"Dean?" four-year-old Sam asked as he chucked his dart at the board hanging a couple yards away. It landed on the outer black rim of the target. "Where did Dad go? Why does he leave?"
There it was. Dean knew it was coming; it always did. Every time Dad went somewhere, every time he said "hold down the fort, boy" and disappeared. And then Sammy would ask. And Dean would just say, "He's gotta work, dude. It's his job to work, and it's my job to look out for you. Your job is to shut up about it until Dad gets back."
With a huff, Sam threw another dart, but this time, it thudded dully in the small green ring around the bulls-eye. "He said he'd be here!" The last dart in his hand dropped to the floor as his hand uncurled around it. "He promised."
"It's okay, Sammy," Dean said for what felt like the hundredth time. And maybe it was. "He's just runnin' late or something, but he'll be back."
Their dad had said he'd be back in three days. It had already been four. Dean wasn't surprised; Dad was back late a lot from hunts. But Sam was getting older and Dean was running out of good excuses.
Dean's thoughts were cut short by Sam shouting, "I hate him!" Sam picked up the dart he'd dropped and threw it wildly at the wall. It thudded into the ugly motel wallpaper before falling down into the carpet, far from the target. With a sniff, Sam sat on the floor and hugged his knees.
Seeing the little tear tracks rolling down Sam's face tore at something inside Dean. He bit his lip and sat down next to his little brother, wrapping one arm around Sam's tiny shoulders. "He's family, Sammy. Uncle Bobby said family's supposed to piss you off."
Sam looked up at Dean, his face still crusted with tears. "But they don't miss birthdays."
Those words hit Dean like a punch in the mouth. He had tried to convince himself that he'd forgotten about it, that it didn't matter. But he remembered, and so did Sammy. It was hard not to think about whether Dad remembered what day it was.
Angrily, Dean snapped, "Shut up and go to bed, Sammy. We got school tomorrow."
Sam glared but stomped off to the bed on the left, the one he always took. Soon, his breathing softened and slowed, and Dean knew he was alone with his thoughts. And he didn't want to be. If he said he didn't feel the way Sammy did — just a little bit — he'd be lying, but for the past five years, he didn't get to have things like soccer practice or playgrounds or sleepovers in the backyard.
Or birthdays.
A sniffle snuck out of Dean, and he buried himself beneath the stale duvet. He was too old to cry, damn it! He didn't get to cry because he was doing what he was meant to do. Sam was fed and in bed before nine. The doors were locked and Dean's gun was under his pillow. They even had a few more bucks left over before they would need any more, but hopefully Dad would get home before then. It wasn't so bad. Sammy shouldn't bitch when things were going this good.
No. Birthdays were for kids like Sam. Dean wasn't a kid anymore. I'm not a kid anymore chanted over and over in his head as he drifted off to sleep.
Dean jolted awake as he felt someone tugging on his arm. His hand dove beneath the pillow for his pistol before the fog of sleep cleared. It was just Sam.
"Dean! Dean, wake up!"
Grumbling as he shoved his little brother's hand away from him, Dean pulled back the covers and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was quarter to midnight. Looking around, he didn't see Dad or invaders or fire or any of the things Sammy knew to wake him up for. It was quiet.
"What the hell, Sammy? We gotta get up at seven."
Sam bit his lip and looked away before he pulled his free hand from behind his back, and the complaints on the tip of Dean's tongue died right then. It was a little McDonald's apple pie turnover — Sammy probably got it while Dean wasn't watching at the restaurant attached to the Gas 'n' Sip earlier — with nine wooden matches sticking out of it.
"I, um, didn't have candles or anything, but happy birthday, Dean."
Blinking, Dean took the offered pie from Sam as if it were made of spun glass. Sam climbed up on the bed beside him and hugged Dean's arm with a yawn. "I'll never forget your birthday."
Tears sprang up in Dean's eyes, but he didn't even move to wipe them away. "Thanks, Sammy."
"Dean, I'm back!"
From the shower, Dean heard Sam call his name. "Hold your damn horses!" he shouted back as he turned off the water. A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom in shorts and a t-shirt. Sam held up a twelve pack of El Sol and a bag from McDonald's.
Dean sighed. "If you forgot the bacon again, Sammy, I swear to God I'm gonna kick your ass."
Sam smirked. "Then take a swing right now, dude, because there ain't a single cheeseburger in this bag." With a grin, he dumped the content of the McDonald's bag onto Dean's bed, and out tumbled at least a dozen apple turnovers. As Dean stared at the pile of pie, Sam dug into his jacket pocket and produced a small box of candles and a lighter.
A snort escaped Dean as he watched Sam cram the whole pack of candles into a pie and light it. His smile broadening as he held it out, Sam said, "Happy birthday, Dean."
It took more effort than it should've for Dean to blow out the candles, but Dean was still reeling that it was actually his birthday. He hadn't even thought about it or remembered the date, but he should've. It was going to be his last, after all, before he went to Hell.
Suddenly, Dean couldn't think of anything he'd rather do than plow through that ungodly pile of fat and calories with Sam. In one swift motion, he crushed Sam to his chest and held him tightly. "Thanks, Sammy," he gasped.