AN: Today, March 1, 2007, is Jensen Ackles's birthday. But this story is about Dean's birthday which I know is on January 24. :)
"The least you can do is let me buy you some drink," Sam muttered. Dean swirled his head around.
"Excuse me?" He lifted his eyebrows. But his brother immediately shook his head.
"Ah, no. Nothing. Come on," Sam nodded toward the door of their motel room. "I'm tired. Really wanna crash."
Dean kept his gaze for several moments before giving up. "Whatever, Sam." He mumbled too, and clicked the key open, walking into the room ahead of Sam.
… before halting in place, his mouth gaping wide.
"Like hell?" he muttered, but never really had time to wonder or find the answer to questions suddenly cramming in his head. "Sam, what's—"
And Dean felt a shove on the small of his back while cheers, laughter, and people's singing roared in his ears.
"Yay! Happy birthday, Dean!"
"For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow!"
"Come on, dear. Sit down and blow your candles."
"Yes. You're twenty-nine today, right, son?"
Dean's face went pale. His hand looked as if it searched for something.
"What are you looking for, Dean?"
He turned to look over his shoulder.
"Sam…?"
"You think you're dreaming, don't you? Well, you're not, Dean. And you're not even on your bed so don't ever think of grabbing that blade under your pillow."
Dean froze.
Something is not right here. His Mom and Dad are dead. They can't be here, and Sam can't be like this.
But it was really his dad who approached him and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.
"Come on, son. You don't want to disappoint your mother, do you? She's cooked all this just for you." John smiled widely, before noticing something was not all right with his eldest child. "Hey, Dean. Are you all right?"
Not realizing his body had started shaking, Dean gaped at his father but slowly his eyes got blurred.
"I – I'm fine," he croaked. "How… how can you all be here?" He turned to his side as he saw his mother walking toward him. "M-mom?"
He leaned over as Mary's long, gentle fingers caressed the side of his face.
"I always knew you'd become such a handsome man, dear," her voice was soft, and that almost sent Dean over the edge. He didn't know what kept him so long that he hadn't broken the first time he saw his dad and mom standing and walking and talking in front of him again. And a part of his mind just didn't care with the logic, or the lack of it, behind all that was transpiring at the moment.
"Mom," Dean sobbed – and he also didn't care that he was enacting one of those chick-flick moments he'd always loathed. His mom was here, seriously. He didn't even know if she was going to stay or leave him again like what happened twenty-five years ago. Dean stepped forward and sank in his mother's arms, silently leaving damp paths on her shoulder.
"Son."
A hand rested on his shoulder.
"Here." It was his dad. "I have something for you."
Dean, obviously reluctant, let go of his mother and turned around. John placed something in his fist. Something cold and thin. He opened his hand, and again his eyes went round.
One of his father's tags.
The one Sam had buried near their mother's gravestone.
Dude, can this evening be any creepier?
Dean sought his little brother's eyes, but when he found them, those eyes just smiled at him. There wasn't any sign that all of these were strange to him. Sam only reached for Dean and patted his back.
There was a faint sound of music and Dean suddenly realized it was his phone ringing. He shifted a little, fumbling with the front pocket of his jeans to get his cell phone. Clearing his throat, Dean mumbled into the receiver.
"Yeah?"
"Dean! Where are you?"
"Sammy?"
"Yes, Dean! You didn't get back to the motel last night. Where are you?" Sam repeated, panicked and unrelenting.
Oh. Slowly, Dean clambered up to a sitting position. Apparently he had been sleeping. He rubbed his face, blinking away the remaining sleep still lingering upon his eyes, and looked around.
"Where am I?" he muttered. "What happened?"
"Dean!" Sam's voice was so loud Dean could hear it despite the fact that he had unconsciously put his phone on his lap.
"Sam?" Dean somehow forgot to check his panic so it went through the phone, his voice shaking a bit. "I don't know where I am…"
"What?" Sam snapped. "What do you mean? Are you inside a house or something?"
"Yeah. It—" He swept his gaze around one more time. "It's a house, I think, and I'm in the living room. I guess I fell asleep on the couch. Sam?" He rose to his feet.
"What?"
"This is such an old house, Sam. It looks dilapidated, dust, spider webs everywhere. All the furniture is covered with white linen."
"Get out of there, Dean. Now."
"Right away, dude. I—oh no."
"Dean, what's up?"
There was only silence that followed, and a soft thud as the cell phone flew down and hit the carpeted floor. Dean was oblivious to all that.
It wasn't a dream.
Or it was, he wasn't quite sure with himself right now.
But he surely had his father's army tag here in his hand.
fin