Thirty years. It had been nearly thirty years since his dad had pushed an infant Sam into his arms and told him to run. Nearly thirty years since the fire that ate up their house,their life, his mom. It felt impossible that so many years could have gone by, but at the same time it was as if he'd been carrying the weight around much longer than that.
When they were growing up, November 2 passed in one of two ways. Their dad wouldn't take any cases and spent the day pretending like it wasn't happening. He overcompensated - did things he would've never done otherwise. He would take them to see a movie, maybe show up at the hotel with a couple of toys they were too old for and it hadn't occurred to him. The "overcompensation" days didn't happen much and had been limited completely to when Sammy was younger, the years before he knew what went bump in the night.
The second way November 2 would pass, the more likely and frequent option, was that their dad would (again) not take any cases. Rather than try to take everyone's mind off what the day meant, though, he would hit the nearest liquor store for the two cheapest bottles of whiskey or scotch they had on the shelves and drink himself as close to oblivion as he could manage. Sam and Dean barely existed on those days, except for when John would see them and look even more sad than he had before. Dean always made sure they didn't stick around long on those days, if he could help it. He would get Sam outside before he could ask too many questions.
"Why's Daddy so sad today? What's wrong with today?" Sam had been five the first time he came out with that one. He'd asked while Dean was trying to get him to play a game of jacks in the parking lot beside the Impala. " 'Cause it's a bad day, Sammy. It's your go." "But why's it bad?" "It just is, okay? Stop asking or you lose. New rule."
Of course, Sam had figured it out eventually. He was in school, maybe first grade, with Dean a few years ahead of him. Neither of them went to class that day. It was an overcompensation day. They had ice-cream for breakfast. Dean gave Sam his bowl, too, because it just didn't feel like an ice-cream day.
"It's because Mom died. That's why today is bad, right?" Dean looked up from the television when he said it and his forehead creased in a way that a child's shouldn't. "Shut up, Sam." "Is that why Dad is sad today every year?" "I said shut up, Sam. Just eat your stupid ice-cream and shut up." He got out of the chair and went for the door, nearly plowing over John outside as he stormed out. He'd been standing on the other side of the motel door, his face in his hands like he was trying to brace himself before going into the same room as his boys. Dean blew past him before he could be told not to.
Sam didn't ask "why" anymore, after that. He didn't need to. He already had the answer.
After his brother took off for Stanford, Dean spent November 2 alone for the first time. The 'no case' rule seemed to be broken. His dad went one way and he took the other direction. They both opted for the two-cheapest-bottles method, on opposite ends of the country. Dean drank himself sick enough to not remember what day it was. It was hard to think too much about fire when he was hugging a toilet seat.
Every year since he and Sam started hunting together again, the day had gone pretty much the same way. They would buy a case of beer and a cheap deck of cards if they'd lost theirs or left it in the last town, and play a few rounds of laughably low-stakes poker. "We could just talk about it. It might be good if you just...you know." Sam would start in with the same tired dialogue every year. "What? Sit around all day thinking about it? Do you want the damn details? No-fuckin-thanks." "No, I just-" "Shut up, Sam. It's your go."