One dark humid three AM Dean does the math, knowing that Sam's too deep in fever dreams to see what he's doing or care. May 1st, 2011, or something like it. And counting backwards, minutes meaning weeks, weeks meaning months, seconds meaning years. When he hits the number on the bottom of the complimentary motel notepad the air in his lungs strings its claws into his throat and he stops breathing.
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He's careful about birthdays as they have always been a point of hurt: people are gone, people have died. Most of the time Sam is in that state of not quite wanting to be. So Dean tends to forego the cake, though he can't stop giving gifts, but gifts without wrapping paper, gifts without physicality. A favorite lunch spot, a touch on the arm
( ... )
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He's careful about birthdays as they have always been a point of hurt: people are gone, people have died. Most of the time Sam is in that state of not quite wanting to be. So Dean tends to forego the cake, though he can't stop giving gifts, but gifts without wrapping paper, gifts without physicality. A favorite lunch spot, a touch on the arm ( ... )
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