Celebration
Yes, I know I've been off the grid for a while, and yes, I know this is about three months too late, but actually wrote this in January for Dean's birthday. Unfortunately, computer issues made it impossible to post so this has been sitting on file, just waiting to be posted. Chronicles Dean's birthdays when he didn't really feel like celebrating. Thank you so much to all who have stuck with me these past few months (between the computer issues and my uncle passing of cancer, I have been off the radar for quite a while). Huge thanks to LilyBolt especially, who never gave up on waiting for my stories, even when she had all the right to just say hell with it and unfollow. You have been a great friend, even though you are a continent away and in a completely different country! Lol Anyway, better late than never.
It was Dean Winchester's fifth birthday and he didn't really feel like celebrating.
Last year he had had the best birthday party he could have ever imagined with hamburgers and soda pop (something Mommy never usually gave him) and the biggest, gooiest, yummiest chocolate cake ever, with ice cream for dessert. There were balloons, fun games to play with his friends from the neighbourhood, and presents. All kinds of bags, boxes wrapped in bright coloured paper and tied with fat ribbons and tags. Mommy was all smiles (and for some reason, rubbing her tummy, which seemed kinda big) while Daddy kissed her and put his hands on Mommy's belly. Dean hadn't really cared too much. All he could think about was the brand new bike Daddy was going to teach him how to ride in the spring.
This year, there was no Mommy. It was just him, and Daddy, and baby Sammy. Daddy had tried to make his first birthday without Mommy special but his new job didn't make a lot of money, and made him go away for really long trips. A lot of times he and Sammy would go to Uncle Bobby's, which was kind of fun, but really lonely, even with his baby brother to play with. Sammy would laugh and blow spit bubbles and Dean would smile but every night, Dean would go to bed missing his Daddy, and especially Mommy with her hugs and smiles and lullabies. And so when he woke up on his fifth birthday, Dean Winchester lay in his bed and cried. The little cupcake and toy car Daddy brought him didn't make him smile; the brand new baseball glove Uncle Bobby didn't make him smile. Not even Sammy giving Dean messy baby kisses and making those cute baby noises made him happy. Daddy didn't know what to do; he sat in a corner with bottles of that yucky smelling water that made him sleepy (and sometimes angry, or even sad) while Dean tried to wipe away his tears. Sammy couldn't see his big brother crying like a baby, especially when he bumped his head on the corner of the bed and started crying too. And so five-year-old Dean Winchester spent his first birthday without his mommy taking care of his little brother.
XXX
It was Dean Winchester's twenty-third birthday and he really didn't feel like celebrating.
Sam had been gone for four months now, off to bigger and brighter things, a new life at college, away from hunting… away from his family. Sure, Dean was proud of his younger brother, and how he had gotten a full ride to Stanford. The kid was smart, no doubt about that; at fourteen, he was already excelling in subjects Dean had struggled with before, and had even offered (much to his embarrassment) to tutor him in English Lit and history. If anyone deserved a college education and a chance at a normal life, it was Sam Winchester. But at the same time, that hurt, that resentment of his brother gnawed at him, poisoning him like an infected wound. Sam had left them; had abandoned his family when they needed him the most. Had he not even considered how Dean would feel to see his family ripped apart at the seams, the unit he had tried so desperately to repair? Dean had been mediator between his dad and brother for four years now, the usual arguments between teenage boys and their fathers. But it seemed that the moment Sam had turned sixteen, those typical father/son spats became full out battles, with the young hunter trying in vain to calm the storm before it became a category five hurricane.
"You think nothing but yourself! You leave for two goddamned weeks with no fucking warning. Your brother was worried half to death looking for you. For all we knew, you were lying in a ditch somewhere, or in the morgue, because you were tired of hunting. You are selfish, ungrateful…"
"Me? You have the gall to call ME selfish when you drag your kids all over god knows where because you're on a vendetta? What kind of parent leaves their kids unattended in shitty motels while you go out on a fucking revenge kick? Who cares so much about the job he fucking forgets his own son on his birthday? Who trains their kid how to shoot a gun before middle school? So don't you DARE try to tell me that my wanting to have two fucking weeks of freedom from this so called life was selfish!"
Dean remembered that conversation all too well, branded in his mind with all the other memories he had pushed back to the farthest corners of his mind. He hated both of them that day: Sam for thinking that a two week "vacation" at a crappy apartment in Flagstaff was a perfectly acceptable trade for the days he and their dad had spent searching for him, fully expecting to never find him, or worse, find him lying on a steel gurney in the county morgue; and his father for driving him to that point in the first place. Because everything Sam had said was true. Their father really did put the hunt before anything else. The problem was that his younger brother just didn't understand that everything John Winchester did was to keep them safe.
Not surprisingly, their father's words had fallen on deaf ears, and Sam had stormed off last August in search of a new life as a university student. Dean had given him a ride to the bus depot, saying not a word until he awkwardly patted his freakishly tall little brother a pat on the shoulder and a gruff "see you around, Sammy." Ganking the toughest fugly was a cakewalk compared to watching the bus whisking his younger brother away turn the corner and vanish from view.
And now, in final minutes of the day, January 24th, Dean Winchester sat alone in the front seat of the Impala, cell phone in hand, finger hovering over Sam's name on his contact list. He'd been debating calling him for days now; he needed to hear his voice, to laugh at the stupid shit he really should have been partaking but was probably avoiding for the sake of academics. To know that he was okay. And so for ten minutes he stared at his phone, debating on calling his kid brother and secretly hoping said little brother would be about to do the same, before tossing it in frustration on the passenger seat. The one my pain in the ass little brother should be sitting in right now.
Dean Winchester wiped the small tear he was ashamed of leaking from the corner of his eye, cranked the Zeppelin, and drove off to the next hunt. Unaware that in a dorm room just a few blocks away, that very same little brother was drifting off to sleep, trying not to think of the phone call he had so desperately hoped to get, and yet never came.
XXX
It was Dean Winchester's thirtieth birthday, and he didn't really feel like celebrating.
Sam was gone, for eight months now. Eight month for Dean to adjust in his new life as partner, father, working man. Eight months to realize that it was all a bunch of crap and that the age old cliché "time heals everything" was nothing but a bunch of bullshit used to sell sympathy cards. Lisa tried her best to make the day at least a little more bearable; she'd bought a few gifts, made his favourite supper complete with a deep dish apple pie, and the two had spent the evening snuggling on the couch (God, when had he ever thought of himself to be the kind of person to snuggle with a woman?) with a glass of wine before the fire. For Lisa's sake Dean had pretended to have a nice time. He'd smiled when opening his gifts, ate as much of the food as seemed to be appropriate; and later that night, long after Ben had been sent to bed, he'd made love. Sometimes it would be slow and gentle, feeling the warmth of her body against his as she caressed his face, kissed his shoulders, savoured every moment of intimacy like a fine wine. Other times, it was hot and passionate, his hands running through the tangles of Lisa's long, brown hair, the cups of her breasts, grabbing at her thighs as he kissed her, deep and passionate and filled not with love, but lust, hunger, a mad desire to try to block the emptiness he'd been supressing for months. And when they were finished, Lisa asleep beside him, Dean lay staring at the ceiling, the overwhelming grief he'd been trying to hold back all day at last gripping him.
They'd never really done anything special for his birthday. Dean would go all out for Sam every May 2nd, but would never really expect anything in return from his brother. And naturally Sam would do something incredibly thoughtful whenever he had the chance, and pay for the night's take out and case of beer whenever they were tied down with a hunt. Once Sam had surprised him with Jayhawks tickets, and had even dabbled in the culinary arts by making him a homemade meal, complete with pie, but as thoughtful as the gestures were, what Dean had always enjoyed the most was having his brother by his side. Those four lonely birthdays when Sam was at Stanford had been the worst of Dean Winchester's life.
But now, lying beside the woman who had been kind enough to give his sorry ass a roof over his head and an amazing young man to help bring up, Dean would have traded anything for just one more Stanford birthday. The ache, the loneliness, was nothing compared to the emptiness, the intense pain and overwhelming grief of a world without Sam.
"Fuck, Sammy," he cried softly, and now he was full out crying, trying desperately to muffle his sobs and not wake Lisa. For several minutes he lay there, shaking silently as he cried. After a while, he crept downstairs and sat at the kitchen table, downing the bottle of Jack he'd stashed until finally the pain had eased from excruciating to a dull, more manageable ache. It was at that table the next morning Lisa found him, passed out and reeking of whiskey. With a sigh, she picked up the nearly empty bottle and emptied it down the drain.
XXX
It was Dean Winchester's thirty-fifth birthday and he really didn't feel like celebrating.
It was better than that horrible one five years earlier, the one where he'd made a complete ass of himself by drinking himself into a stupor and passing out at the kitchen table, while an equally sympathetic and pissed off Lisa dealt with the aftermath. At least Sam was alive and breathing, and not under the influence of demon blood, disgruntled angels, or on the brink of death. It was something he should have been grateful for.
But the influence of the Mark was growing stronger by the day. He'd massacred those thugs, among them the man who had been the closest to being a father figure Claire Novak had had since Cas had possessed Jimmy Novak years earlier. Granted, the man had been a complete ass, using the teen as a means to pay off the loan sharks on his ass. But sleaze or otherwise, he had butchered them. He, Dean Winchester, had killed for the sake of it, whose rage had almost caused him to kill Metatron in a fit of anger and blood lust. Though he was technically no longer a demon, the Mark was changing him, bit by bit, slice by slice, turning him into the man he so desperately did not want to be.
"Dean?"
Dean sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly before looking up at his brother. Sam was standing outside his bedroom door, a look of concern on his face. He looks so much older, Dean thought bitterly at the sight of the dark bags under his hazel eyes and the days of stubble along his chin. He stole a quick glance at the mirror beside him and almost laughed bitterly. Guess I don't look much better.
"How're you feeling, man?" Sam asked quietly. He didn't walk into the room, but leaned against the door frame, as if waiting for an invitation from his brother to join him.
"Just peachy. Almost killed the former scribe of God in our bunker. And a few weeks ago I went all Texas Chainsaw on some dudes because I just felt like it. So yeah, Sam, I'm feeling great, thanks." Sam ignored the rebuke and Dean sighed. "Yeah, I know, touchy touchy."
For a few minutes, the brothers remained silent, Dean sitting at the corner of his bed and Sam still leaning against the door, like an awkward teenager at prom gaining the courage to ask his crush for a dance. After a while, Sam cleared his throat.
"I know you probably forgot, but I didn't, even with all this shit going down. Cas wanted to do something a little more extravagant, the whole cake and gifts thing, but I thought it might be kinda inappropriate considering the circumstances, so…" Clearing his throat, Sam pulled a small package, wrapped in tissue paper, from his pocket and handed it to his brother. "Happy birthday, Dean."
He didn't really want it. The last thing Dean wanted to do right now was celebrate his birthday. But he would do anything for Sam, even pretend to care about birthday presents. So he smiled faintly with a token "thanks, Sammy" and carefully unwrapped the folds of tissue.
And promptly gasped at the familiar chain nestled within the palm of his hand.
"Sam, how…. How did you get this?"
Sam looked awkward, but he smiled. "Fished it out of the trash the night you… well, you know." Dropped it in the trash. Threw it out like garbage right in front of him. How the fuck could I have been so heartless?
"I - I don't know what to say."
Sam once more began to look uncomfortable; eyes downcast, he began to shuffle in one spot, hands stuffed in his jean pockets. An action he'd done ever since he was a kid. "Figured after that musical case you were kinda interested in having it back. Thought about giving you the real one then, but felt it would be better as a birthday present."
Dean was silent, gently brushing a thumb against the warm metal. And felt a sudden sense of hope he'd not had since Gadreel had possessed Sam over a year earlier. This one amulet, the symbol of the brothers and their bond, was back in his possession. He hadn't been lying when he'd told Sam that he didn't need a piece of jewellery to represent how he felt for his brother, but Dean Winchester would be lying if he'd said that he wasn't overwhelmed with emotion at that moment.
"Well, do you want it back?" Sam's voice, hesitant and almost childlike, brought Dean back. He looked up at his brother, smiled. "Yeah," he said softly, sliding the pendent around his neck. The metal felt comfortable, familiar, resting against his cotton t-shirt. "Thanks, Sammy."
It was Dean Winchester's thirty-fifth birthday, and for the first time in years, he kind of felt like celebrating.