Rating: PG
Disclamer: I don't own them!
A/N: I let Dean's birthday go unnoticed due to my hectic life (Jan. 24), but I couldn't bare to let Jensen's go by too. So I dregged up some inspiration from my writing hiatus, this is for Jensen, you bring such inspiring emotion to Dean and I'll always love you in a stalker kind of way! Happy thirtieth!!!!
Dean sighed, turning over in bed to face the blinking red light of the clock. They were in some no-name town chasing some vampires that had been raising hell and last night they ran into some rabid sons of bitches.
He'd gotten slashed pretty good and Sammy had gotten away with a bruise covering the entire left side of his face and when they'd gotten back to their motel room they'd crashed into the scratchy cotton sheets of the unwashed beds. It had almost made Dean forget what day this was, it's not like he noticed much anyways, but once in awhile . . . once in awhile he wished, and if that wasn't like a chick he didn't know what was.
Bringing his hand unconsciously up to his pendant he gave a half smile, half frown at the thought that it was the last present he had recieved. Hell, he could remember the year his dad and Sam had started forgetting his birthday, it had taken his brother longer though, when he was still caught up in the wonder of the world and birthdays meant parties and cake and presents and christmas meant trees and santa and nothing chould go uncelebrated.
His dad, well, with hunting he couldn't exactly blame him, he had understood too, why there were no more bright presents and loving hugs on that special day. He had understood, he just didn't know why he did until a little later is all.
After all if you think about, one day when you were born so many years ago by chance isn't anything special, people's lives are much more important. That didn't take off the sting though when he woke up and waited, anxiously for anything, even a gesture and nothing happened.
He was used to it.
With another heaving sigh he swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as both stiches pulled and warm feet hit cold floor. Rising he idly scratched his stomach and grabbed some stuff and he went the shower. When he glanced in the mirror and saw the fine lines, smile lines most of them for some reason he couldn't see anymore the thought hit him. It was his last. After this, there would be no more birthdays to be remembered.
Shaking his head he stepped into the cold water without waiting for the water heater to kick in, running his hands through his hair and trying not to rip the hastily done stitchjob he'd done himself in the car, half drunk on numbing whisky.
Once he thought he was clean enough Dean dressed and stepped into the room, putting a smile on his face and pulling himself together for the day like every other day and wishing that for once, it might be special again.
Wishes always seemed to get lost for him.
But when he entered the room he smiled, feeling a weight both lift and fall on him as he saw Sam sitting cross legged on the bed, sheet covering his lap and hands fiddling. There was a wrapped box on his pillow, hazardly taped in paper towls he recognized from the bathroom.
Swallowing and clearing his throat he smirked.
"What's this Sammy? Someone remember a special little day, aw, I'm touched." He brought his hand up to his heart, feeling the loud thumping against his palm and ignoring it. He bypassed the bed and flopped down on the lone chair in the room, hoping it didn't break on him.
Sam looked up then away, his voice rough as he spoke.
"Dude, don't, just don't." Dean frowned and stood slowly, sitting down on his bed as he dragged the box to him.
"Seriously Sam, didn't even think you remembered. You didn't have to you know, I wouldn't have cared." Yes I would have.
"I know that and I've always rememberd but you didn't seem to. But this- this is your last time and I want you to have something, okay? So back off." Dean raised his hands and dropped them back down to his lap to began carefully opening his present, not sure what was under the fragile wrapping.
"Okay, okay. Calm down Sammy." His brother nodded his head as if in acceptance and went back to staring at his lap as Dean finshed opening his present, staring down in confusion when Sam's baritone came somewhere from above him. Dean was startled to see him standing right above him, also staring into the worn journals in his hands.
"Our family was never much good at telling how we felt, and I don't think you ever really understood why I did a lot of the things that I did. I've been writing in these since I was twelve or so, nearly every day. I just, I didn't want you to, go, without knowing, why I left, why dad and I never got along, why I'm trying to save you so damn hard."
Dean wanted to make some crack about diaries but as he gently flipped open the cover of the first book, and that's what it was really, he couldn't do it. He vaguely heard Sam move over to his own bed to start getting ready, but before he could start Dean spoke.
"Sammy," the dark brown hair shifted as the accompanied head turned and stared, "Thanks." And with that he looked down and began reading, settling in comfortably.
It wasn't tear-jerking or poetry or anything remotely as thoughtful on the surface as the gifts he held in his hands, but it was them and it was all that needed to be said.