He didn't know where Crowley was, probably somewhere on the bottom of the goddamn ocean, and he didn't really care. Dean treated himself to a gourmet burger and an extra-large slice of pie, and didn't tell the waitress it was his 35th birthday. Not like he ever gave a fuck about being another year older anyway.
He picked up a six-pack, and on impulse, a fifth of Jack Daniels, and Robert Elliot paid for it all, the poor sap. Next, he picked a motel a little nicer than his regular hole in the wall, chosen for the Hot Tubs and Free HBO advertised in flickering neon.
The room was ok, really not better or worse than anywhere else, and the bathroom, rugs, and bedding appeared to be pretty clean, so there was that at least.
Opening the taps, he let the tub fill with water while he drained two beers in alarmingly rapid succession. He stripped his clothes, grabbed the whiskey, and padded, naked, to the bathroom.
Dean opened the bottle and took a long swig, settling down into the hot water and pushing the button for the jets. The force of the water felt like heaven on his aching back, and he leaned back, letting the effervescence wash over him while he slowly drained the bottle.
He was more than a little buzzed- hell, he was pretty much raging drunk- when he finally sprawled across the still-made bed in the room. The TV was flipped on, the advertised HBO playing something he didn't recognize, but there were naked boobs and asses, and he thought maybe he could at least give himself a birthday orgasm.
Frustrated and tired, the half-hearted stroking led nowhere, and Dean realized he was just too damn drunk to seal the deal.
He shut off the TV and tossed the remote on the nightstand, then yanked the coverlet down and burrowed under the sheets. He itched absently at the mark on his arm, staring at the ceiling and wondering if he was too drunk to sleep, wishing he'd just fucking pass out already.
Goddamn, but he hated being alone.
He sniffled, fighting back the burn in his eyes. He was not going to cry, dammit. No fucking way.
His phone buzzed, and he fumbled on the night stand for it, blinking at the harsh light in the dark room.
So we totally used a spell, and I'm not sure if this will get to you and you definitely won't be able to text back, but I love you. Happy Birthday from me and Dorothy.
He bit his bottom lip, tears burning his eyes.
She was ok. Charlie was ok.
Dean set the phone back down, still fighting tears. The phone buzzed again.
I'm not mad at you. Not anymore. Shit happens, god knows I've made enough mistakes. I miss you. I wish you'd come home. Happy Birthday, big bro.
Ok, forget holding it back. The tears rolled freely, dripping down his cheeks and into the pillow.
The phone buzzed once more, and he picked it up again, vision blurred as he read the latest text.
Happy Birthday. I miss you. I wish you'd come home. I love you. I hope you understand what that means.
It buzzed again.
I love you, Dean Winchester. Come home.
He texted back one word, just one simple response.
Ok.