Comment fic
Written for an awesome prompt by ash48 at the ohsam H/C comment fic meme.
Title: Sam Winchester and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday.
Prompt: It's meant to be a day to celebrate. Instead Sam's had the worse day EVER (cue any sort of hurt - bullies, baddies, broken bones). It's all made better by the best big brother ever...
Word count: 3891
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.
A/N: Sorry for the blatant theft of the title, I know it's been done countless times before but it was just too perfect not to use so...
In this story Sam is 13 and Dean is 17.
From the moment he wakes up, Sam knows it's going to be a bad one.
It's not like birthdays mean the same to a Winchester as they do to any other normal person. Plenty of times they are forgotten, the days rolling by date-less and indistinguishable from the next.
At least, this is how it seems to be for his father and brother. Sure, Dean always tries to keep track near the end of April, always remembering to do something for Sam on his special day (or, on a couple of occasions, three days later, that being how long it took Dean to realise the date. Sam never wants to remind him: no matter how much Sam likes to say 'I told you so', he hates seeing that guilt on his brothers face for the rest of the day if he does. At least if he lets Dean remember on his own, he can to pretend to have forgotten as well.)
But Sam has a feeling that today was going to be one of those days.
They had been in La Cross, Wisconsin, for a week now, renting a run-down apartment on the edge of town. John and Dean had been working on a case all week, the usual string of weird murders that had lead to discovery of a vengeful spirit.
It hadn't been going well. John had been bad-tempered for a while now, wound too tight and always on edge due to the lack of leads and too much time spent inside his own head and at the bottom of a bottle. It had taken nearly the whole week to figure out who was doing the killings, and by that time both John and Dean were irritable and chomping at the bit to just hunt something.
Sam hadn't had much part in the research for the hunt, stubbornly trying to make up for the fact that he had been out of school for over a month now due to John's restlessness and spending most of the time in his room studying. But on the night of the salt and burn, John had been adamant that Sam join them, saying he needed the experience, and no amount of complaining on Sam's part could sway his decision.
That night wasn't one of Sam's best. The spirits were tricky sons of bitches - a husband and wife duo who showed up just as Dean was about to break into their final resting place. Both Sam and John were thrown a good ten feet from the grave, thankfully onto the soft grass of the cemetery, but Sam had fallen hard onto his out-flung arm, curling around the limb as he rolled on impact.
Thankfully, it had all been over in about 10 seconds, Dean managing to torch the bones without getting the full ghost-flinging treatment, and after a quick inventory and catalogue of any injuries (just a sprain Sam, you'll be fine), their Dad had piled them into his truck and driven them back to the apartment.
Sam had gone to bed still buzzing with adrenaline, his arm a dull ache.
This morning, it freaking hurt.
“Happy Birthday Sam,” he mutters to himself as he sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes and squinting in the sunlight streaming through the crappy curtains. It's late, later than they're usually up, and Sam's surprised by this. John normally has them doing laps at the ass crack dawn, and for a brief and extraordinary moment, Sam has the thought that maybe, maybe he has remembered.
But Sam has learnt that getting his hopes up can be a very dangerous thing, and dismisses the thought as soon as it's upon him.
Besides, his arm is really starting to bother him now, demanding all his attention at that moment.
So he grits his teeth, tells himself to suck it up Sam, and slides out of bed, bad arm immobilised against his stomach.
He pads downstairs to find Dean on the phone, having a low conversation with who Sam can only guess is their father. From the sounds of it, Dean isn't happy.
Sam frowns, and makes his way over to the tiny kitchen table, where he finds a note hastily scribbled on the back of an envelope.
Got a lead, stay put.
He rolls his eyes, biting back a groan of annoyance and frustration. Great. So, their Dad has left them, again, with no warning or explanation. Just a freaking note telling them to stay put.
Just great.
Sam knows Dean will be even more infuriated then Sam. He hates being separated from their Dad when they know he's off hunting alone, and he hates being left behind even more.
Hates being abandoned at the drop of a hat.
Sam looks up at his brother as Dean hangs up the phone and throws it down on the table, the clatter of noise making Sam jump. Dean's eyes are narrowed, his jaw twitching and fists clenched.
“Dean?” Sam chances, tense and expectant.
“He's on his way to Madison. Said he got a call last night from someone he's helped out before, said it couldn't wait.” Dean's voice is low and tight, eyes on the table below him. “He won't be more than a few days.” There's a pause, then; “he said he's sorry.”
The last words are spat from Dean's mouth, distasteful and disbelieving. Yeah, Sam thinks, I know the feeling.
Sam opens his mouth, maybe to complain about their father's actions, maybe to ask Dean if he's okay, maybe to try and offer some kind of comfort (he's not really sure which if he's honest) but before he can speak Dean is marching out the room. Sam is left gaping like an idiot, the sound of Dean's heavy footfall on the stairs pounding in time with his head.
Sam stands and blinks for a moment, then kicks the table leg viciously in annoyance and anger and resentment at their father and his arm his birthday and and his whole freaking life.
The action only serves to leave a throbbing in his toes as well as his wrist and his head.
Just freaking great.
***
The rest of the morning (his birthday morning, Sam thinks bitterly) is spent trying to quell the burning resentment Sam feels towards his father, avoiding Dean (who is, for all intents and purposes, sulking, not doubt about it), feeling immensely sorry for himself and trying to ignore the pain that his arm pumping out relentlessly.
By lunchtime however, the pain in his arm is down to a white hot stabbing every time he moves, and he hasn't seen or heard from Dean in a good two hours, so Sam decides that enough is enough.
His arm is killing him, so he's pretty sure there's more going on there than just a sprain, and Sam is struggling to focus on the words on the page before him. He drops his pen, runs his good hand through his hair, and stands abruptly. Time to face the music Sam thinks, and smiles despite himself, although in all honesty he's not sure whether it's him or Dean that thought is referring to.
Dean is cleaning his guns, his typical activity of choice when he's upset or pissed, or both. He's sat on his bed, his weapons bag spread across the mattress, his sawn-off shotgun in his lap. Sam takes a tentative step into the room, clearing his throat quietly.
“Dean?”
Dean doesn't look up, shoulders high and tense as he disassembles the gun with lethal efficiency. Sam can see his eyes from where he is bent over the weapon, the anger from earlier still visible, but less cold and less frightening. Now, Sam can see weariness and resignation in them, and feels a fierce protectiveness flare in him at the sight. No one had the right to make his brother look like that.
Sam almost changes his mind right then, almost tell his brother it's nothing, almost asks him if he wants any lunch and almost backs right the hell out of the room.
But his arms chooses that moment to throb in a painful reminder, and Sam swallows down his denial.
At Sam's apparent silence, Dean sighs loudly and looks up at his brother.
“What Sam?” Dean says dejectedly.
“It's my arm. It really hurts. I think it's broken.”
There, I said it Sam thinks. Dean shakes his head at Sam's words, picking up his gun again.
“You heard Dad, it's just a sprain, don't be such a baby.”
“But-”
“Sam,” Dean growls, and that shuts Sam right up. For about five seconds. Before his arm throbs again in protest at Dean's words.
“No,” Sam says, taking a couple of more steps into the room and lifting his head in defiance. “You gotta believe me Dean.”
Dean sighs again, obviously spotting his brothers stubborn streak coming into play, and knowing that he wouldn't do well to resist. He puts his gun back onto the mattress beside him, then gestured to his brother. “C'mere.”
Sam shuffles forward, bad wrist clutched in good, and Dean whistles when he gets an eyeful of the injured limb.
“That's some serious swelling.”
Nodding, Sam bites his lip as Dean reaches out and gently touches his fingers. “Can you move them?”
Sam squeezes his eyes shut and carefully wiggles his fingers. It doesn't hurt as much as he expected, and he opens his eyes just in time to see Dean carefully bend the swollen joint.
Jesus.
Sam almost whites out for a second, the pain excruciating, and he blinks his eyes open a few seconds later to find Dean's hand on his back and one his elbow steadying him.
“Sorry kiddo,” Dean whispers, hand rubbing circles on his back. “Just had to check.”
Sam nods, still breathing rapidly, and feels Dean get to his feet in front of him.
“Well, you were right. That's definitely a break.” Deans voice is grim, and he looks down at Sam apologetically. “Fancy a trip to the ER?”
Sam sighs. Happy Birthday to me.
***
Before they leave, Dean fashions a makeshift sling out of a ripped pillowcase and stuffs a few essentials into a bag in case the trip takes longer than expected. Sam sits on the sofa while he does so, still a bit hazy with pain, but flinches when suddenly something freezing cold is pushed onto his lap.
It's a ice pack, one of those weird blue ones, and Sam is grateful for the numbness it brings as he wraps it around his wrist.
“Thanks,” he says to Dean's retreating back, and Dean waves one hand over his shoulder in acknowledgement.
Dean is still quiet and sullen on the drive to the ER, but once they get settled in the busy waiting room he lets Sam lean against his shoulder tiredly as he fills out his paperwork. Apparently, this month he is 'Samuel Taylor', next of kin 'Dean Taylor'. Sam sighs at that, feeling better than he has all day (which isn't saying much), and closes his eyes for a few moments of peace.
“Be right back,” Dean mutters, and Sam traces Dean's movements with heavy lidded eyes, watching him return to the nurses counter and hand in Sam's completed paperwork. There is a low conversation, with a surprising lack of flirting from Dean, but then the nurse must say something because Dean stiffens suddenly, and after a beat, lets his head drop in a gesture of defeat.
Sam's eyes are drooping again by the time Dean makes his way back over to his brother, and he drags them open to see Dean drop into the chair next to him once again. Dean has his own eyes closed and is rubbing a hand across his face wearily. When he opens them, Sam expects to see annoyance and frustration clouding them, but is surprised when he sees nothing but guilt. And wait, is that a glint of tears?
“Dean?” Sam murmurs, leaning forward and shifting the now soggy ice pack as he does so, gritting his teeth at the sharp throbbing the movement causes. Dean swallows, not meeting Sam's eyes, and runs a hand through his hair.
There's a pause, then;
“Why didn't you say anything?”
Sam frowns at the unexpected question, blinking muzzily at his brother. “What?”
“About today. About how it's your freaking birthday. Why the hell didn't you say anything?”
Sam sighs, letting his head drop back onto the seat back. “Because,” he says softly, and feels Dean's eyes on his. Dean's wide, guilt ridden, anguished eyes.
“Because what, huh?” Dean's voice has softened now as well, less of the desperately accusing tone of a couple of seconds ago. Now, he only sounds tired and regretful. “You know how crappy I am at keeping track on the date. You should have given me a beat down earlier, should have told me it was your birthday and told me to go screw myself when I was being a fucking jerk to you.” He laughs, a completely humourless sound, and scrubs his face again. “Jesus Sammy.”
Sam shakes his head tiredly, hair swishing against the hard plastic. “It's not your fault.”
“Come on Sam, it's my job to-”
“Dean,” Sam says loudly, cutting Dean off. Dean's mouth falls shut, still eyeing Sam with those horribly guilty eyes.
Sam blows out a breath. “It doesn't matter. It's just a stupid day, it's not important. I didn't want...”
He trails off, shrugging, then wincing. “You were having a bad day too,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to his lap. “I didn't want to say anything to make it any worse.”
There's a long beat of silence between them. Sam's eyes are still in his lap, but he's painfully aware of his brother besides him, waiting nervously for his response.
“Sammy,” Dean breathes, a hand smoothing over Sam's hair. Sam feels his throat tighten, and he risks a glance up at his brother. Dean is looking at him fondly, his gaze full of affection, his eyes still sparkling with guilt but a warm smile softening his features.
“You really have had the crappiest day, haven't you?”
Sam nods, and he blames the pain, and the exhaustion, and the god damn release of the tension that has twisted his insides all day, and his brother as he wraps an arm around Sam's shoulders, when his eyes fill with tears. Dean pulls him close, and Sam lets his head drop onto Dean's chest, those traitorous tears falling into his lap. He feels Dean squeeze his shoulder and rub a hand up and down his arm soothingly, feels a pressure on the top of his head that he knows is Dean's cheek and he indulges himself in a few minutes more of wet sniffling because, come on, Dean was right. This is definitely the crappiest birthday he's ever had.
Sam loses track of time after that, Dean's warmth and proximity more comforting and soothing for the pain than any ice pack could ever be. He's startled out of his dose when Dean's hand circles his bicep firmly and his softly spoken “that's us Sammy” comes from somewhere above Sam's head.
The waiting room is far emptier when Sam opens his eyes and blinks groggily in the harsh artificial light. Dean gets to his feet besides him, and Sam pushes himself out of the chair, good arm cradling his sling, Dean's hands supportive on his shoulder and hip.
There is something painfully familiar about it all; the doctors exam, the prodding and poking and monotone queries, the x-rays, Dean's hovering presence and anxious questions, his hand a seemingly permanent fixture on Sam's back or neck. It's like a dozen other times spent in the hospital, fixing breaks of his (three fingers, one collarbone, a couple of ribs and counting) or Dean's (too many for Sam to count right now) or Dad's (far more than is even worth thinking about), hanging around until the casts had been set before making a break for it. It felt... hell, it feels almost normal, and if that doesn't say something about how out of whack their lives are, then Sam doesn't know what does.
When the doctor mentions surgery however, Sam balks at the words, but in all honesty isn't exactly surprised (NB: Worst. Birthday. Ever). He turns to Dean, eyes wide and almost exasperated, finding Dean frowning, concern etched in his features and hand tightening on Sam's shoulder. The doctor keeps talking - minor procedure, reset the break, out of here in the morning - and Sam leans to his side until he's pressed against Dean, not liking the worried expression on his face and suddenly wanting to see that warm smile again from earlier. Dean looks down at him and he does smile. It's reassuring, not quite the full treatment but it'll do, and Sam smiles back.
Yeah, he thinks, they'll be fine.
***
Sam blinks awake, head feeling like it's stuffed with cotton wool and eyes like they are glued shut. He does a sluggish mental inventory, trying to remember where he is and how he got there.
He remembers being wheeled on the gurney into the pre-op room, Dean's hand wrapped tight around his own. Despite the earlier reassurances, Sam had unable to banish the vulnerability he had felt as they got him ready for surgery; the fact that they were going to cut into him; the fact that so many things could go wrong with the anaesthesia; the fact that Dean wasn't going to to be there to watch his back.
Of course, Dean had been there to quell his fears, his warm hand and eyes and voice the last thing Sam had felt before slipping under. Now, Dean is the first thing he sees as he drags his eyes open.
He is slumped in a chair at the foot of Sam's hospital bed, head pillowed on arms folded on the mattress and one hand wrapped around Sam's ankle, mouth half open in sleep. Sam squints at him for a moment through the gloom, taking stock. It's not just older brothers who's first instinct is to make sure that their brother is alright, Sam thinks hazily, and smiles.
(Okay, so he's on the good drugs, but it's not like he was expecting anything less. So this is good.)
And Dean does looks alright, so that's good too.
Sam's attention turns to himself next, shifting experimentally. His left wrist and arm is encased in plaster and propped on a pillow as his side. He doesn't feel much apart from a heavy ache, and he wiggles his mostly numb fingers carefully, satisfied with their condition.
Catching a movement to his left out of the corner of his eyes, Sam turns his head.
And blinks.
And gapes.
There half a dozen balloons floating above the table beside his bed; varying shapes and sizes, drifting almost eerily in the non-existent breeze. Sam can just about see the squiggle of writing on the nearest one - it appears that someone has personalised it by writing 'Happy Birthday Sam' in large, black letters.
Grin breaking out over Sam's face, he looks down to see an oversized card propped on the table against the water jug, 'Sammy' scrawled on it in the same cramped style as the balloons, and next to that a pile of what must be two dozen candy bars, arranged in a rather artistic looking pyramid. A disbelieving laugh breaks out of Sam at the sight, and the sound is enough to wake Dean.
His brother sits up with a groan, rubbing a hand over his mouth and eyes, before blinking in Sam's direction. “Sammy?”
Sam turns towards his brother, still grinning widely. “Hey.”
Dean's mouth turns up at his brothers apparent amusement, and he stretches, eyes flicking towards the corner of the room, before shuffling over towards Sam.
“How're you feeling?” Dean asks, brushing a hand over Sam's head, fingers carding through the tousled hair.
Sam smiles up at him, a little dopey and a lot sappy, and doesn't even have to say anything before Dean blushes.
“I'm good,” Sam replies, as Dean's eyes slide away in embarrassment at Sam's adoring gaze. He moves to inspect Sam's casted arm, bending his fingers gently.
“Can you feel that?” he asks, sticking a finger under the plaster to check it's tightness.
“Not really,” Sam admits, and Dean nods in approval. “Is it morning?”
Dean chuckles. “Yeah kiddo. You've been out a while.”
“Mmm. Feels like.”
“The nurse should be round soon, give you a final once over, and then we're outta here.”
“'Kay.”
Sam sighs as Dean ruffles his hair, then his eyes are again drawn to the birthday goods behind him brother.
“Did you empty the whole vending machine?” Sam asks, waving his hand at the pile of chocolate. Dean tilts his head, a grin of his own breaking across his face.
“Not quite,” he says, eyes sparkling with laughter. He seems to hesitate for a moment, fingers still curled around Sam's, then reaches behind him and grabs the card. He toys with it for a second, tracing the edges with is thumb.
“This is for you,” he says quietly, handing the envelope over. “So is...” He trails off and flaps a hand at the balloons, then laughs. “Bet I guess you figured that, huh?”
Sam nods, running a hand over the envelope. “Thanks Dean. You didn't have to.”
“Yeah I did.”
Their eyes meet, Dean's fiercely apologetic, Sam's wide and understanding.
“Thanks,” Sam says again, almost a whisper. Dean bends down and presses a kiss to the crown of his head in a rare, but no less appreciated, gesture.
“Happy Birthday Sammy,” he murmurs into Sam's dark hair.
***
'Sammy,
I'm sorry about your Terrible, Horrible, No good, Very Bad Birthday.
I promise I'll do better next year.
Forgive me?
Your (not so) awesome brother,
Dean'
***
A week later, when they relocate to Montgomery Country in Maryland because of a hunt, Dean convinces their father to let them stay in the area a couple of days longer than necessary.
Much to Sam's surprise and sheer delight, as soon as the hunt is over, Dean whisks Sam off in the Impala to visit Washington DC for the weekend.
It's a weekend of site seeing, traipsing round historical monuments and countless museums together, visiting so many spectacularly geeky places; doing actual tourist things and spending time with his brother without having to worry about ghouls or ghosts or training or shooting practice or studying or mid terms or anything much at all.
Sam can't imagine anything better.
Sam finds himself falling asleep on Dean's shoulder in the car journey back to their father, a casual arm thrown around Sam's shoulders as they hit the highway.
Sam also finds himself muttering into the leather of Dean's jacket the words; “thanks Dean. This was the best birthday ever.”
Sam finds himself meaning it with all his heart.
Title: Sam Winchester and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday.
Prompt: It's meant to be a day to celebrate. Instead Sam's had the worse day EVER (cue any sort of hurt - bullies, baddies, broken bones). It's all made better by the best big brother ever...
Word count: 3891
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.
A/N: Sorry for the blatant theft of the title, I know it's been done countless times before but it was just too perfect not to use so...
In this story Sam is 13 and Dean is 17.
From the moment he wakes up, Sam knows it's going to be a bad one.
It's not like birthdays mean the same to a Winchester as they do to any other normal person. Plenty of times they are forgotten, the days rolling by date-less and indistinguishable from the next.
At least, this is how it seems to be for his father and brother. Sure, Dean always tries to keep track near the end of April, always remembering to do something for Sam on his special day (or, on a couple of occasions, three days later, that being how long it took Dean to realise the date. Sam never wants to remind him: no matter how much Sam likes to say 'I told you so', he hates seeing that guilt on his brothers face for the rest of the day if he does. At least if he lets Dean remember on his own, he can to pretend to have forgotten as well.)
But Sam has a feeling that today was going to be one of those days.
They had been in La Cross, Wisconsin, for a week now, renting a run-down apartment on the edge of town. John and Dean had been working on a case all week, the usual string of weird murders that had lead to discovery of a vengeful spirit.
It hadn't been going well. John had been bad-tempered for a while now, wound too tight and always on edge due to the lack of leads and too much time spent inside his own head and at the bottom of a bottle. It had taken nearly the whole week to figure out who was doing the killings, and by that time both John and Dean were irritable and chomping at the bit to just hunt something.
Sam hadn't had much part in the research for the hunt, stubbornly trying to make up for the fact that he had been out of school for over a month now due to John's restlessness and spending most of the time in his room studying. But on the night of the salt and burn, John had been adamant that Sam join them, saying he needed the experience, and no amount of complaining on Sam's part could sway his decision.
That night wasn't one of Sam's best. The spirits were tricky sons of bitches - a husband and wife duo who showed up just as Dean was about to break into their final resting place. Both Sam and John were thrown a good ten feet from the grave, thankfully onto the soft grass of the cemetery, but Sam had fallen hard onto his out-flung arm, curling around the limb as he rolled on impact.
Thankfully, it had all been over in about 10 seconds, Dean managing to torch the bones without getting the full ghost-flinging treatment, and after a quick inventory and catalogue of any injuries (just a sprain Sam, you'll be fine), their Dad had piled them into his truck and driven them back to the apartment.
Sam had gone to bed still buzzing with adrenaline, his arm a dull ache.
This morning, it freaking hurt.
“Happy Birthday Sam,” he mutters to himself as he sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes and squinting in the sunlight streaming through the crappy curtains. It's late, later than they're usually up, and Sam's surprised by this. John normally has them doing laps at the ass crack dawn, and for a brief and extraordinary moment, Sam has the thought that maybe, maybe he has remembered.
But Sam has learnt that getting his hopes up can be a very dangerous thing, and dismisses the thought as soon as it's upon him.
Besides, his arm is really starting to bother him now, demanding all his attention at that moment.
So he grits his teeth, tells himself to suck it up Sam, and slides out of bed, bad arm immobilised against his stomach.
He pads downstairs to find Dean on the phone, having a low conversation with who Sam can only guess is their father. From the sounds of it, Dean isn't happy.
Sam frowns, and makes his way over to the tiny kitchen table, where he finds a note hastily scribbled on the back of an envelope.
Got a lead, stay put.
He rolls his eyes, biting back a groan of annoyance and frustration. Great. So, their Dad has left them, again, with no warning or explanation. Just a freaking note telling them to stay put.
Just great.
Sam knows Dean will be even more infuriated then Sam. He hates being separated from their Dad when they know he's off hunting alone, and he hates being left behind even more.
Hates being abandoned at the drop of a hat.
Sam looks up at his brother as Dean hangs up the phone and throws it down on the table, the clatter of noise making Sam jump. Dean's eyes are narrowed, his jaw twitching and fists clenched.
“Dean?” Sam chances, tense and expectant.
“He's on his way to Madison. Said he got a call last night from someone he's helped out before, said it couldn't wait.” Dean's voice is low and tight, eyes on the table below him. “He won't be more than a few days.” There's a pause, then; “he said he's sorry.”
The last words are spat from Dean's mouth, distasteful and disbelieving. Yeah, Sam thinks, I know the feeling.
Sam opens his mouth, maybe to complain about their father's actions, maybe to ask Dean if he's okay, maybe to try and offer some kind of comfort (he's not really sure which if he's honest) but before he can speak Dean is marching out the room. Sam is left gaping like an idiot, the sound of Dean's heavy footfall on the stairs pounding in time with his head.
Sam stands and blinks for a moment, then kicks the table leg viciously in annoyance and anger and resentment at their father and his arm his birthday and and his whole freaking life.
The action only serves to leave a throbbing in his toes as well as his wrist and his head.
Just freaking great.
***
The rest of the morning (his birthday morning, Sam thinks bitterly) is spent trying to quell the burning resentment Sam feels towards his father, avoiding Dean (who is, for all intents and purposes, sulking, not doubt about it), feeling immensely sorry for himself and trying to ignore the pain that his arm pumping out relentlessly.
By lunchtime however, the pain in his arm is down to a white hot stabbing every time he moves, and he hasn't seen or heard from Dean in a good two hours, so Sam decides that enough is enough.
His arm is killing him, so he's pretty sure there's more going on there than just a sprain, and Sam is struggling to focus on the words on the page before him. He drops his pen, runs his good hand through his hair, and stands abruptly. Time to face the music Sam thinks, and smiles despite himself, although in all honesty he's not sure whether it's him or Dean that thought is referring to.
Dean is cleaning his guns, his typical activity of choice when he's upset or pissed, or both. He's sat on his bed, his weapons bag spread across the mattress, his sawn-off shotgun in his lap. Sam takes a tentative step into the room, clearing his throat quietly.
“Dean?”
Dean doesn't look up, shoulders high and tense as he disassembles the gun with lethal efficiency. Sam can see his eyes from where he is bent over the weapon, the anger from earlier still visible, but less cold and less frightening. Now, Sam can see weariness and resignation in them, and feels a fierce protectiveness flare in him at the sight. No one had the right to make his brother look like that.
Sam almost changes his mind right then, almost tell his brother it's nothing, almost asks him if he wants any lunch and almost backs right the hell out of the room.
But his arms chooses that moment to throb in a painful reminder, and Sam swallows down his denial.
At Sam's apparent silence, Dean sighs loudly and looks up at his brother.
“What Sam?” Dean says dejectedly.
“It's my arm. It really hurts. I think it's broken.”
There, I said it Sam thinks. Dean shakes his head at Sam's words, picking up his gun again.
“You heard Dad, it's just a sprain, don't be such a baby.”
“But-”
“Sam,” Dean growls, and that shuts Sam right up. For about five seconds. Before his arm throbs again in protest at Dean's words.
“No,” Sam says, taking a couple of more steps into the room and lifting his head in defiance. “You gotta believe me Dean.”
Dean sighs again, obviously spotting his brothers stubborn streak coming into play, and knowing that he wouldn't do well to resist. He puts his gun back onto the mattress beside him, then gestured to his brother. “C'mere.”
Sam shuffles forward, bad wrist clutched in good, and Dean whistles when he gets an eyeful of the injured limb.
“That's some serious swelling.”
Nodding, Sam bites his lip as Dean reaches out and gently touches his fingers. “Can you move them?”
Sam squeezes his eyes shut and carefully wiggles his fingers. It doesn't hurt as much as he expected, and he opens his eyes just in time to see Dean carefully bend the swollen joint.
Jesus.
Sam almost whites out for a second, the pain excruciating, and he blinks his eyes open a few seconds later to find Dean's hand on his back and one his elbow steadying him.
“Sorry kiddo,” Dean whispers, hand rubbing circles on his back. “Just had to check.”
Sam nods, still breathing rapidly, and feels Dean get to his feet in front of him.
“Well, you were right. That's definitely a break.” Deans voice is grim, and he looks down at Sam apologetically. “Fancy a trip to the ER?”
Sam sighs. Happy Birthday to me.
***
Before they leave, Dean fashions a makeshift sling out of a ripped pillowcase and stuffs a few essentials into a bag in case the trip takes longer than expected. Sam sits on the sofa while he does so, still a bit hazy with pain, but flinches when suddenly something freezing cold is pushed onto his lap.
It's a ice pack, one of those weird blue ones, and Sam is grateful for the numbness it brings as he wraps it around his wrist.
“Thanks,” he says to Dean's retreating back, and Dean waves one hand over his shoulder in acknowledgement.
Dean is still quiet and sullen on the drive to the ER, but once they get settled in the busy waiting room he lets Sam lean against his shoulder tiredly as he fills out his paperwork. Apparently, this month he is 'Samuel Taylor', next of kin 'Dean Taylor'. Sam sighs at that, feeling better than he has all day (which isn't saying much), and closes his eyes for a few moments of peace.
“Be right back,” Dean mutters, and Sam traces Dean's movements with heavy lidded eyes, watching him return to the nurses counter and hand in Sam's completed paperwork. There is a low conversation, with a surprising lack of flirting from Dean, but then the nurse must say something because Dean stiffens suddenly, and after a beat, lets his head drop in a gesture of defeat.
Sam's eyes are drooping again by the time Dean makes his way back over to his brother, and he drags them open to see Dean drop into the chair next to him once again. Dean has his own eyes closed and is rubbing a hand across his face wearily. When he opens them, Sam expects to see annoyance and frustration clouding them, but is surprised when he sees nothing but guilt. And wait, is that a glint of tears?
“Dean?” Sam murmurs, leaning forward and shifting the now soggy ice pack as he does so, gritting his teeth at the sharp throbbing the movement causes. Dean swallows, not meeting Sam's eyes, and runs a hand through his hair.
There's a pause, then;
“Why didn't you say anything?”
Sam frowns at the unexpected question, blinking muzzily at his brother. “What?”
“About today. About how it's your freaking birthday. Why the hell didn't you say anything?”
Sam sighs, letting his head drop back onto the seat back. “Because,” he says softly, and feels Dean's eyes on his. Dean's wide, guilt ridden, anguished eyes.
“Because what, huh?” Dean's voice has softened now as well, less of the desperately accusing tone of a couple of seconds ago. Now, he only sounds tired and regretful. “You know how crappy I am at keeping track on the date. You should have given me a beat down earlier, should have told me it was your birthday and told me to go screw myself when I was being a fucking jerk to you.” He laughs, a completely humourless sound, and scrubs his face again. “Jesus Sammy.”
Sam shakes his head tiredly, hair swishing against the hard plastic. “It's not your fault.”
“Come on Sam, it's my job to-”
“Dean,” Sam says loudly, cutting Dean off. Dean's mouth falls shut, still eyeing Sam with those horribly guilty eyes.
Sam blows out a breath. “It doesn't matter. It's just a stupid day, it's not important. I didn't want...”
He trails off, shrugging, then wincing. “You were having a bad day too,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to his lap. “I didn't want to say anything to make it any worse.”
There's a long beat of silence between them. Sam's eyes are still in his lap, but he's painfully aware of his brother besides him, waiting nervously for his response.
“Sammy,” Dean breathes, a hand smoothing over Sam's hair. Sam feels his throat tighten, and he risks a glance up at his brother. Dean is looking at him fondly, his gaze full of affection, his eyes still sparkling with guilt but a warm smile softening his features.
“You really have had the crappiest day, haven't you?”
Sam nods, and he blames the pain, and the exhaustion, and the god damn release of the tension that has twisted his insides all day, and his brother as he wraps an arm around Sam's shoulders, when his eyes fill with tears. Dean pulls him close, and Sam lets his head drop onto Dean's chest, those traitorous tears falling into his lap. He feels Dean squeeze his shoulder and rub a hand up and down his arm soothingly, feels a pressure on the top of his head that he knows is Dean's cheek and he indulges himself in a few minutes more of wet sniffling because, come on, Dean was right. This is definitely the crappiest birthday he's ever had.
Sam loses track of time after that, Dean's warmth and proximity more comforting and soothing for the pain than any ice pack could ever be. He's startled out of his dose when Dean's hand circles his bicep firmly and his softly spoken “that's us Sammy” comes from somewhere above Sam's head.
The waiting room is far emptier when Sam opens his eyes and blinks groggily in the harsh artificial light. Dean gets to his feet besides him, and Sam pushes himself out of the chair, good arm cradling his sling, Dean's hands supportive on his shoulder and hip.
There is something painfully familiar about it all; the doctors exam, the prodding and poking and monotone queries, the x-rays, Dean's hovering presence and anxious questions, his hand a seemingly permanent fixture on Sam's back or neck. It's like a dozen other times spent in the hospital, fixing breaks of his (three fingers, one collarbone, a couple of ribs and counting) or Dean's (too many for Sam to count right now) or Dad's (far more than is even worth thinking about), hanging around until the casts had been set before making a break for it. It felt... hell, it feels almost normal, and if that doesn't say something about how out of whack their lives are, then Sam doesn't know what does.
When the doctor mentions surgery however, Sam balks at the words, but in all honesty isn't exactly surprised (NB: Worst. Birthday. Ever). He turns to Dean, eyes wide and almost exasperated, finding Dean frowning, concern etched in his features and hand tightening on Sam's shoulder. The doctor keeps talking - minor procedure, reset the break, out of here in the morning - and Sam leans to his side until he's pressed against Dean, not liking the worried expression on his face and suddenly wanting to see that warm smile again from earlier. Dean looks down at him and he does smile. It's reassuring, not quite the full treatment but it'll do, and Sam smiles back.
Yeah, he thinks, they'll be fine.
***
Sam blinks awake, head feeling like it's stuffed with cotton wool and eyes like they are glued shut. He does a sluggish mental inventory, trying to remember where he is and how he got there.
He remembers being wheeled on the gurney into the pre-op room, Dean's hand wrapped tight around his own. Despite the earlier reassurances, Sam had unable to banish the vulnerability he had felt as they got him ready for surgery; the fact that they were going to cut into him; the fact that so many things could go wrong with the anaesthesia; the fact that Dean wasn't going to to be there to watch his back.
Of course, Dean had been there to quell his fears, his warm hand and eyes and voice the last thing Sam had felt before slipping under. Now, Dean is the first thing he sees as he drags his eyes open.
He is slumped in a chair at the foot of Sam's hospital bed, head pillowed on arms folded on the mattress and one hand wrapped around Sam's ankle, mouth half open in sleep. Sam squints at him for a moment through the gloom, taking stock. It's not just older brothers who's first instinct is to make sure that their brother is alright, Sam thinks hazily, and smiles.
(Okay, so he's on the good drugs, but it's not like he was expecting anything less. So this is good.)
And Dean does looks alright, so that's good too.
Sam's attention turns to himself next, shifting experimentally. His left wrist and arm is encased in plaster and propped on a pillow as his side. He doesn't feel much apart from a heavy ache, and he wiggles his mostly numb fingers carefully, satisfied with their condition.
Catching a movement to his left out of the corner of his eyes, Sam turns his head.
And blinks.
And gapes.
There half a dozen balloons floating above the table beside his bed; varying shapes and sizes, drifting almost eerily in the non-existent breeze. Sam can just about see the squiggle of writing on the nearest one - it appears that someone has personalised it by writing 'Happy Birthday Sam' in large, black letters.
Grin breaking out over Sam's face, he looks down to see an oversized card propped on the table against the water jug, 'Sammy' scrawled on it in the same cramped style as the balloons, and next to that a pile of what must be two dozen candy bars, arranged in a rather artistic looking pyramid. A disbelieving laugh breaks out of Sam at the sight, and the sound is enough to wake Dean.
His brother sits up with a groan, rubbing a hand over his mouth and eyes, before blinking in Sam's direction. “Sammy?”
Sam turns towards his brother, still grinning widely. “Hey.”
Dean's mouth turns up at his brothers apparent amusement, and he stretches, eyes flicking towards the corner of the room, before shuffling over towards Sam.
“How're you feeling?” Dean asks, brushing a hand over Sam's head, fingers carding through the tousled hair.
Sam smiles up at him, a little dopey and a lot sappy, and doesn't even have to say anything before Dean blushes.
“I'm good,” Sam replies, as Dean's eyes slide away in embarrassment at Sam's adoring gaze. He moves to inspect Sam's casted arm, bending his fingers gently.
“Can you feel that?” he asks, sticking a finger under the plaster to check it's tightness.
“Not really,” Sam admits, and Dean nods in approval. “Is it morning?”
Dean chuckles. “Yeah kiddo. You've been out a while.”
“Mmm. Feels like.”
“The nurse should be round soon, give you a final once over, and then we're outta here.”
“'Kay.”
Sam sighs as Dean ruffles his hair, then his eyes are again drawn to the birthday goods behind him brother.
“Did you empty the whole vending machine?” Sam asks, waving his hand at the pile of chocolate. Dean tilts his head, a grin of his own breaking across his face.
“Not quite,” he says, eyes sparkling with laughter. He seems to hesitate for a moment, fingers still curled around Sam's, then reaches behind him and grabs the card. He toys with it for a second, tracing the edges with is thumb.
“This is for you,” he says quietly, handing the envelope over. “So is...” He trails off and flaps a hand at the balloons, then laughs. “Bet I guess you figured that, huh?”
Sam nods, running a hand over the envelope. “Thanks Dean. You didn't have to.”
“Yeah I did.”
Their eyes meet, Dean's fiercely apologetic, Sam's wide and understanding.
“Thanks,” Sam says again, almost a whisper. Dean bends down and presses a kiss to the crown of his head in a rare, but no less appreciated, gesture.
“Happy Birthday Sammy,” he murmurs into Sam's dark hair.
***
'Sammy,
I'm sorry about your Terrible, Horrible, No good, Very Bad Birthday.
I promise I'll do better next year.
Forgive me?
Your (not so) awesome brother,
Dean'
***
A week later, when they relocate to Montgomery Country in Maryland because of a hunt, Dean convinces their father to let them stay in the area a couple of days longer than necessary.
Much to Sam's surprise and sheer delight, as soon as the hunt is over, Dean whisks Sam off in the Impala to visit Washington DC for the weekend.
It's a weekend of site seeing, traipsing round historical monuments and countless museums together, visiting so many spectacularly geeky places; doing actual tourist things and spending time with his brother without having to worry about ghouls or ghosts or training or shooting practice or studying or mid terms or anything much at all.
Sam can't imagine anything better.
Sam finds himself falling asleep on Dean's shoulder in the car journey back to their father, a casual arm thrown around Sam's shoulders as they hit the highway.
Sam also finds himself muttering into the leather of Dean's jacket the words; “thanks Dean. This was the best birthday ever.”
Sam finds himself meaning it with all his heart.