Birthday Blues
Title: Birthday Blues
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3250
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke did a better job breaking them than I ever could.
Summary: Five times Dean didn't celebrate his birthday and one time he did.
Look at me guys, this is my first ever 5 times fic. I'm disproportionately excited. Fill for - obviously - 'Birthdays' on my angst_bingo card. This may very well be the most depressing thing I've ever written. And I'm in a good mood. *scratches head*
1991 - Redgranite, WI
"Why didn't you get Dean those Chuck Taylors?" Sam asks again, confused frown trained on the bland piece of toast on his plate.
They're eating in again. Second week in a row and every night Dean has to cut off a little more of Sammy's toast, because the kid won't so much as touch the moldy part.
"Because, I didn't," Dad growls through clenched teeth, a bandaged hand rubbing over the bruise on his temple.
He isn't eating. Says Jack' gonna take care of it for now, son and Dean knows Dad is trying to make what little they have left to eat last longer for him and Sammy, but it also makes Dad scary some nights. Dad's in trouble with the cops again, but he hasn't told them why and Dean doesn't dare ask.
"But he said he wanted them," Sam argues. Dean slides further down in his sticky, red cushioned chair, starts nibbling nervously at his own toast. "You asked him what he wanted for his birthday and Dean said he wanted the sneakers and now you didn't get 'em for him."
"Sam," Dad warns in that tone that makes Dean's neck tingle and his spine straighten even though he knows the rebuke isn't directed at him.
"But why - "
"You wanna keep asking questions, my hand's gonna do the answering on your ass, kid."
Sammy crinkles his nose, shoves his pursed lips left and right, but stays quiet for now. Dean pushes his ratty sneaker into the linoleum floor. Still wet and soaked through with snow from when he and Sam where doing H2H outside. Sammy won, if only because Dean kept tripping over the shredded laces that have been knotted back together a hundred times to make the last a tiny bit longer.
"He said he wanted new shoes," Sammy mutters with a mutinous glare in their father's direction.
"I changed my mind, okay?" Dean snaps before Dad can threaten Sammy with another ass-beating.
"But you said - "
"I don't need any stupid shoes."
"Yeah, you do, you said - "
"Sam!"
This time it's both Dean and Dad and Sammy stares at Dean like he just betrayed some sacred bond between brothers.
Dean's eyes burn with the traitorous tickle of unshed tears. He sniffs loudly and hurries to cover it with a cough. Just a small head cold's all.
"He said he'd get 'em for you," Sam whispers under his breath and brushes his short leg against Dean's under the table.
2002 - Morille, ME
"'s my birthday," Dean tells the bartender, nodding his head proudly until the dimly lit room starts swimming out of focus.
The man gives him a pitying smile, pushes his trucker hat out of his eyes and pours Dean another shot. "Last one, son," he says. Dean feels like pointing out that he's a grown ass man and nowhere near this guy's son, but by the time he gets the words into the correct order the whiskey has already washed down all of his anger.
"Sure," Dean mumbles instead, his tongue thick and heavy from the alcohol. "'s what'cha said last drink ago."
Last drink ago? Yeah, sure. Whatever.
"Well, this time I mean it, hotshot. Trust me, you're done. I don't wanna be cleaning up your barf."
Dean's lip curls back in disgust. It's that bartender tone of voice again. The mere fact that he's on the other side of the bar means he has all the answers and Dean is some drunk college kid who got his panties in a bunch over a failed exam. Asshole sanctimonious prick.
Dean starts playing with his shot glass. Paints little wet Penobscot symbols onto the counter top and grins a loopy smile when the small lines run together again.
He gives the empty glass a final shove and watches it crash into his cellphone. Huh. His cellphone's lying on the counter. When'd that happen?
Dean taps his fingers against the phone, glares at the thing. It's quiet. Not a soul thought to call him. Not Dad from whatever job he's working in Minnesota (again), not some random booty call, not Sammy. Never Sammy. Sammy hasn't called since that first time to tell Dean he got to Cali safe.
"Drunk dial's never a good idea, kid," the bartender grunts and Dean keeps staring at the tiny screen. It's dancing. Up, down, left, right, left, further left, all the way -
"Woooaah."
Dean's ass hurts.
Why's he sitting on the floor?
He tries to get up, huffs at the unexpected mess of sensory overload, jumbled lights and sounds and smells all blending together in one confusing mess. Dean decides to stay right here on the floor for the foreseeable future.
"Okay, kid, time to go home," somebody says near Dean's ear. Somebody. Guy. Bartender.
Dean wants to argue, tell the guy he's going home whenever he damn well wants to go home and what the fuck's home anyway? The sticky floor is about as comfortable as the rats hole of a motel room he's been staying at.
"'s my birthday," he tells the guy. Possibly not for the first time.
"Well, happy birthday, kid."
The bartender sounds annoyed in that good natured parental sort of way that reminds Dean of Uncle Bobby. But in a bad way.
Still, Dean feels his face start to hurt with a giant, elated drunk-little-kid smile as his mind starts screaming happy birthday dear Dean-ooooo. Happy birthday toooo yoooouuu. Damn, he's drunk. Totally shit-faced. FU-fucking-BARed. Or something.
He stumbles through the door, the cold winter air hits him like a brick to the guts. It surges into his lungs, makes him ache deep down and suddenly he's on his ass again.
He'll just close his eyes for a minute. Until everything stops spinning and he can maybe remember where he parked the Impala.
Dean never hears when his cellphone starts bleeping Smoke on the Water, SAMMY blinking on the tiny screen.
1989 - Boise, ID
This sucks. It sucks, it sucks, it sucks.
Dean presses the heels of his hands further back against his closed eyes until it hurts because he is not going to cry. He's just not.
"De-ean?" Sammy sing-songs from the other side of the door. "Dean, come out, I wanna play."
Dean takes a shuddering breath, tries to force his voice to be calm and grown up and not like a little kid anymore. "I'll be ri..right out."
So, Dean, what'd you get for your birthday?
Stupid teachers. What business is it of hers anyway?
And Dean couldn't even come up with a halfway believable lie. He's too much of a retard to come up with a decent list of things normal kids get for their tenth birthday and now Ms Halwing thinks he's some charity case and she'll tell all the other teachers and then they'll corner him and make Dad come back early from his job and it'll be just as bad as that time in second grade when Dean showed up smelling like gunpowder with a giant bruise on his right shoulder.
Dean, honey, please stay for a second, I need to talk to you.
This is not turning into second grade in Waltham.
He didn't stay. Ran like crazy so he could get Sammy out of his first grade classroom, at least with a good lie at the ready this time. Dean doesn't need a stupid teacher telling him he deserves better, asking about his parents and why his clothes are falling apart.
He bangs his head back against the bathroom door. Hard. The shock hurts his eyes and deep down in his empty stomach, but it does nothing to drive away the traitorous thoughts that tell him he shouldn't be all alone in this and Dad should be here and he shouldn't need to make up stories about what he got for his birthday.
This morning he thought being ten would make all the difference. He's big now. Big enough to go huntin' with Dad. He was thinking maybe Dad would come back and get him out of school, take him shooting so he'd be ready to help him kill the thing that killed Mom, that other thing that tried to take Sammy. So they could all be happy again and maybe Dad could stop looking at Dean like he has ever since he let that thing go after his baby brother.
"C'mon, Dean, I'm bored. I'll even let you use some of my crayons."
Dean feels a painful shudder wreck through his entire body and suddenly he's just bawling.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, he tells himself.
He's ten now. He's gotta stop being such a baby. God knows Sammy's doing enough crying for both of them most of the time.
"Dean."
Sammy kicks the bathroom door from the outside. Something crashes, possibly the tattered box of dirty crayons hitting the far wall.
"What?" Dean yells, his voice breaks painfully on the word and he has to bite down on his fist to keep from hiccuping.
"I'm hungry."
"Tough."
"Dean!"
Dean can tell Sammy's close to crying himself. He wants to call him a baby, but then he remembers that's what his brother is. Sammy is a little kid and Dean is supposed to take care of him, protect him, make him Spaghetti-O's whenever he's hungry, 'cause that's your job, kiddo.
God knows Dean's screwed up enough times lately. Maybe if he does a better job from now on Dad won't think he's such a screw up anymore and maybe he'll even trust Dean again and then maybe next year he'll even earn himself a real birthday.
"Coming," he tells Sammy through the door, wipes the tears and snot off his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
1997 - Valrico Oaks, FL
At least it's warm.
January in Florida, dead mosquitoes on every windowsill. The rusty fan is working overtime, but there is only so much it can do to stop their cabin from smelling like a moldy, blood covered high school locker room.
"Wa'er?" Dad slurs from where he's lying on top of his sweat soaked blankets.
Dean sighs, heaves himself off of his spot in front of the old black and white TV. His ankle hurts like a bitch and he spills about half of the sour, red-ish water when he hobbles over to Dad's bed.
Dad grunts and nods his head, hisses a couple of curses when he tries to sit up, his good hand pressing new bruises onto the abrasions on Dean's arm.
"Band'ges," dad slurs and Dean follows his gaze to the blood lazily seeping through the yellow-gray bandage on Dad's other arm.
"Sam," he shoots over his shoulder. "Get some Codeine from the bathroom."
Sam glares from under sweat soaked bangs. I'm a teenager and not obligated to do anything just because it's the decent thing to do plastered all over his face like a giant neon sign.
"I told you you it wasn't a skinwalker. Get the stupid gauze yourself," he huffs and turns back to whatever geek book he's been reading. Dean kinda wants to take it and whack his brother across the head with it. Huge-ass tome would hurt like a bitch, too.
Dad groans again, his hand moving to clutch around the busted muscle in his leg, so Dean hobbles over to the bathroom himself.
"Bitch," he mutters and non-too-gently shoves the kid's head when he's passing him.
Sam throws a glare over his shoulder, scratches his cheek with his middle finger.
"Ooh, really got me there, Sammy-girl. At least help me change his bandages."
"I'll help you later."
"Dad said to do it now."
"Jeez, you're such a fucking suck up daddy's boy."
"Sam." That's Dad, from the bed who is too fucking out of it to remember that calling Sammy out on anything only leads to more hissy fits these days. Or maybe he does remember and just doesn't give two shits. "Show your brother some goddamn respect."
"What and he gets to call me a bitch and you say nothing about it?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Look at that, Samantha finally got her fucking period."
"Dean..."
"Sorry."
"J'st get the shit from the bathroom 'n help me out here."
Dean sighs. Turns away to hide the emotions that keep twitching across his face. "Yessir..."
2009 - Sioux Falls, SD
They drive back to Bobby's place after Dean signs himself out AMA. The doctors can shove their psych evaluations up their ass as far as Dean's concerned.
He keeps waiting for something to happen, anything to indicate that Cas and his fucking garrison won't take no for an answer, but apparently they've finally gotten it through their thick skulls that their new favorite toy is broken beyond repair, not even good to use as a pawn in their great end game anymore. Shame. Dean's good at that. Spent the better part of his life topside training to be just that.
"Hey, it's..." my birthday, he almost says when he opens one of Bobby's papers one morning, trails off with "time for my morning beer," after he realizes it's really sort of pathetic to have to remind your family that they're supposed to be celebrating the fact that you were born. Resurrected. Whatever.
Not that he expected Sam to act like that giant half puppy half little boy Dean gave his soul for, to fall over himself with the pure joy of having his big brother back after he thought he'd lost him forever to the hounds and hooks and razor blades. He didn't expect Sam to walk up to him and hug him to his weirdly gigantor chest and tell him happy birthday, big brother. Damn, you're getting old. He didn't expect any of that. Not one bit.
He knows thirty is supposed to be some sort of landmark, a reason for people on TV to go out and get shitfaced with their buddies so they can do stupid shit they can turn into anecdotes to tell around the fireplace once they're to old to actually do anything anymore.
For Dean though, it's just another confusing number. Seventy years of labor behind a thirty year old face.
Sam keeps fiddling with his cell phone, barely touches the burned pancakes Bobby put in front of him and that dangerous voice in the back of Dean's mind keeps whispering that Sammy might just be trying to bully the thing into playing some birthday-ish tune for him.
"Hey, I got a...I gotta go out, uh...groceries," Sam stammers, quickly snaps his phone shut and stuffs it into his back pocket.
I'll come with you, Dean wants to blurt out, but Sam shoots him that look that says Dean's a burden to him and he's got more important things to do than babysit his damaged brother while he has his secret demon-chick meet-ups.
"Sure," Dean says, looks down at his paper again, just to have something to focus on. "Yeah uh...see ya."
Dean thinks his voice sounds wrong. All raspy and out of breath. He swallows down the thick ball of apprehension when he's watching Sam basically jump up out of his chair and stride away from him with an eager bounce in his step.
1984 - Blue Rapids, KS
It's day 83 since the fire.
Dean is turning five today. John remembered days ago. He doesn't have much he can give his boys right now, the insurance still refuses to pay for the damage to the house and working as a part time mechanic only pays so much. Still, John doesn't want a repeat of day 53 with Dean's whipersoft voice in his ear, Daddy, Santa didn't leave me any presents. Was I bad?
John came up with some bullshit idea about Santa leaving a couple of dollars in Daddy's pocket this year so Dean and Sammy could pick whatever presents they liked. It was a terrible lie and he could tell Dean only accepted it because he couldn't wrap his head around the idea of John lying to him.
So today he gets up early, makes sure the boys are still sound asleep, Dean's arm wrapped protectively around one of the pillows that keep the baby from rolling off their bed, takes the present out of his duffel and starts working on some microwave chocolate cake he picked up last night.
Dean just looks at a spot by John's shoulder when he puts the slightly burned but overall damn awesome cake in front of him later. Sammy wastes no time, climbs up onto the chair next to his brother and smashes his pudgy fingers into the pie, smears chocolate all over his face and neck and the Army shirt he sleeps in.
"Aren't you hungry, son?" John asks, desperately hoping this won't be one of the silent days. Any day but today.
Dean shrugs, shakes his head and uses his fork to poke at the mess Sammy left on his plate. His bottom lip juts out in a tiny pout and John wonders if the kid is coming down with another cold or if his nose is red from trying not to cry.
"It's your birthday," John tells him with false cheer in his voice. "We always get chocolate cake on your birthday, remember?"
Dean nods and pushes the plate away from himself.
John knows he's being ridiculous, but he can't help the feelings of rejection and not being good enough that claw their way up his chest. I'm trying here, kid, he thinks and has to ball his hands into tight fists under the table.
"Well, I got you some presents," he announces, to counter the uneasy silence.
Sammy squeals when he sees the bright yellow wrapping paper. Crumpled, because Mary is supposed to be the one who wraps the presents. Dean reluctantly takes the package from John's shaking hand, it's ridiculous how badly he wants this to put a smile on his little boy's face, how much he wants to hear wow and wicked and thanks, Daddy!!
Oh, Dean mouthes silently when he sees the fire engine red Hot Wheels car and John feels a chilling ball of disappointment settle in his guts. "You like it?"
Dean lifts his shoulders in a single shrug, his left leg swings back and forth aimlessly, crashes into the table again and again and John slams his hand down, makes the car jump and roll towards Sammy's outstretched hands.
"I asked you a question," he rasps in that quiet yell he remembers his old man use. "Do you like it?"
Dean's bottom lip quivers, his huge eyes shining bright with unshed tears when he meets John's gaze for a second.
He nods frantically, sinks lower in his cheap plastic chair and John can hear his Mary telling him to get out, cool off and only come back once he's worked through whatever issues just managed to take over, but Mary isn't around anymore. 83 days. Mary isn't here and John needs to lash out at something.
"Say thank you, then," he growls.
Sammy crawls away from the table, too used to the constant tension to be too disturbed by it.
Dean puts a reluctant finger on top of the car, pushes it back and forth with a quiet calm that's so unsettling on a boy that only 84 days ago would jump down the bottom three stairs to their house, yelling for John to watch him do it again and again and screaming with joy when John'd pick him up mid-jump and twirl him around in his arms.
"Thanks, Daddy...sir."
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3250
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke did a better job breaking them than I ever could.
Summary: Five times Dean didn't celebrate his birthday and one time he did.
Look at me guys, this is my first ever 5 times fic. I'm disproportionately excited. Fill for - obviously - 'Birthdays' on my angst_bingo card. This may very well be the most depressing thing I've ever written. And I'm in a good mood. *scratches head*
1991 - Redgranite, WI
"Why didn't you get Dean those Chuck Taylors?" Sam asks again, confused frown trained on the bland piece of toast on his plate.
They're eating in again. Second week in a row and every night Dean has to cut off a little more of Sammy's toast, because the kid won't so much as touch the moldy part.
"Because, I didn't," Dad growls through clenched teeth, a bandaged hand rubbing over the bruise on his temple.
He isn't eating. Says Jack' gonna take care of it for now, son and Dean knows Dad is trying to make what little they have left to eat last longer for him and Sammy, but it also makes Dad scary some nights. Dad's in trouble with the cops again, but he hasn't told them why and Dean doesn't dare ask.
"But he said he wanted them," Sam argues. Dean slides further down in his sticky, red cushioned chair, starts nibbling nervously at his own toast. "You asked him what he wanted for his birthday and Dean said he wanted the sneakers and now you didn't get 'em for him."
"Sam," Dad warns in that tone that makes Dean's neck tingle and his spine straighten even though he knows the rebuke isn't directed at him.
"But why - "
"You wanna keep asking questions, my hand's gonna do the answering on your ass, kid."
Sammy crinkles his nose, shoves his pursed lips left and right, but stays quiet for now. Dean pushes his ratty sneaker into the linoleum floor. Still wet and soaked through with snow from when he and Sam where doing H2H outside. Sammy won, if only because Dean kept tripping over the shredded laces that have been knotted back together a hundred times to make the last a tiny bit longer.
"He said he wanted new shoes," Sammy mutters with a mutinous glare in their father's direction.
"I changed my mind, okay?" Dean snaps before Dad can threaten Sammy with another ass-beating.
"But you said - "
"I don't need any stupid shoes."
"Yeah, you do, you said - "
"Sam!"
This time it's both Dean and Dad and Sammy stares at Dean like he just betrayed some sacred bond between brothers.
Dean's eyes burn with the traitorous tickle of unshed tears. He sniffs loudly and hurries to cover it with a cough. Just a small head cold's all.
"He said he'd get 'em for you," Sam whispers under his breath and brushes his short leg against Dean's under the table.
2002 - Morille, ME
"'s my birthday," Dean tells the bartender, nodding his head proudly until the dimly lit room starts swimming out of focus.
The man gives him a pitying smile, pushes his trucker hat out of his eyes and pours Dean another shot. "Last one, son," he says. Dean feels like pointing out that he's a grown ass man and nowhere near this guy's son, but by the time he gets the words into the correct order the whiskey has already washed down all of his anger.
"Sure," Dean mumbles instead, his tongue thick and heavy from the alcohol. "'s what'cha said last drink ago."
Last drink ago? Yeah, sure. Whatever.
"Well, this time I mean it, hotshot. Trust me, you're done. I don't wanna be cleaning up your barf."
Dean's lip curls back in disgust. It's that bartender tone of voice again. The mere fact that he's on the other side of the bar means he has all the answers and Dean is some drunk college kid who got his panties in a bunch over a failed exam. Asshole sanctimonious prick.
Dean starts playing with his shot glass. Paints little wet Penobscot symbols onto the counter top and grins a loopy smile when the small lines run together again.
He gives the empty glass a final shove and watches it crash into his cellphone. Huh. His cellphone's lying on the counter. When'd that happen?
Dean taps his fingers against the phone, glares at the thing. It's quiet. Not a soul thought to call him. Not Dad from whatever job he's working in Minnesota (again), not some random booty call, not Sammy. Never Sammy. Sammy hasn't called since that first time to tell Dean he got to Cali safe.
"Drunk dial's never a good idea, kid," the bartender grunts and Dean keeps staring at the tiny screen. It's dancing. Up, down, left, right, left, further left, all the way -
"Woooaah."
Dean's ass hurts.
Why's he sitting on the floor?
He tries to get up, huffs at the unexpected mess of sensory overload, jumbled lights and sounds and smells all blending together in one confusing mess. Dean decides to stay right here on the floor for the foreseeable future.
"Okay, kid, time to go home," somebody says near Dean's ear. Somebody. Guy. Bartender.
Dean wants to argue, tell the guy he's going home whenever he damn well wants to go home and what the fuck's home anyway? The sticky floor is about as comfortable as the rats hole of a motel room he's been staying at.
"'s my birthday," he tells the guy. Possibly not for the first time.
"Well, happy birthday, kid."
The bartender sounds annoyed in that good natured parental sort of way that reminds Dean of Uncle Bobby. But in a bad way.
Still, Dean feels his face start to hurt with a giant, elated drunk-little-kid smile as his mind starts screaming happy birthday dear Dean-ooooo. Happy birthday toooo yoooouuu. Damn, he's drunk. Totally shit-faced. FU-fucking-BARed. Or something.
He stumbles through the door, the cold winter air hits him like a brick to the guts. It surges into his lungs, makes him ache deep down and suddenly he's on his ass again.
He'll just close his eyes for a minute. Until everything stops spinning and he can maybe remember where he parked the Impala.
Dean never hears when his cellphone starts bleeping Smoke on the Water, SAMMY blinking on the tiny screen.
1989 - Boise, ID
This sucks. It sucks, it sucks, it sucks.
Dean presses the heels of his hands further back against his closed eyes until it hurts because he is not going to cry. He's just not.
"De-ean?" Sammy sing-songs from the other side of the door. "Dean, come out, I wanna play."
Dean takes a shuddering breath, tries to force his voice to be calm and grown up and not like a little kid anymore. "I'll be ri..right out."
So, Dean, what'd you get for your birthday?
Stupid teachers. What business is it of hers anyway?
And Dean couldn't even come up with a halfway believable lie. He's too much of a retard to come up with a decent list of things normal kids get for their tenth birthday and now Ms Halwing thinks he's some charity case and she'll tell all the other teachers and then they'll corner him and make Dad come back early from his job and it'll be just as bad as that time in second grade when Dean showed up smelling like gunpowder with a giant bruise on his right shoulder.
Dean, honey, please stay for a second, I need to talk to you.
This is not turning into second grade in Waltham.
He didn't stay. Ran like crazy so he could get Sammy out of his first grade classroom, at least with a good lie at the ready this time. Dean doesn't need a stupid teacher telling him he deserves better, asking about his parents and why his clothes are falling apart.
He bangs his head back against the bathroom door. Hard. The shock hurts his eyes and deep down in his empty stomach, but it does nothing to drive away the traitorous thoughts that tell him he shouldn't be all alone in this and Dad should be here and he shouldn't need to make up stories about what he got for his birthday.
This morning he thought being ten would make all the difference. He's big now. Big enough to go huntin' with Dad. He was thinking maybe Dad would come back and get him out of school, take him shooting so he'd be ready to help him kill the thing that killed Mom, that other thing that tried to take Sammy. So they could all be happy again and maybe Dad could stop looking at Dean like he has ever since he let that thing go after his baby brother.
"C'mon, Dean, I'm bored. I'll even let you use some of my crayons."
Dean feels a painful shudder wreck through his entire body and suddenly he's just bawling.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, he tells himself.
He's ten now. He's gotta stop being such a baby. God knows Sammy's doing enough crying for both of them most of the time.
"Dean."
Sammy kicks the bathroom door from the outside. Something crashes, possibly the tattered box of dirty crayons hitting the far wall.
"What?" Dean yells, his voice breaks painfully on the word and he has to bite down on his fist to keep from hiccuping.
"I'm hungry."
"Tough."
"Dean!"
Dean can tell Sammy's close to crying himself. He wants to call him a baby, but then he remembers that's what his brother is. Sammy is a little kid and Dean is supposed to take care of him, protect him, make him Spaghetti-O's whenever he's hungry, 'cause that's your job, kiddo.
God knows Dean's screwed up enough times lately. Maybe if he does a better job from now on Dad won't think he's such a screw up anymore and maybe he'll even trust Dean again and then maybe next year he'll even earn himself a real birthday.
"Coming," he tells Sammy through the door, wipes the tears and snot off his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
1997 - Valrico Oaks, FL
At least it's warm.
January in Florida, dead mosquitoes on every windowsill. The rusty fan is working overtime, but there is only so much it can do to stop their cabin from smelling like a moldy, blood covered high school locker room.
"Wa'er?" Dad slurs from where he's lying on top of his sweat soaked blankets.
Dean sighs, heaves himself off of his spot in front of the old black and white TV. His ankle hurts like a bitch and he spills about half of the sour, red-ish water when he hobbles over to Dad's bed.
Dad grunts and nods his head, hisses a couple of curses when he tries to sit up, his good hand pressing new bruises onto the abrasions on Dean's arm.
"Band'ges," dad slurs and Dean follows his gaze to the blood lazily seeping through the yellow-gray bandage on Dad's other arm.
"Sam," he shoots over his shoulder. "Get some Codeine from the bathroom."
Sam glares from under sweat soaked bangs. I'm a teenager and not obligated to do anything just because it's the decent thing to do plastered all over his face like a giant neon sign.
"I told you you it wasn't a skinwalker. Get the stupid gauze yourself," he huffs and turns back to whatever geek book he's been reading. Dean kinda wants to take it and whack his brother across the head with it. Huge-ass tome would hurt like a bitch, too.
Dad groans again, his hand moving to clutch around the busted muscle in his leg, so Dean hobbles over to the bathroom himself.
"Bitch," he mutters and non-too-gently shoves the kid's head when he's passing him.
Sam throws a glare over his shoulder, scratches his cheek with his middle finger.
"Ooh, really got me there, Sammy-girl. At least help me change his bandages."
"I'll help you later."
"Dad said to do it now."
"Jeez, you're such a fucking suck up daddy's boy."
"Sam." That's Dad, from the bed who is too fucking out of it to remember that calling Sammy out on anything only leads to more hissy fits these days. Or maybe he does remember and just doesn't give two shits. "Show your brother some goddamn respect."
"What and he gets to call me a bitch and you say nothing about it?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Look at that, Samantha finally got her fucking period."
"Dean..."
"Sorry."
"J'st get the shit from the bathroom 'n help me out here."
Dean sighs. Turns away to hide the emotions that keep twitching across his face. "Yessir..."
2009 - Sioux Falls, SD
They drive back to Bobby's place after Dean signs himself out AMA. The doctors can shove their psych evaluations up their ass as far as Dean's concerned.
He keeps waiting for something to happen, anything to indicate that Cas and his fucking garrison won't take no for an answer, but apparently they've finally gotten it through their thick skulls that their new favorite toy is broken beyond repair, not even good to use as a pawn in their great end game anymore. Shame. Dean's good at that. Spent the better part of his life topside training to be just that.
"Hey, it's..." my birthday, he almost says when he opens one of Bobby's papers one morning, trails off with "time for my morning beer," after he realizes it's really sort of pathetic to have to remind your family that they're supposed to be celebrating the fact that you were born. Resurrected. Whatever.
Not that he expected Sam to act like that giant half puppy half little boy Dean gave his soul for, to fall over himself with the pure joy of having his big brother back after he thought he'd lost him forever to the hounds and hooks and razor blades. He didn't expect Sam to walk up to him and hug him to his weirdly gigantor chest and tell him happy birthday, big brother. Damn, you're getting old. He didn't expect any of that. Not one bit.
He knows thirty is supposed to be some sort of landmark, a reason for people on TV to go out and get shitfaced with their buddies so they can do stupid shit they can turn into anecdotes to tell around the fireplace once they're to old to actually do anything anymore.
For Dean though, it's just another confusing number. Seventy years of labor behind a thirty year old face.
Sam keeps fiddling with his cell phone, barely touches the burned pancakes Bobby put in front of him and that dangerous voice in the back of Dean's mind keeps whispering that Sammy might just be trying to bully the thing into playing some birthday-ish tune for him.
"Hey, I got a...I gotta go out, uh...groceries," Sam stammers, quickly snaps his phone shut and stuffs it into his back pocket.
I'll come with you, Dean wants to blurt out, but Sam shoots him that look that says Dean's a burden to him and he's got more important things to do than babysit his damaged brother while he has his secret demon-chick meet-ups.
"Sure," Dean says, looks down at his paper again, just to have something to focus on. "Yeah uh...see ya."
Dean thinks his voice sounds wrong. All raspy and out of breath. He swallows down the thick ball of apprehension when he's watching Sam basically jump up out of his chair and stride away from him with an eager bounce in his step.
1984 - Blue Rapids, KS
It's day 83 since the fire.
Dean is turning five today. John remembered days ago. He doesn't have much he can give his boys right now, the insurance still refuses to pay for the damage to the house and working as a part time mechanic only pays so much. Still, John doesn't want a repeat of day 53 with Dean's whipersoft voice in his ear, Daddy, Santa didn't leave me any presents. Was I bad?
John came up with some bullshit idea about Santa leaving a couple of dollars in Daddy's pocket this year so Dean and Sammy could pick whatever presents they liked. It was a terrible lie and he could tell Dean only accepted it because he couldn't wrap his head around the idea of John lying to him.
So today he gets up early, makes sure the boys are still sound asleep, Dean's arm wrapped protectively around one of the pillows that keep the baby from rolling off their bed, takes the present out of his duffel and starts working on some microwave chocolate cake he picked up last night.
Dean just looks at a spot by John's shoulder when he puts the slightly burned but overall damn awesome cake in front of him later. Sammy wastes no time, climbs up onto the chair next to his brother and smashes his pudgy fingers into the pie, smears chocolate all over his face and neck and the Army shirt he sleeps in.
"Aren't you hungry, son?" John asks, desperately hoping this won't be one of the silent days. Any day but today.
Dean shrugs, shakes his head and uses his fork to poke at the mess Sammy left on his plate. His bottom lip juts out in a tiny pout and John wonders if the kid is coming down with another cold or if his nose is red from trying not to cry.
"It's your birthday," John tells him with false cheer in his voice. "We always get chocolate cake on your birthday, remember?"
Dean nods and pushes the plate away from himself.
John knows he's being ridiculous, but he can't help the feelings of rejection and not being good enough that claw their way up his chest. I'm trying here, kid, he thinks and has to ball his hands into tight fists under the table.
"Well, I got you some presents," he announces, to counter the uneasy silence.
Sammy squeals when he sees the bright yellow wrapping paper. Crumpled, because Mary is supposed to be the one who wraps the presents. Dean reluctantly takes the package from John's shaking hand, it's ridiculous how badly he wants this to put a smile on his little boy's face, how much he wants to hear wow and wicked and thanks, Daddy!!
Oh, Dean mouthes silently when he sees the fire engine red Hot Wheels car and John feels a chilling ball of disappointment settle in his guts. "You like it?"
Dean lifts his shoulders in a single shrug, his left leg swings back and forth aimlessly, crashes into the table again and again and John slams his hand down, makes the car jump and roll towards Sammy's outstretched hands.
"I asked you a question," he rasps in that quiet yell he remembers his old man use. "Do you like it?"
Dean's bottom lip quivers, his huge eyes shining bright with unshed tears when he meets John's gaze for a second.
He nods frantically, sinks lower in his cheap plastic chair and John can hear his Mary telling him to get out, cool off and only come back once he's worked through whatever issues just managed to take over, but Mary isn't around anymore. 83 days. Mary isn't here and John needs to lash out at something.
"Say thank you, then," he growls.
Sammy crawls away from the table, too used to the constant tension to be too disturbed by it.
Dean puts a reluctant finger on top of the car, pushes it back and forth with a quiet calm that's so unsettling on a boy that only 84 days ago would jump down the bottom three stairs to their house, yelling for John to watch him do it again and again and screaming with joy when John'd pick him up mid-jump and twirl him around in his arms.
"Thanks, Daddy...sir."