Supernatural: Go On and Eat Stone (the Cold Stone Cake remix)
Title: Go On and Eat Stone (the Cold Stone Cake remix)
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Gen, Sam and Dean
Rating: PG-13 for alcohol use, language, and some mildly violent imagery.
Word Count: 3,028
Author’s Note: This is my remix of roque_clasique's Eat Stone and Go On written for kamikazeremix. It will probably make zero sense if you haven't read the original story. Beta'd by wutendeskind.
Summary: Just under four years ago, one of maybe three people in the world Dean thought he could trust broke him worse than any of the monsters he'd expected it from. Three years running, Sam's found a way to make that his fault.
Original Link: http://kamikazeremix.livejournal.com/45199.html
"Fucking stupid idea," Dean says. "Putting the sugar on the top shelf."
He's reaching for it, straining as much as his brace will allow him. The cabinets aren't even that high up and it's embarrassing to be this damn needy. Dean doesn't mind his back so much anymore; he's learned to live with it. He tries not to bitch, because he knows Sam has it so much worse than he does. It's just times like these, when he has to ask 90-pound girls to lift boxes for him or wait around for Sam's help just for some sugar. Then he feels the old, familiar flare of shame and frustration because he's supposed to be taking care of Sam and he can't even bake, let alone fight to protect anyone. If a threat comes-a real one, the kind they used to deal with, not the kind Sam struggles with now-Dean will be about as effective as a pinch of salt against an army of demons.
Sam comes up behind him, pressing close as he stretches past Dean. He hesitates before grabbing the box, and Dean wonders what it is he sees that's stopping him. Barbed wire, maybe, or blades. Dean knows there's something there to dodge from the complicated way Sam tries to maneuver around it, from the wince when he inevitably cuts his hand on the invisible edges. Sam doesn't say anything, no matter how much it hurts, because he's a pro by now at knowing that things like this are in his head. Barbed wire in the cabinet-that's a definite no. It's the cockroach problem and the moldy spot Sam's spent hours trying to scrub off the bathroom tile, the believable but no less disquieting tricks his mind plays, that he needs Dean to reassure him aren't there.
Still, Dean has just as much experience with this as Sam does, and he knows he can do a little good in situations like this as well. So he squeezes Sam's hand as his brother passes him the sugar, not hard enough to be obvious, but enough that Sam can grasp that he's okay-no cuts, no bleeding. That makes the pain go away sometimes, when they're lucky. They're lucky now, judging from the way Sam curls his fingers just to double check they're fine and then huffs a relieved breath.
"Thanks," Dean says, setting the sugar down next to the blue mixing bowl on the counter and shaking his head. "Just my damn back is giving me hell today."
"You know you don't have to do this, right?" says Sam.
Dean ignores him. It's a stupid tradition, maybe, one of the things he should have left behind when Sam got old enough to dress himself for school, but it's a tradition nonetheless. Dean can count on one hand the years Sam has celebrated a birthday without Dean baking him a cake, and he's making one this year. Cas stole the blaze of glory Dean grew up expecting to go out on, so yeah, maybe far down the road when he's grown old and gray and his bullshit back finally gets the best of him, Sam will have a few years to reflect on how much it sucks not to have a cake on his birthday. But only over Dean's dead body. He can do this one thing; he's not completely worthless just because he doesn't work the same way he used to.
"Why don't you make yourself useful and pour me a drink, huh?"
Sam's face scrunches up, good and bitchy, and Dean decides that if this is going to be yet another lecture about how much he drinks, he's going to poke his eyes out with his mixing spoon, and Sam can spend his birthday driving Dean to the hospital instead of enjoying delicious chocolate cake.
Thankfully, Sam decides to let it slide, and Dean has four fingers of whiskey in a glass within a minute. Sam stands at the ready, leaning on the counter by the fridge in case Dean needs him again and watching Dean work his way through his drink in silent but obvious judgment. He makes conversation every now and then, but Dean knows the hovering is mostly just a mixture of Sam not wanting to be alone and knowing Dean will have to call him back every few minutes for help anyway.
It kind of pisses Dean off. Oh, sure, Sam's just trying to be considerate, and god knows Dean'll need him again. It's not Sam he's irritated with. But he feels petulant at the fact that he has to be supervised like a fucking six-year-old playing with an Easy-Bake Oven.
"You put too much butter in," Sam tells him. "It's gross enough that we're gonna eat one cake between us."
Dean glares up at Sam. "Why don't you fuck off and let me finish?"
Sam frowns. "I just meant-"
Dean sighs and downs his drink, breaking from his work to get another. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sammy. I just want to do this alone, okay? Go read or something."
Sam's frown only deepens. He stares at the cup in Dean's hand, already half empty, and then gives Dean a pleading look. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Dean. I was just kidding."
"You didn't hurt my feelings, Christ. I'd just like to feel like I can get through a cake without a babysitter. I'm not useless, you know."
Sam stands dumbfounded, his face hurt and unsure of what to do, as if it was him being insulted. Dean said the word he's never supposed to say, not even supposed to let himself think, because if he lets himself be honest about it, he knows what he’ll come back to. He can't hunt, he can't reach the top shelf, he can't scrub the stains out of Sam's head.
"I know that," Sam finally says, his voice hushed. "How could you think I would ever call you useless? You do everything around here, Dean. You get to do everything. Maybe let me do you a favor every now and then so I can pretend I'm not."
With that, Sam leaves the room, his steps quick and determined. Dean kicks the table, hoping to vent his annoyance, and instead the kickback shoots up his leg and straight to his back, and Dean has to take the nearest seat just to wait out the waves of pain it sends through him. He hardly even bothers resenting it, because he pretty much deserves it right now. Instead he finishes off the bottle of whiskey without bothering to pour it into his glass first and beats at the bowl of cake mix tucked into his arm harder than it really requires.
He sits and stews for fifteen minutes or so, until he's done pouring the cake batter and setting it in the oven, and then he decides it's about time to get over himself. He owes Sam a big fucking apology and there's probably no better way short of actually saying it than with a bowl of cake batter for Sam to lick clean. So Dean sets the timer and grabs the big blue bowl and two spoons and heads for the living room.
Dean is surprised by what he sees, even if he shouldn't be. This happens every year, though usually not until mid-summer. It's not like clockwork. Not predictable, nothing about Sam is these days, and hardly anything has been for longer than Dean would like to admit. But there are signs, and Dean has learned to read them as well as he can. He has to. Sam is broken glass, and Dean can't step on the pieces. They won't fit together again if they crack under the weight of him.
Thing is, he can usually tell when this is coming. Sam gets antsier than usual when he thinks Castiel is due for a visit. He doesn't want to be home alone, which must be tough for a guy who's hardly had the courage to take a run around the block by himself in years. Dean can't quit his job; Sam knows that, so he comes to visit Dean at work and then spends the majority of the day sitting in the back room by himself anyway. He's gotten better, so much better, at coping with his condition, but for one week out of the year, he's just as bad as he was the day his wall came tumbling down. Dean knows this and usually can work with what Sam gives him.
But he wasn't ready for it yet this year. He figures maybe he brought it on early by being such a whiny bitch over the sugar. This whole damn thing is Dean's fuck up to begin with, because he tries, but sometimes he makes mistakes. Three years ago he drunkenly let slip to his brother that he had a dream about Cas, and Sam's battered little brain has been running with it since then.
Sam's no idiot. It's what Dean used to love about his little brother, but now it's one more thing he has to fight to keep Sam safe from. If Sam weren't so scary smart, he wouldn't have the imagination he does. A million years ago, Sam used to dream up new possibilities for himself or slot together puzzle pieces Dean never would have seen or remember random bits of knowledge that saved their asses. Now every brilliant, creative spark in Sam's head goes to finding new ways to torture him.
Dean doesn't need to hear Castiel's side of the conversation to know what's going on. Just under four years ago, one of maybe three people in the world Dean thought he could trust broke him worse than any of the monsters he'd expected it from. Three years running, Sam's found a way to make that his fault. Sam believes Castiel comes back every year and offers to fix them, and it’s Sam's terrible burden to turn him down. Dean knows better-Cas moved on a long time ago, just like every other god he's ever encountered. There's no fix and there never will be again. In a way it's a relief.
Sam's on the couch now, sitting all folded up on himself the way he does when he's trying to pull back from a threat. The threats are usually harmless-little kids yelling too loud in the yard next door or dogs sniffing him on the street. Right now the threat is an empty room, which Dean has learned can be deceitfully dangerous when all you've got is one twisted mind to fill it.
He hovers in the doorway to watch. Dean doesn't interrupt this because in three years he hasn’t figured out how to break it to Sam easy. Sam thinks Dean doesn't know. He thinks he's protecting Dean; that it's his and Castiel's little secret. It's the one major thing Sam has tried to take control of, the one decision he makes for Dean instead of having to depend on Dean to make the rational choice. Dean can't take that from him, not even when it hurts.
And maybe deep down, Dean kind of likes it. He can't help that it makes him proud to get the yearly reminder that his brother is one tough, stubborn sonofabitch no matter how hard you hit him. Sam makes the right choice every year. He tells Cas to go to hell, though in nicer words than Dean would if he ever got the chance. Sam spends 364 days of the year flinching at shadows, but on the one day he thinks it really counts, he looks God in the eye and stays brave.
It's no less valid just because the God Sam defies is in his mind. There's nothing more real to Sam than the terrible things he hallucinates and, maybe, Dean hopes, the comfort he offers. So when Sam lifts his head now and narrows his eyes, it's not the vase sitting on the mantelpiece he's glaring at. It's the most powerful creature in the universe, an angel just like the one that makes Sam cry himself to sleep every night.
"You're back again, huh?"
The silence that follows the question seems to echo, all the more potent because Sam nods at whatever it's saying to him. It's weird to think-Sam manages better in conversations with Cas than with the harmless old lady next door.
"It's still not too late to stop," Sam says quietly. "You know this is just going to keep happening."
Dean smiles at that, rolling his eyes because his brother is like a fucking Sesame Street character sometimes. It doesn’t matter how clearly Castiel has proven himself a monster. Every year Sam gives him the chance to repent, because he genuinely believes there's something good in everyone if they just get the opportunity to do the right thing. He's never going to stop identifying with the bloodthirsty, no matter how long it's been since he craved a hit, and he'll never stop needing to save them to believe he can be saved.
Cas must disappoint him yet again, because Sam nods and looks down at the floor quietly. Dean thinks he can guess what comes next. This is usually the part of the conversation where Cas offers Sam the world on a silver platter and all Sam has to do is take it. This is usually the part where Sam says-
"Fix him."
Not that.
Sam lifts his head, steely expression on his face for half a second before it molds into something so desperate Dean doesn't know a word to describe it better than pathetic.
"Please," he says, his voice hardly above a whisper, his hands coming out to implore Castiel. "Please, he was your friend. He's miserable. You don't have to fix me. He won't come after you if I still need him here. Just fix him."
Sam nods, his face turning away from Castiel, in the direction of the doorway he doesn't know Dean is standing in. He looks ashamed now, but, true to his nature, he sticks to his guns. "I promise," he says. "Yes, I promise."
The room stays silent for a long time after that, and Sam looks up after a few minutes, wiping his hand over his mouth. Dean knows Castiel is gone from the way Sam's body relaxes. He doesn't go in to talk to Sam. He's been standing for what feels like days, and the crushing weight on his back somehow just got heavier. He needs another drink and to wake up in bed and realize he dreamt this all up, bought into a nightmare same as Sam does every day.
He washes out the bowl just for something to do and opens a new bottle of whiskey while he waits for the cake to be done. He's disappointed, can't help being disappointed. Still, he can't really bring himself to be mad at Sam. If he thought he had the choice, Dean probably wouldn't have even lasted this long. He would have tried to cut the same deal he's so hurt Sam did. One of them out of the hunt is enough to keep them both out. Dean's back wouldn't hurt as much if Sam weren't depending on it to carry him.
The buzzer startles him somehow, and he laughs, setting his empty glass down on the table. He takes the cake out, sets it on the counter to cool, and makes his way back to the living room. Sam is sitting with his face buried in his hands, but he looks up and gives Dean a forced smile when he hears him walk in.
"Hey," he says.
Dean mirrors the smile back, hoping it looks a little more natural. "Cake's done. Just needs to cool and then I can ice it."
"Thanks," Sam says.
"Don't mention it," Dean replies. He means it, too. He just made Sam's most dreaded day of the year fall on his birthday and pushed Sam into giving up on something important for Dean's sake. He kind of feels like a tremendous jackass. He doesn't want to be thanked.
"Look, Dean, I-"
"Spare me," Dean replies, fishing the remote out from between the couch cushions and hitting his brother's arm with it. "Just put something on that doesn't completely suck."
Sam nods, his fingers brushing over the remote but not committing to any buttons. "How're you feeling?" he asks, and Dean doesn't miss that he looks a little hopeful.
"Better," he says. "Sorry I was so cranky. Just needed to sit a little and have some booze. I'll ice it later."
"Yeah," Sam says, sounding distracted. "It'll be better later."
There's a dull pain in Dean's chest. He knows he'll break Sam's heart tomorrow when he's still limping, just the same as Sam broke his by trying to fix him. It's a chronic habit with them, hurting each other, but their intentions are good.
Dean gives Sam a pat on the leg and leaves to finish the cake and stick it full of candles. They don't light them anymore-the flames make Sam nervous-but he still likes to lick frosting off the bottom of them, and it's a good distraction for Dean.
He brings the cake back to Sam with two paper plates and some silverware and they eat it, even though it's burnt and has the consistency of a rock, same as every other cake Dean's ever made. Sam digs in like it's delicious, just like he has since he was a kid, and who knows, maybe Sam's so used to it by now that he really does think it tastes okay or maybe he's good enough at faking enthusiasm that Dean lets himself believe it. Either way, it's them, it's what they do. And maybe Dean is bent out of shape and Sam can't answer the phone without having a panic attack, but they muddle through. Dean knows it could be worse because it has been. This isn't all that bad really.
They have their shitty cake and eat it, too.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Gen, Sam and Dean
Rating: PG-13 for alcohol use, language, and some mildly violent imagery.
Word Count: 3,028
Author’s Note: This is my remix of roque_clasique's Eat Stone and Go On written for kamikazeremix. It will probably make zero sense if you haven't read the original story. Beta'd by wutendeskind.
Summary: Just under four years ago, one of maybe three people in the world Dean thought he could trust broke him worse than any of the monsters he'd expected it from. Three years running, Sam's found a way to make that his fault.
Original Link: http://kamikazeremix.livejournal.com/45199.html
"Fucking stupid idea," Dean says. "Putting the sugar on the top shelf."
He's reaching for it, straining as much as his brace will allow him. The cabinets aren't even that high up and it's embarrassing to be this damn needy. Dean doesn't mind his back so much anymore; he's learned to live with it. He tries not to bitch, because he knows Sam has it so much worse than he does. It's just times like these, when he has to ask 90-pound girls to lift boxes for him or wait around for Sam's help just for some sugar. Then he feels the old, familiar flare of shame and frustration because he's supposed to be taking care of Sam and he can't even bake, let alone fight to protect anyone. If a threat comes-a real one, the kind they used to deal with, not the kind Sam struggles with now-Dean will be about as effective as a pinch of salt against an army of demons.
Sam comes up behind him, pressing close as he stretches past Dean. He hesitates before grabbing the box, and Dean wonders what it is he sees that's stopping him. Barbed wire, maybe, or blades. Dean knows there's something there to dodge from the complicated way Sam tries to maneuver around it, from the wince when he inevitably cuts his hand on the invisible edges. Sam doesn't say anything, no matter how much it hurts, because he's a pro by now at knowing that things like this are in his head. Barbed wire in the cabinet-that's a definite no. It's the cockroach problem and the moldy spot Sam's spent hours trying to scrub off the bathroom tile, the believable but no less disquieting tricks his mind plays, that he needs Dean to reassure him aren't there.
Still, Dean has just as much experience with this as Sam does, and he knows he can do a little good in situations like this as well. So he squeezes Sam's hand as his brother passes him the sugar, not hard enough to be obvious, but enough that Sam can grasp that he's okay-no cuts, no bleeding. That makes the pain go away sometimes, when they're lucky. They're lucky now, judging from the way Sam curls his fingers just to double check they're fine and then huffs a relieved breath.
"Thanks," Dean says, setting the sugar down next to the blue mixing bowl on the counter and shaking his head. "Just my damn back is giving me hell today."
"You know you don't have to do this, right?" says Sam.
Dean ignores him. It's a stupid tradition, maybe, one of the things he should have left behind when Sam got old enough to dress himself for school, but it's a tradition nonetheless. Dean can count on one hand the years Sam has celebrated a birthday without Dean baking him a cake, and he's making one this year. Cas stole the blaze of glory Dean grew up expecting to go out on, so yeah, maybe far down the road when he's grown old and gray and his bullshit back finally gets the best of him, Sam will have a few years to reflect on how much it sucks not to have a cake on his birthday. But only over Dean's dead body. He can do this one thing; he's not completely worthless just because he doesn't work the same way he used to.
"Why don't you make yourself useful and pour me a drink, huh?"
Sam's face scrunches up, good and bitchy, and Dean decides that if this is going to be yet another lecture about how much he drinks, he's going to poke his eyes out with his mixing spoon, and Sam can spend his birthday driving Dean to the hospital instead of enjoying delicious chocolate cake.
Thankfully, Sam decides to let it slide, and Dean has four fingers of whiskey in a glass within a minute. Sam stands at the ready, leaning on the counter by the fridge in case Dean needs him again and watching Dean work his way through his drink in silent but obvious judgment. He makes conversation every now and then, but Dean knows the hovering is mostly just a mixture of Sam not wanting to be alone and knowing Dean will have to call him back every few minutes for help anyway.
It kind of pisses Dean off. Oh, sure, Sam's just trying to be considerate, and god knows Dean'll need him again. It's not Sam he's irritated with. But he feels petulant at the fact that he has to be supervised like a fucking six-year-old playing with an Easy-Bake Oven.
"You put too much butter in," Sam tells him. "It's gross enough that we're gonna eat one cake between us."
Dean glares up at Sam. "Why don't you fuck off and let me finish?"
Sam frowns. "I just meant-"
Dean sighs and downs his drink, breaking from his work to get another. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sammy. I just want to do this alone, okay? Go read or something."
Sam's frown only deepens. He stares at the cup in Dean's hand, already half empty, and then gives Dean a pleading look. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Dean. I was just kidding."
"You didn't hurt my feelings, Christ. I'd just like to feel like I can get through a cake without a babysitter. I'm not useless, you know."
Sam stands dumbfounded, his face hurt and unsure of what to do, as if it was him being insulted. Dean said the word he's never supposed to say, not even supposed to let himself think, because if he lets himself be honest about it, he knows what he’ll come back to. He can't hunt, he can't reach the top shelf, he can't scrub the stains out of Sam's head.
"I know that," Sam finally says, his voice hushed. "How could you think I would ever call you useless? You do everything around here, Dean. You get to do everything. Maybe let me do you a favor every now and then so I can pretend I'm not."
With that, Sam leaves the room, his steps quick and determined. Dean kicks the table, hoping to vent his annoyance, and instead the kickback shoots up his leg and straight to his back, and Dean has to take the nearest seat just to wait out the waves of pain it sends through him. He hardly even bothers resenting it, because he pretty much deserves it right now. Instead he finishes off the bottle of whiskey without bothering to pour it into his glass first and beats at the bowl of cake mix tucked into his arm harder than it really requires.
He sits and stews for fifteen minutes or so, until he's done pouring the cake batter and setting it in the oven, and then he decides it's about time to get over himself. He owes Sam a big fucking apology and there's probably no better way short of actually saying it than with a bowl of cake batter for Sam to lick clean. So Dean sets the timer and grabs the big blue bowl and two spoons and heads for the living room.
Dean is surprised by what he sees, even if he shouldn't be. This happens every year, though usually not until mid-summer. It's not like clockwork. Not predictable, nothing about Sam is these days, and hardly anything has been for longer than Dean would like to admit. But there are signs, and Dean has learned to read them as well as he can. He has to. Sam is broken glass, and Dean can't step on the pieces. They won't fit together again if they crack under the weight of him.
Thing is, he can usually tell when this is coming. Sam gets antsier than usual when he thinks Castiel is due for a visit. He doesn't want to be home alone, which must be tough for a guy who's hardly had the courage to take a run around the block by himself in years. Dean can't quit his job; Sam knows that, so he comes to visit Dean at work and then spends the majority of the day sitting in the back room by himself anyway. He's gotten better, so much better, at coping with his condition, but for one week out of the year, he's just as bad as he was the day his wall came tumbling down. Dean knows this and usually can work with what Sam gives him.
But he wasn't ready for it yet this year. He figures maybe he brought it on early by being such a whiny bitch over the sugar. This whole damn thing is Dean's fuck up to begin with, because he tries, but sometimes he makes mistakes. Three years ago he drunkenly let slip to his brother that he had a dream about Cas, and Sam's battered little brain has been running with it since then.
Sam's no idiot. It's what Dean used to love about his little brother, but now it's one more thing he has to fight to keep Sam safe from. If Sam weren't so scary smart, he wouldn't have the imagination he does. A million years ago, Sam used to dream up new possibilities for himself or slot together puzzle pieces Dean never would have seen or remember random bits of knowledge that saved their asses. Now every brilliant, creative spark in Sam's head goes to finding new ways to torture him.
Dean doesn't need to hear Castiel's side of the conversation to know what's going on. Just under four years ago, one of maybe three people in the world Dean thought he could trust broke him worse than any of the monsters he'd expected it from. Three years running, Sam's found a way to make that his fault. Sam believes Castiel comes back every year and offers to fix them, and it’s Sam's terrible burden to turn him down. Dean knows better-Cas moved on a long time ago, just like every other god he's ever encountered. There's no fix and there never will be again. In a way it's a relief.
Sam's on the couch now, sitting all folded up on himself the way he does when he's trying to pull back from a threat. The threats are usually harmless-little kids yelling too loud in the yard next door or dogs sniffing him on the street. Right now the threat is an empty room, which Dean has learned can be deceitfully dangerous when all you've got is one twisted mind to fill it.
He hovers in the doorway to watch. Dean doesn't interrupt this because in three years he hasn’t figured out how to break it to Sam easy. Sam thinks Dean doesn't know. He thinks he's protecting Dean; that it's his and Castiel's little secret. It's the one major thing Sam has tried to take control of, the one decision he makes for Dean instead of having to depend on Dean to make the rational choice. Dean can't take that from him, not even when it hurts.
And maybe deep down, Dean kind of likes it. He can't help that it makes him proud to get the yearly reminder that his brother is one tough, stubborn sonofabitch no matter how hard you hit him. Sam makes the right choice every year. He tells Cas to go to hell, though in nicer words than Dean would if he ever got the chance. Sam spends 364 days of the year flinching at shadows, but on the one day he thinks it really counts, he looks God in the eye and stays brave.
It's no less valid just because the God Sam defies is in his mind. There's nothing more real to Sam than the terrible things he hallucinates and, maybe, Dean hopes, the comfort he offers. So when Sam lifts his head now and narrows his eyes, it's not the vase sitting on the mantelpiece he's glaring at. It's the most powerful creature in the universe, an angel just like the one that makes Sam cry himself to sleep every night.
"You're back again, huh?"
The silence that follows the question seems to echo, all the more potent because Sam nods at whatever it's saying to him. It's weird to think-Sam manages better in conversations with Cas than with the harmless old lady next door.
"It's still not too late to stop," Sam says quietly. "You know this is just going to keep happening."
Dean smiles at that, rolling his eyes because his brother is like a fucking Sesame Street character sometimes. It doesn’t matter how clearly Castiel has proven himself a monster. Every year Sam gives him the chance to repent, because he genuinely believes there's something good in everyone if they just get the opportunity to do the right thing. He's never going to stop identifying with the bloodthirsty, no matter how long it's been since he craved a hit, and he'll never stop needing to save them to believe he can be saved.
Cas must disappoint him yet again, because Sam nods and looks down at the floor quietly. Dean thinks he can guess what comes next. This is usually the part of the conversation where Cas offers Sam the world on a silver platter and all Sam has to do is take it. This is usually the part where Sam says-
"Fix him."
Not that.
Sam lifts his head, steely expression on his face for half a second before it molds into something so desperate Dean doesn't know a word to describe it better than pathetic.
"Please," he says, his voice hardly above a whisper, his hands coming out to implore Castiel. "Please, he was your friend. He's miserable. You don't have to fix me. He won't come after you if I still need him here. Just fix him."
Sam nods, his face turning away from Castiel, in the direction of the doorway he doesn't know Dean is standing in. He looks ashamed now, but, true to his nature, he sticks to his guns. "I promise," he says. "Yes, I promise."
The room stays silent for a long time after that, and Sam looks up after a few minutes, wiping his hand over his mouth. Dean knows Castiel is gone from the way Sam's body relaxes. He doesn't go in to talk to Sam. He's been standing for what feels like days, and the crushing weight on his back somehow just got heavier. He needs another drink and to wake up in bed and realize he dreamt this all up, bought into a nightmare same as Sam does every day.
He washes out the bowl just for something to do and opens a new bottle of whiskey while he waits for the cake to be done. He's disappointed, can't help being disappointed. Still, he can't really bring himself to be mad at Sam. If he thought he had the choice, Dean probably wouldn't have even lasted this long. He would have tried to cut the same deal he's so hurt Sam did. One of them out of the hunt is enough to keep them both out. Dean's back wouldn't hurt as much if Sam weren't depending on it to carry him.
The buzzer startles him somehow, and he laughs, setting his empty glass down on the table. He takes the cake out, sets it on the counter to cool, and makes his way back to the living room. Sam is sitting with his face buried in his hands, but he looks up and gives Dean a forced smile when he hears him walk in.
"Hey," he says.
Dean mirrors the smile back, hoping it looks a little more natural. "Cake's done. Just needs to cool and then I can ice it."
"Thanks," Sam says.
"Don't mention it," Dean replies. He means it, too. He just made Sam's most dreaded day of the year fall on his birthday and pushed Sam into giving up on something important for Dean's sake. He kind of feels like a tremendous jackass. He doesn't want to be thanked.
"Look, Dean, I-"
"Spare me," Dean replies, fishing the remote out from between the couch cushions and hitting his brother's arm with it. "Just put something on that doesn't completely suck."
Sam nods, his fingers brushing over the remote but not committing to any buttons. "How're you feeling?" he asks, and Dean doesn't miss that he looks a little hopeful.
"Better," he says. "Sorry I was so cranky. Just needed to sit a little and have some booze. I'll ice it later."
"Yeah," Sam says, sounding distracted. "It'll be better later."
There's a dull pain in Dean's chest. He knows he'll break Sam's heart tomorrow when he's still limping, just the same as Sam broke his by trying to fix him. It's a chronic habit with them, hurting each other, but their intentions are good.
Dean gives Sam a pat on the leg and leaves to finish the cake and stick it full of candles. They don't light them anymore-the flames make Sam nervous-but he still likes to lick frosting off the bottom of them, and it's a good distraction for Dean.
He brings the cake back to Sam with two paper plates and some silverware and they eat it, even though it's burnt and has the consistency of a rock, same as every other cake Dean's ever made. Sam digs in like it's delicious, just like he has since he was a kid, and who knows, maybe Sam's so used to it by now that he really does think it tastes okay or maybe he's good enough at faking enthusiasm that Dean lets himself believe it. Either way, it's them, it's what they do. And maybe Dean is bent out of shape and Sam can't answer the phone without having a panic attack, but they muddle through. Dean knows it could be worse because it has been. This isn't all that bad really.
They have their shitty cake and eat it, too.