Disclaimer: Kripke is the boss man around these parts.
A/N: Witer's block sucks. Dean Winchester does not. Dean's PoV, set throughout the series, no solid spoilers. Also, I am unspoiled about anything pertaining to season four and would love to keep it that way. Read, enjoy, let me know what you think.
-
iv
What Dean remembers best is the cake (the giant number four that burned in the middle, because what child is not mesmerized by the flickering orange glow that is forever kept away).
He remembers the crowd of people, the constant hum of conversations and pick-up hugs and lipstick wet kisses pressed into his face. A chorus of happy birthdays from a sea of faces, most of which will never seen again. He remembers Dad, strong and sturdy, lifting him up onto the table while Mom told him to make a wish.
He never remembers what he wishes for, just the sweet-soft melt of frosting in his mouth.
v
Sammy is crying. Aunt Lydia asks him what he wants for dinner, says he can have anything for dinner, even ice cream if that's what he wants, but Dean doesn't say anything. Sammy keeps crying, wailing where he rests pinned against Aunt Lydia's waist, and Dean thinks maybe she's holding him too tight.
Dad's out again, and it's already dark outside, and all Dean wants to do is go upstairs to the room they all share and sleep. He doesn't want today to be his birthday anymore, not when Dad isn't back and Mommy's not around and Sammy's crying like he understands the pressure that stings in the back of Dean's eyes. He shakes his head, no, backs away from his aunt and his brother. No thank you, Mommy said, no thank you is the polite thing to say, but Dean hasn't said anything in a long while, so he doesn't think it matters.
xvii
Sam pulls a muffin out of one of the bags he just walked in with. "Happy birthday, jerkface." He punches Dean in the arm and hands him a cup of coffee, leaves the muffin on the nightstand within easy reach. There's an uneasy moment of confusion—Dad wasn't really the "happy birthday" type, just a pat on the back and the unspoken right to pick where they ate chow. In the face of that knowledge, it's hapless, the part of him that flares up at the thought that Dad might call today—but Sam doesn't push any kind of conversation, so Dean figures they're alright.
The muffin's some kind of banana and taste pretty good considering someone basically just put baby food in cake mix. Sam keeps himself busy with his coffee, walks around the room pulling together some of the files they've got together for their next job. Another restless spirit that's acting a pain in the ass to the living.
"So, you wanna do anything today?" Sam asks, causally, a verbal shrug of the shoulder, and Dean pauses mid-munch to look at him. The kid's still not sleeping right, still looks too skinny underneath the million and nine shirts he's wearing today, but he's keeping his face carefully clear, like it's really enough.
And Dean wants to stay a lot of things. Wants to say thank you and it's going to be okay, man, really, and maybe even, forget this, let's just take it easy for a while, visit the next biggest ball of string, but he doesn't say any of that.
"Let's hit the road, princess."
xxix
Sam orders an entire pie with the tight sort of smile he gets when he's doing something he thinks is stupid.
The waitress' eyes fly back and forth between them, like she's not sure she heard him right, but when Sam doesn't correct her, she walks away. She brings back the entire pie, blueberry, because that's what Dean always orders when they're in this part of the country.
She goes away with a passive 'enjoy' and Dean just stares at the baked good in the middle of the table.
"Am I supposed to eat that alone?"
"Never had any trouble before." Sam smiles again and it still too tight at the corners, like he's forcing himself to go through the motions, and Dean doesn't really have a comeback to that.
He cuts a huge slice with the edge of his fork, spoons it onto a plate, passes it off to Sam. "I'm not the only one who's going to have to run the extra mile tomorrow." Dean says with a grin and Sam turns his face down, hair falling down into his face like he has since he was four (he was always the one to put up a fight when Dad brought out the scissors, even before his teenage rebellion set it).
"Dean," it's small and injured. Their Christmas fight all over again.
"Don't, man," Dean says, playing with the fork, too much nervous energy duking it out with the coil of apprehension that's always in his stomach these days. "Not today."
"It's just." And Sam's eyes are too bright when finally looks up, and Dean hopes like Hell that his brother doesn't start crying, not right now, in this middle-of-bumfuck diner. Because really, Dean's the one who should be having the breakdown, not Sam, what with it being his ass riding the South Polar Express into Hell Town.
"Dude, just, don't. Eat your pie. Let me enjoy mine. And just," he stabs his fork into the pie plate, digs out crust and filling and shoves it in his mouth even though he's not really hungry. The sweetness cuts through the sour taste that has been building in his mouth and he forces it down, hashes out a smile for Sam and gestures for him to pick up his own fork. "We can worry tomorrow."
Sam, for once, does what he's told, picks up his fork and takes a bite. Dean lets himself relax, if only a fraction. 'Well', he thinks, eating another mouthful, eyes still glued to Sam, 'at least I know I'm not going to die from diabetes'.
xxx
He turns thirty half way to China. Well, not really, but it feels like he's dug as far, what with the earth frozen solid and Sam's too dazed and confused to be much of a help with a shovel.
"How's the arm?" he hazards to ask, and Sam gives him a loopy thumbs up with his good hand. The one he didn't land on when the stupid spirit sent him down the stairs. Dean gives the ground another hard stab, presses in deeper with the plane of his foot, and throws out another shovel-load of dirt. His arms hurt and his lungs burn and it's an odd sensation of getting reacquainted with the motions, feeling bone tired and sore to the core of him. But it's feeling, natural and familiar, and there's nothing to take for granted about it, not after the endlessness of Death, the dark stillness that still saturates his nightmares.
He finally strikes something other than dirt, and there's the ever-gratifying thud and splintering of wood. And it's like a victory, kicking it in enough to reveal the calcified remains of their current bad guy. Sam shines the light in an unsteady beam and Dean hefts himself up and out of the grave, not trusting Sam with anything combustible right at this moment.
The gasoline burns his nostrils but he breathes in deep anyway as Sam throw in salt one-handed. The match cracks to life in his fingers, then it's all snaps, crackles and pops as the grave explodes into light. There's a moment of silence, and Dean feels the warmth of the fire sink into him, feels his fingertips regain sensations other than prickling cold.
Sam starts laughing as Dean starts picking up the materials and Dean stops long enough to consider moving his brother a safe distance away from the gaping hole in the ground they set just recently set aflame. "Dean, hey Dean," Sam snickers in between laughs—the loud belly-sort of laughter that Dean hasn't heard since before, the sort that might seriously attract attention, or y'know, wake the dead—"Hey, Dean, Dean, Dean." Sam's always chatty when he's high on pain killers, enough to make drugs look inviting, and Dean's not so tired he can't still laugh his ass off at his brother in his current state.
"What Sam?" Dean finally manages, the cold resettling now that he's begun to step away, duffle restocked and shovel over his shoulder.
Sam cracks another laugh, and gestures towards the fire. "Make a wish."
-
The End
-
Feedback is Love