretty neat. There was a helicopter and everything.” He purses his lips. “Wanted to ride on it too, but I was scared they’d see me.”
“You hid,” Sam says slowly.
“Uh-huh. And then I got back to the cabin and I waited for you. And you came back. I knew you’d come back.”
“De -“
“But the car’s still there. I couldn’t reach the pedals.” Dean’s sunny smile fades. “So I locked it.”
Which means Dean walked all the way back to the cabin, which was what? about eight miles? So cold outside. Sam closes his eyes briefly and hugs Dean again. “Next time,” he whispers against Dean’s hair, “we need a plan B.”
“Dad always said to go to ground. Did I do wrong? I knew nobody oughta see me, or else maybe they’d do something bad.”
Yeah, like take away that legal custody before the ink’s dry on my signature, Sam thinks, and nods. “You did great, Dean. I’m just sorry you -“ His throat clamps down on the words, and he shakes his head.
“Sorry what?”
“That you had to improvise like that. Come up with your own Plan B,” he adds, when Dean looks puzzled at the new word.
“It’s okay.” Dean grins and touches the scrape on Sam’s cheek. “Does it hurt?”
“Nope. But you know what?”
“What?”
“Something happened while I was in the hospital.”
Dean’s eyes widen. “What?”
Sam fights down a grin. “I think,” he says slowly, “that somebody just got a year older. Heard a rumor like that. Did you hear that rumor?”
Dean watches him carefully, and then tips his head back and laughs out loud. “You’re funny.”
“Happy birthday, Dean,” Sam says, nodding.
Dean keeps on grinning. “Can we eat at McDonald’s?”
“I bet we can. We gotta get the car first, though.”
He’s tired now that it’s all over, the hospital and the fear, and the absolute last thing he feels like doing is calling a cab to drive them all the way to the trailhead and the Impala. But it’s Dean’s belated birthday, and he’s just spent three days alone and not knowing whether or not Sam would ever come back, and he deserves a treat.
Now if Sam can just work on Dean’s definition of “treat,” they’ll be gold.
He changes clothes, checks his bandages, takes four Tylenol, and hears somebody honk out front. Probably the same cab he took out here not very long ago. Sam calls, “Ready?”
Dean’s already at the door. “Ready!”
~~~~~~~~~~
He spends Dean’s ninth birthday in the hospital. Doesn’t remember the first couple of days as anything more than a pain-filled over-medicated blur, and Dean’s been nine for three days before Sam asks his nurse who’s keeping an eye on Dean.
“Dean?” she asks, her forehead wrinkling when she frowns. “I’m sorry, who’s Dean?”
Sam says, “My little,” and stops.
No one is taking care of Dean, no one HAS been taking care of Dean since the night Sam can barely remember, the Arkansas woods and the hangover from his visions lurking behind his eyeballs like a ball of hot mercury. A woodwose with an acquired taste for human flesh, a fight with something hairy and stinking and so very LARGE, and it all wavers like a mirage, untrustworthy.
“I have to go,” Sam says. When he sits up it takes his breath: he’s here for a reason, he can feel the reasons in his torn belly, the ache in his jaw, his splinted wrist. He still can’t remember where Dean was, where he is now.
The nurse tries to stop him, and then calls a code orange, and Sam disconnects himself from monitors and extracts his IV line with two overweight security guards standing nearby, looking uneasy and staying silent. Three nurses and a tired-looking doctor try to convince him to stay.
“Mr. Winchester, this is a really lousy idea,” the doctor says bluntly. “You have serious injuries. I can’t in all good conscience -“
“I can take care of myself,” Sam says. He keeps his hand flat on his belly while he stands erect. “You got some scrubs I can wear? I don’t see my clothes.”
“Sir, if you leave it will be strongly against medical advice.”
“I’m aware of that. Clothes?”
The first nurse brings him blue scrubs, and doesn’t help him dress. Her face is offended, as if it’s some kind of personal affront that he’s bailing. He doesn’t give a shit. All he can think is, Where is Dean? It’s been days, is he okay? Why does no one know who I’m talking about? He was WITH me. He must have been the one to call the ambulance.
He accepts a wheelchair, because the act of getting dressed has worn him out a hell of a lot more than he likes. His heart pounds, a ceaseless thrum while they roll him into the elevator, down to the lobby. The transporter even calls him a cab, and Sam digs through the sack of personal items they’ve stored for him, finds his wallet and fishes out cab fare.
Did he kill the woodwose? Jesus God almighty, where is Dean?
It takes him a long moment of sifting through memories before he can tell the cab driver where to take him. Cabins, and his is number seven, lucky seven, Dean had said, chomping on a cookie while Sam laid out his gear on the kitchenette table.
Does this mean I’m your son now instead of your brother? Dean had asked, and Sam said, What, the papers? Not really. You’re still my brother, but now I have legal guardianship.
Dean hadn’t asked about Dad. Sam hadn’t volunteered anything. It had taken a year to make it official, and all he knows of Dad is that he signed the papers Sam sent to the PO box in Dallas, and sent them back. No letter, no voice mail, and a money order for $600. The money’d paid for the fees and helped them make the trip to Arkansas a couple of months later, when Sam’s visions of blood and a hairy-faced creature got too strident to keep ignoring.
He’d kept a hundred aside to buy Dean some birthday presents. It’s in his wallet now, minus the twenty for the cab ride.
There is no car in front of cabin number seven. He has no car keys, but the single key for the cabin is in his hospital bag. “Dean?” he calls, and slides it into the lock. God, it’s freezing outside.
The cabin’s empty. But it’s warm, and there’s food, a bag of potato chips and a half-eaten loaf of bread, and mustard and cold cuts in the fridge. Milk and Cokes that Sam doesn’t remember buying. Three comic books on the table, one open and half-read.
“Dean?” Sam calls, louder, and feels a little dizzy. Dean’s not here. But he’s been here, maybe today, that means he’s okay, right? “Right,” he whispers, and hears footsteps on the wooden planks in front of the door.
“Sammy?”
Sam wavers and sees Dean’s wide eyes gazing at him from the doorway, and then has to sit down suddenly, landing on the couch with a thud that squeezes a groan out of him. “Dean,” he tries to say, and Dean grins and scrambles over to hug him. It hurts, hurts bad, and Sam doesn’t give a shit, clings to Dean for all he’s worth and says, “Are you okay?”
Dean nods. “I hid because yesterday the manager came over and said you had to pay him for the next week, and I didn’t have any money,” he says. “Thought it was him again.”
Hell of a way to inaugurate his custody of Dean: getting hurt, leaving a nine-year-old totally on his own for three days. Dean looks fine, sounds fine. Feels sturdy and strong in Sam’s arms, still chattering about hiding like Dad used to tell them, and it worked, see?
“Are you okay now?” he asks, retreating a little so he can stare at Sam’s face.
Sam touches Dean’s cheek with his thumb. “I’m okay. Dean, how did you get help? It was you, wasn’t it?”
“Took your cell phone.” Dean fishes it out of his pocket. He’s perfectly comfortable with cell phones now; their mysteries are all unveiled. “It was pretty neat. There was a helicopter and everything.” He purses his lips. “Wanted to ride on it too, but I was scared they’d see me.”
“You hid,” Sam says slowly.
“Uh-huh. And then I got back to the cabin and I waited for you. And you came back. I knew you’d come back.”
“De -“
“But the car’s still there. I couldn’t reach the pedals.” Dean’s sunny smile fades. “So I locked it.”
Which means Dean walked all the way back to the cabin, which was what? about eight miles? So cold outside. Sam closes his eyes briefly and hugs Dean again. “Next time,” he whispers against Dean’s hair, “we need a plan B.”
“Dad always said to go to ground. Did I do wrong? I knew nobody oughta see me, or else maybe they’d do something bad.”
Yeah, like take away that legal custody before the ink’s dry on my signature, Sam thinks, and nods. “You did great, Dean. I’m just sorry you -“ His throat clamps down on the words, and he shakes his head.
“Sorry what?”
“That you had to improvise like that. Come up with your own Plan B,” he adds, when Dean looks puzzled at the new word.
“It’s okay.” Dean grins and touches the scrape on Sam’s cheek. “Does it hurt?”
“Nope. But you know what?”
“What?”
“Something happened while I was in the hospital.”
Dean’s eyes widen. “What?”
Sam fights down a grin. “I think,” he says slowly, “that somebody just got a year older. Heard a rumor like that. Did you hear that rumor?”
Dean watches him carefully, and then tips his head back and laughs out loud. “You’re funny.”
“Happy birthday, Dean,” Sam says, nodding.
Dean keeps on grinning. “Can we eat at McDonald’s?”
“I bet we can. We gotta get the car first, though.”
He’s tired now that it’s all over, the hospital and the fear, and the absolute last thing he feels like doing is calling a cab to drive them all the way to the trailhead and the Impala. But it’s Dean’s belated birthday, and he’s just spent three days alone and not knowing whether or not Sam would ever come back, and he deserves a treat.
Now if Sam can just work on Dean’s definition of “treat,” they’ll be gold.
He changes clothes, checks his bandages, takes four Tylenol, and hears somebody honk out front. Probably the same cab he took out here not very long ago. Sam calls, “Ready?”
Dean’s already at the door. “Ready!”
~~~~~~~~~~