A/N - I was twitchy and I couldn't sleep, so I wrote this at about two in the morning a few nights/days ago. I wrote it because there aren't nearly enough non-slashy Seamus and Dean stories out there, and much as I like slash, Dean/Seamus is an awkward and terrible pairing.

Please review!

Seamus strolled down the hill, kicking up tufts of loose grass left over from when he had cut the lawn the day before. He knew his yard and the fields it bled into like the back of his hand, and stepped deftly around rocks and hollows without seeming to realize that he was doing it.

Seamus' best friend Dean followed along in his wake, hands in his pockets and head down as he took considerably more care with where he placed his feet. He had already taken a spectacular fall over a half-buried root, though the wide tear it had made in his jeans had been easy enough to fix with a quick flick of his wand.

Their destination was the mailbox at the end of the lane, which meant, Dean thought, that they probably could have walked on said lane instead of cutting across the open field that the path wound around. It might have taken longer, but it would have saved him a considerable amount of hassle. He doubted, however, that his friend noticed his trouble. Seamus was about as observant as a dead monkey.

"Did you want me to hold your skirts for you, or are you managing on your own?" The young Irishman called back over his shoulder. Okay, thought Dean, scowling, I'll give him observant.

"You're a riot," he said irritably, picking his way over a particularly tricky patch of ground and cursing the fact that he wore old, worn-out tennis shoes. He would be picking bits of Ireland out of his shoes for a month.

"Cheer up, mate," Seamus said, pausing to allow his friend to catch up with him. There was a mad little twinkle in his eye that made Dean want to hit him. "I just didn't want you to think that you weren't being challenged enough, see?"

They continued to bicker until they reached the mailbox, which was fairly weather-beaten and poked up through the grass at an odd angle. Dean wondered idly where the perfectly round hole through the side had come from.

"Potato gun," Seamus explained, having seen his friend looking. "It's a story of wickedness and depravity. I won't bore you with it."

"I've got five knuts that says it starts with your great-uncle Angus getting into the Guinness," Dean remarked.

"No bet. All stories of wickedness and depravity start with my great-uncle Angus getting into the Guinness," Seamus said mildly, drawing open the small tin door and removing a single, unadorned envelope.

"Who's it from?" asked Dean, who was not particularly interested. Seamus glanced at him and shook his head.

"Dunno. There's no return address."

Dean kicked at a stone, sending it bouncing away through the grass as Seamus tore open the letter. As it turned out, it wasn't a letter at all, but a card with brightly-coloured dinosaur on the front, waving from below the declaration, 'Happy Birthday!'.

"You must've gotten someone else's mail," said Dean. Seamus didn't answer as he opened the card and read what was written inside. He wasn't aware that his face had gone a rather unflattering shade of red until Dean made to jerk the card out of his fingers.

"Leave it," Seamus snapped.

"What's up?" Dean asked, raising an inquiring eyebrow. "It's not yours, is it?"

"Yeah," said Seamus, going even redder, "It is."

"Seriously?" asked Dean. He generally displayed a little more consideration and sensitivity than Seamus, who, had their roles been reversed, would have cracked a joke intended to infuriate. In an attempt to be consoling, he added, "Must be from someone who doesn't know you very well. You've got loads of relatives you're always telling me about; maybe it's from that batty one who has all the cats - "

"It's from my dad." Seamus was positively scarlet now.

"Oh," said Dean, who couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Yeah," said Seamus. "Yeah, well."

"It's not your birthday for months yet," Dean pointed out.

"I know," snarled Seamus. Then, quieter, "I know."

"And that card – how long's it been since he's seen you?" Dean wanted to know.

"Dunno. He left when I was really small. Mum said that he came by a few years ago, but I was at school."

"Oh," said Dean again, who had known that Seamus' dad was not around but had never been told the details until now. After a brief silence, he asked suddenly, "Why'd he go?"

Seamus shrugged. The memory wasn't painful; it had been too long ago for it to really matter. He was still flushed with shame, though, and it prevented him from altogether meeting his friend's eyes. "Didn't think much of my mum not letting him in on being a witch until after they got married, I reckon. He always thought she was keeping secrets after that."

Dean nodded and shrugged. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I never met my dad at all," he said, the cheerfulness in his tone a sudden and very abrupt change from the somber turn their conversation had taken moments before. "We're in the same boat. Although my old man hasn't taken to sending me birthday cards at the wrong time of year. Your dad's a special kind of weird."

"It's not – he doesn't – he's busy a lot and he forgets," Seamus said lamely, struggling to make excuses for a father he barely knew.

"No," Dean said firmly. "Forgetting because you're busy is for things like not letting the cat out. Forgetting because you're busy is not for things like your kid's birthday. You deserve better, mate."

They stood in silence for a while longer, Dean rocking comfortably from his heels to his toes as the wind tugged gently at his jacket. He looked up at the sky as he let Seamus collect himself, watching the clouds scud quickly across it. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw his friend tuck the card gently into his pocket as the Irish wizard took a deep breath and let it out.

"Ready to go?" Dean inquired. "Your mum said there'd be pie when we got back."

"Yeah. She did, didn't she?"

"She did." They turned back towards the house and fell into step beside one another, silent in a rare moment of seriousness. This couldn't be allowed to last. Almost as an afterthought, Dean looked at his friend.

"Oh, and Sea?"

"Yeah?"

"You're a wanker."

Seamus took off through the grass after Dean, who was roaring with laughter as he made his escape.