A quick something for y'all to enjoy. This is going to be a story of sorts. It more of a compilation of one-shots that all have to do with the same thing. Technically, they all take place inside a year, but I'm way to lazy/excited to publish these over a year on the corresponding dates.
The basic plot is that Dean missed Sam's birthday as a demon, and to make it up to him, begins planning an entire year of gifts, one for each month, to show Sam how much he loves him in his own way. The only thing I own is the plot; the characters and show are all Kripke's.
Takes place season 10, but I took a lot of liberties timeline wise. Enjoy!
It was late May when Dean realized exactly what day it was. He remembered the day- or rather, the date- Metatron killed him: April 30th. He was gone for three weeks as a demon. A few days after waking up it hit him. It was May 28th. But more importantly, it was May when it had been April. And it was late May. And that means that Dean missed his baby brother's birthday. And not just missed it, but actively walked out on Sam's birthday. If he died late April 30th, then Sam must have gotten him home early May 1st. And after factoring in a day of grief, and then summoning Crowley, then discovering his older brother's disappearance, Dean could guess that Sam had spent his 31st birthday in a fruitless, frantic, panicked search for his demon brother.
And if that didn't make Dean's day just spectacular. Ever since Sam was a baby, Dean had made a point to spend the kid's birthday with him, especially since more often than not Dad was passed out drunk, off on a hunt or banging some dame from the bar of the week. Even when the Sam was at Stanford, Dean swung by with a card and small gift, as well as cash if he could swing it. In fact, Dean was pretty proud that in his baby brother's 31 years of life, he had been big brotherless on his birthday only twice. Well, thrice, now.
As soon as Dean realized the date, he began making plans to make it up to his brother. But how could one possibly go about trying to make it up to their saintly, selfless baby brother, who's life you ruined arguably as far back as Stanford? The more he thought about it, the more Dean realized that he had a lot- a lot- to make up to Sam. One "heya-Sammy-sorry-I-got-killed-and-turned-into-a-demon-then-ditched-your-ass-for-Crowley's-by-proxy-missing-your-birthday-we-good-now" present wasn't going to swing it. Not this time. Not with how bad Dean feels; how badly he wants to get them back on track for the first time since Metaron, Leviathans, friggin' Satan and Ruby. Since Sammy, let me go and No, Dean, I wouldn't. Same circumstances, I wouldn't. No, this apology, this gratitude, called for something much grander. It would call for lots of little demonstrations of love, Sammy always responded better to constant affirmation than one slap on the back forget about it praising. With resignation, Dean accepted the inevitability of a chick flick moment to beat 'em all at the end, but he thought this time he may not mind as much.
So Dean began scheming. Within 24 hours, the plan was in motion.
It was June 2 and the Winchesters were pulling into the bunker's garage at 10:47 AM, a lot more tired and dirty than they had left it at 6:30 the previous morning. The pair had found a hunt 9 hours out in a marshy part of east Texas by Louisiana. A vengeful spirit was kidnapping people from the outskirts of the marsh and then drowning them in the mud. Eager for an outing, Dean had convinced Sam that the hunt would be simple and routine, nothing to provoke the Mark. Sam, secretly going stir crazy himself, agreed. However, as they unfolded themselves from the Impala, Sam was cursing his brother's manipulative name. As they were digging up the remains, the ghost appeared suddenly and snatched Sam, throwing him into the marsh. A steady, strong pressure stopped him from rising, and slowly the mud began over taking him. In a panic, he called desperately for his older brother, swallowing a mouthful of gross muck. Soon after, there was a muffled scream (his ears were clogged) and the pressure lifted from his chest. Almost immediately, Dean was there, lifting Sam from the mud with a loud squelch, and a breathlessly relieved quip about playing in the mud. Too exhausted to snark back, Sam allowed Dean to help him rinse his face and hair, but when Dean suggested finding a motel, Sam protested. "Dean, it's one in the morning. We're muddy, and tired, and only 9 hours from the bunker. If we just leave now, we'll be back by 10ish and we can shower and sleep in our own beds. Please?" Now, though, Sam wished he could go back in time and shoot himself for suggesting that course of action. The brothers trudged up the stairs to their rooms and showers. Dean mumbled something about sleeping for a week as he passed his brother and Sam agreed wholeheartedly. They separated in the hallway and as Sam entered his room to snatch a fresh set of clothes, he paused, shocked at what awaited him on his bed.
Propped up against his pillow were two large bottles- one of shampoo and the other of conditioner. Sam blinked.
They were still there.
Sam approached his bed cautiously, and picked up one of the bottles. It was… nice. And by nice, he meant expensive. It was a name brand, something he almost never bought for himself because of the price and the teasing he would have to endure from his brother. It was also scented- another thing he typically avoided due to teasing. (The bottle said coconut and kiwi. Sam took an experimental whiff and sighed with pleasure.) And finally, the kicker, came the label. Underneath the fancy brand name title, next to the fruit displaying the scent, in bold lettering were the words FOR THICK, DRY HAIR. Sam's hand came up involuntarily to touch his own hair, which, sure enough, was both thick and dry. Sam stared at the bottle for another moment then glanced at the other one. His eyebrows raised even more to discover that they were a matching set.
Suddenly spotting a folded note next to the bottle on the bed, Sam picked up the paper and read it.
Sammy- Now don't go getting all emotional on me, little brother. This is purely selfish. See, when I suggested this hunt, I knew that either one or both of us would be getting dirty. (I'm not totally stupid, Sam.) And given our track record, I knew that it would probably be you. (Don't give me that face, Sam. It's a known fact that you're slower than me.) So to spare me having to hear all about how horrible I am for dragging you out of your precious library and getting your perfect hair all dirty, I took the liberty of buying you some of the good stuff to tide over any complaints.
A ground rule, Sammy- it's for bad days and dirty hunts only. If you treat it like every day shampoo, then on days when you really need that pick-me-up salon job, it won't be as special. So use it, don't abuse it. That girly-ass stuff is expensive. (And NO. I didn't Nair your stupid, girly hair care stuff, Sam. We're better than that now, bitch.) -Dean
Sam smiled fondly at the note and his brother before gathering his things and eagerly getting in under the hot spray. 20 minutes later, Sam finally exited, hair clean and soft. Sam smiled as he dried his hair to slightly damp and padded down the hall to his brother's room. Opening the door, fully intending to thank his brother, Sam stopped. Dean lay passed out on his soft bed, in sweatpants and shirtless, snoring gently. Sam grinned fondly at his big brother and turned off the lights before exiting the room quietly.
The next morning, when Sam came downstairs, it was to find a boisterous older brother happily mixing up omelets in the kitchen. When Sam sat at the table, Dean turned around to set a coffee in front of him. Taking his order for omelets, Dean ruffled Sam's hair before returning his attention to the stove. As his brother's fingers slid easily through soft, healthy hair, Sam was reminded of the present. Clearing his throat, Sam said, "Dean?" When his brother turned around expectantly, Sam put on his most sincere expression. "Thanks." Dean rolled his eyes and turned away, changing the subject, but Sam caught the bright smile Dean tried to hide. He hid his own behind his mug as Dean returned to the table toting two omelets. He listened contentedly to his brother- alive, human, and HERE- ramble on about his cooking prowess and thought to himself, Best present ever.
