One dark humid three AM Dean does the math, knowing that Sam's too deep in fever dreams to see what he's doing or care. May 1st, 2011, or something like it. And counting backwards, minutes meaning weeks, weeks meaning months, seconds meaning years. When he hits the number on the bottom of the complimentary motel notepad the air in his lungs strings its claws into his throat and he stops breathing.
--
He's careful about birthdays as they have always been a point of hurt: people are gone, people have died. Most of the time Sam is in that state of not quite wanting to be. So Dean tends to forego the cake, though he can't stop giving gifts, but gifts without wrapping paper, gifts without physicality. A favorite lunch spot, a touch on the arm.
There was that year without him, wherein he assumes there was cake, as there was a girl, a lawn, a dog--but he knows Sam never told her what a birthday was like in their lives. Probably ate her Albertson's-bakery funfetti with a smile on him and a deep black ache in his heart but never told her.
There was the year after, and Dean too busy watching Sam die (again, again) to think about a new year, a new number. When Sam turned thirty he was comatose in a hospital bed. (Again, again, again.) Going, and far too fucking young, and they never celebrated. Dean couldn't bring himself to. Kept imagining whatever box-mix cake he'd make being tasted on two tongues.
--
This year, though, this year, with Jesse and Cesar in the rear-view mirror, and Kentucky coming up fast, Dean says, so how about your birthday? And hopes the number isn't blinking neon behind his eyes. It was years ago, five years since he came out of that pit, but Dean knows the wounds are fresh, still, and pulsating.
Four thousand five hundred years is a pain you can't snuff out.
--
Sam says he can get a cake, if he wants to. Says it real quiet. So Dean doesn't get a cake--drives an hour to find the closest Chick-fil-a, a slice of that lemon meringue pie, sticks a single candle in it. Safe.
So Sam smiles about it when he gets back, the meringue half-melted, the candle bent in half by the plastic lid of the box, open it, Dean says, and Sam does. They light it with Dean's Zippo and Sam blows it out before the wick has a chance to turn black and sits there, his smile unfolding, settling, his breath slowing.
He begins to rub his thumb and index finger together, anxiously.
Four thousand five hundred and thirty-three years.
Don't do the math, Dean says, and it's very quiet, and he puts his hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezes the muscle there a little. Being firm, being strong, being there. Sammy.
--
Near three AM Sam finally touches the pie, and in the half-dark he and Dean pull it apart with plastic forks.
My chest feels tight this time of year, Sam says, half-drunk on the lateness of the hour. It's well May third by now. Every year I think it'll get better and it doesn't.
--
He's careful about birthdays as they have always been a point of hurt: people are gone, people have died. Most of the time Sam is in that state of not quite wanting to be. So Dean tends to forego the cake, though he can't stop giving gifts, but gifts without wrapping paper, gifts without physicality. A favorite lunch spot, a touch on the arm.
There was that year without him, wherein he assumes there was cake, as there was a girl, a lawn, a dog--but he knows Sam never told her what a birthday was like in their lives. Probably ate her Albertson's-bakery funfetti with a smile on him and a deep black ache in his heart but never told her.
There was the year after, and Dean too busy watching Sam die (again, again) to think about a new year, a new number. When Sam turned thirty he was comatose in a hospital bed. (Again, again, again.) Going, and far too fucking young, and they never celebrated. Dean couldn't bring himself to. Kept imagining whatever box-mix cake he'd make being tasted on two tongues.
--
This year, though, this year, with Jesse and Cesar in the rear-view mirror, and Kentucky coming up fast, Dean says, so how about your birthday? And hopes the number isn't blinking neon behind his eyes. It was years ago, five years since he came out of that pit, but Dean knows the wounds are fresh, still, and pulsating.
Four thousand five hundred years is a pain you can't snuff out.
--
Sam says he can get a cake, if he wants to. Says it real quiet. So Dean doesn't get a cake--drives an hour to find the closest Chick-fil-a, a slice of that lemon meringue pie, sticks a single candle in it. Safe.
So Sam smiles about it when he gets back, the meringue half-melted, the candle bent in half by the plastic lid of the box, open it, Dean says, and Sam does. They light it with Dean's Zippo and Sam blows it out before the wick has a chance to turn black and sits there, his smile unfolding, settling, his breath slowing.
He begins to rub his thumb and index finger together, anxiously.
Four thousand five hundred and thirty-three years.
Don't do the math, Dean says, and it's very quiet, and he puts his hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezes the muscle there a little. Being firm, being strong, being there. Sammy.
--
Near three AM Sam finally touches the pie, and in the half-dark he and Dean pull it apart with plastic forks.
My chest feels tight this time of year, Sam says, half-drunk on the lateness of the hour. It's well May third by now. Every year I think it'll get better and it doesn't.
Just gotta breathe through it.
Sam says, Never thought we'd live to be this old.
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