A/N: Something I whipped up for tumblr back in January for Dean's birthday. Revised it a little and posted it here because why the hell not?
The clock hanging on the wall above the seedy motel bed reads just past midnight. It's officially January 24th in Kansas City, Missouri.
Dean is sitting at the small kitchenette table, mostly empty bottle of Johnnie Walker in hand, playing idly with his phone. He's debating whether or not he should call Sam when it vibrates obnoxiously and he drops it with a thunk on the linoleum tabletop. He squints at the screen. He doesn't recognize the number. He's about to silence the call when his brain helpfully supplies images of Sam lying in a hospital bed, and he almost drops the phone again trying to answer it. Before he can say anything, a familiar, gruff voice comes over the line.
"Dean."
"Cas? What's wrong?" he tries to stand but the room is spinning too fast, so he sits back down.
"Nothing. Sam is fine," Castiel replies, putting Dean's mind at ease. "I'm calling for a different reason."
"Oh," is all Dean can say as worry is replaced by confusion that slowly breaks through the thick whiskey-induced fog surrounding his brain. "And what would that be?" he prompts, his words slurring together a bit.
"… are you drunk?" Castiel sounds surprised.
He shrugs before remembering that Cas can't see him. He drags a hand down his face. "Yep."
Whatever. It's his birthday and he shelled out for the good stuff, so he's damn well gonna drink it. "What do you want, Cas?"
He hears a sigh from the other end, "I'm calling," Castiel concedes, "because it's your birthday."
"Oh, it is? Well thanks." Dean bites out, feigning ignorance. He is well aware of the date. Somewhere very deep beneath the fog he feels bad for getting snarky with Cas when they guy was nice enough to give a shit about something as insignificant as Dean's birthday.
He's never cared much about his birthday, this one is no different. Just marks another year that he managed to evade death, really. He's been drunk for more of them than he cares to admit, but most of the time they pass by, forgotten, pushed aside for more important things.
He can only recall one birthday, the year he turned 13, when something in the way of a celebration actually went down. John had come home earlier than expected from a hunt and had miraculously remembered to stop by a supermarket and pick up a small, mediocre, chocolate cake. Sam made him a card, and they all stayed up late watching Die Hard 2. It wasn't much, but it was more than Dean had ever expected, and it was amazing.
"Dean," Cas says tentatively, putting an end to Dean's trip down memory lane. "Come home."
Dean sighs wearily, "I can't Cas, you know that."
"You're not poison, Dean. Sam needs you here…"
Dean is about to hang up, unable to have this conversation with this much alcohol running through his bloodstream, but when Cas' voice comes through the line again he freezes.
"I need you here."
Dean thinks he may have imagined it. But no, he's not that drunk. Not yet. He takes another swig of whiskey.
Unable to come up with an immediate response, he goes silent again, warring with himself. Cas doesn't say anything more, simply waits for Dean to come to one conclusion or another. Castiel understands Dean in ways no one ever has, save for Sam, and it scares him. He knows he should stay away, but he doesn't want to. He wants to be selfish and isn't it his birthday, after all?
"Are you still there?" Castiel asks after a few solid minutes of dead-air.
Dean's resolve fails. Cas' voice is as level and deep and gravelly as ever and god he misses him. He misses those crazy blue eyes and the way he always stands just a bit too close. And he misses his brother, and the way they used to be and he just wants to go home.
"Yeah, Cas. I'm here." Dean pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and makes a snap, selfish decision, gives one more birthday gift to himself. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll come home."
There is a small pause before Cas replies, "Good."
Dean starts to lower the phone when that sure, familiar voice pipes up again, "And Dean?"
"Yeah?" he replies with a yawn, suddenly exhausted as the whiskey really hits home, making him drowsy.
"Happy Birthday."
Dean can't help the small, tired smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth, "Thanks, Cas."
He hangs up finally, placing his phone on the table and gingerly attempting to stand. He manages to make it to the bed before flopping face down, fully clothed. In the moments before he drifts off into an alcohol-induced slumber, he thinks about blue eyes, tan jackets, a never-ending sea of plaid shirts, and home.