A/N: For Sam Winchester's birthday. DISCLAIMER: I don't own Supernatural, sadly.
The Difference of a Year
It was Sam's birthday.
Sam wasn't one to really care about birthdays. Sure, he made sure he did something special for Dean every January 24th, usually something like a trip to the bakery for some deep dish apple pie, or sipping a few cold ones on the hood of the Impala. But May 2nd could come and go for all Sam Winchester cared. It was just another day.
But this particular birthday was more than just your average early spring day. And not at all because of the promise of spending some quality time with his brother, an impromptu road trip to a Jayhawks game or a live concert from one of his favorite bands. There wouldn't even be a simple, lazy day, the two just hanging around the motel room doing jack shit other than enjoying each other's company. Instead, the day before Sam Winchester would turn twenty-five, the brothers were heading to the town of New Harmony, ready to face off against Lilith. To go down swinging or die trying. The Winchester way, after all.
Sam Winchester would always remember his twenty-fifth as the day he watched his brother die.
It was the day he had cradled his brother's lifeless body in his arms, his body quaking with heaving, uncontrollable sobs. Staring into eyes once so full of life and mischief, now staring blankly ahead; the spark which had made him Dean Winchester forever extinguished by the claws and vicious canines of the hellhound.
The day he had buried his brother in that unmarked grave in Pontiac, Illinois, in the safety of the early morning darkness. He had been thankful that Bobby had left him alone; he couldn't have his surrogate father watch him as he gently laid his brother in a handmade pine box. Couldn't have him try to comfort him when all he wanted to do was die, right there beside Dean, promise be damned.
And later that morning, sitting in the driver's seat of the car his brother had loved so much, Sam Winchester was about to discover that this would be the year of the card.
Every year, Dean Winchester would give his brother a card of some sort for his birthday, even before the boy had learned to read. At first, the cards were handmade, sometimes with the help of his father, but usually from a kind teacher at school. "Hapy birfday Samy," the first one he had ever made had proudly displayed on the front, followed by a child's drawing of a jet black car and two stick people, the youngest holding a blob which was no doubt a representation of Dean cradling baby Sammy in his arms. As the years passed, the handmade gifts became the usual novelty cards at the local dollar store, complete with crude jokes about aging and the overall grossness of being a male. Typical macho humor which Sam found to be complete bullshit, but loved anyway. Because they had come from his brother.
This year, Sam had forgotten about his older brother's tradition. Sitting behind the wheel of the classic Chevy, hands gripping the steering wheel for dear life, his hazel eyes, still burning from hours of crying, happened to wander to the envelope resting on the passenger seat. The one with "Sammy" scrawled neatly across the front in Dean's beautiful penmanship. For a moment, Sam stared at the envelope with contempt. He knew that there would be some goodbye message from his brother tucked away inside, and now, overwhelmed with grief and exhaustion, the last thing he wanted to do was read something his now dead brother had left him. But it wasn't long before he found himself reaching for the envelope, as if some force were trying to control him. With shaking hands, Sam opened it and pulled out a letter, written on motel stationary.
Sammy.
I know this is gonna sound clichéd, but if you're reading this, looks like I drew the short end of the straw. Yeah, it sucks, but we always knew that one of these days the hunt was going to get the best of at least one of us. And yeah, that was definitely not the cheerful opener you'd probably want to hear, so moving on….
I'm not going to go on with the whole sharing and caring thing right now. We both know just how far we'd go for each other. Hell, this whole fucked up situation is proof enough, right? But what has really been bugging me is the date. Fuck, Sammy, this whole thing's going down on your birthday. And because of me this is gonna be the day you remember for the wrong reasons. And I'm so sorry to do this, Sammy. God, I'm sorry.
So, if things didn't go our way, I wanted you to at least have something. There's some cash in here, not much but enough to hopefully get you by.
Love, Dean.
Love, Dean. It was the first time since he was little that his brother had ever addressed him like that. For a moment, Sam couldn't breathe; could feel the paper crumpling in his grasp. Goddamn him. Why the fuck did he have to do this? As if his death hadn't been excruciating enough? And now, this? Fresh tears welled in his eyes and the letter finally fluttered to the floorboards. Overwhelming grief once more overcame Sam as he cried against the steering wheel of Dean's beloved Impala. As the last minutes of his twenty-fifth birthday ticked away, Sam Winchester had never felt more alone, as dead inside as the man who lay buried not thirty feet away from him.
XXX
It was Sam's birthday.
A lot had happened in the year following Dean's death. Grief stricken, he had spiraled nearly out of control, letting his mad desire for revenge lead to a nearly devastating addiction. His brother was back, miraculously raised from the dead from the mysterious angel, Castiel. And now, tensions between the pair were high. Even though Sam truly believed with all his heart that he was doing the right thing, Dean just didn't seem to understand. He was going after Lilith. He was saving the world, and most of all, trying to make it up to his brother. To the one who had risked his life, his soul, for him.
Needless to say, because of the tension between the pair, Sam didn't expect much, if anything, for his twenty-sixth birthday. He woke up that morning to another day of research, a cold spring rain tapping against the window pane, nursing a headache and a massive need to get another fix of demon blood. Dean had been quiet all day, barely talking from beneath the massive piles of lore he had been pouring through. It never bothered him, really. He wasn't one to care anyway; was more one to spend the time on Dean. But he couldn't help but feel a little hurt that Dean hadn't even seemed to remember the date.
But he needn't have worried. Because that night, tucked beneath his pillow, was an envelope, stuffed with a few bills and one of those crude dollar store novelty cards.
Happy birthday, Sammy.
Sam felt moisture forming beneath his lids as he sat the card down, staring at the image on the front. Maybe the brothers weren't on the best of terms at the moment, but it was a hell of a lot better than last year. Tucking the card in his duffle, Sam smiled for the first time in weeks.