Summary: Snippets of the boys' birthdays through the years.
Spoilers: Faith, John's Journal (Kate is John's sister-in-law, and, if memory serves, they stayed with them for a couple of months after Mary died. Also, Dean didn't speak for a while after).
Disclaimer: I own almost half of my car. I own exactly none of this.
Thank you, Faye and Kaly, for the incredibly speedy beta (no pressure, no pressure) and for the constant chant of "Post!"
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And Many MoreDean turns five in silence.
They want to have a party, Mike and Kate, think it might bring him out of his shell. If John could muster a laugh at anything right now, that would be it. His shell. As if Dean was just going through some childish phase of shyness.
He disappears that morning after breakfast. They find him – long enough after to have really started to panic – in Sam's room, his brother clutched to his chest, toes that barely reach the floor pushing them back and forth on the old glider.
Sam coos up at him, baby eyes fixed on his, tiny fingers painting Dean's cheek.
Dean is trance-like, almost asleep, whispering over and over.
John creeps closer, not wanting to startle either boy. He sinks to his knees, gut-punched, as the words become clear.
" . . . protect you, Sammy. Nothing's going to happen to you. I'll take care of you. You're safe . . ."
He feels hollow still, like his heart's been carved out of him. Every breath tastes of ash.
He scoops Dean up as Dean holds his brother. He cradles both, his words matching his son's.
. . . protect you, boys. Nothing's going to happen to you. I'll take care of you. You're safe . . .
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For Sam's sixth birthday, there's ice cream and cake.
It's warm enough to swim, and they wear a path over rough concrete, back and forth from the room to the pool. By the end of the day, they're tired and sun-baked and a little green from too much sugar.
Dad piles them in the car, drives out to where the streetlights can't find them. They lay on the hood as the engine cools, curled against him, one on either side. He wraps his arms around them, holds them close like he rarely does anymore.
He points out constellations, satellites, shooting stars.
As the evening ages, they cuddle closer, eyes drooping in sleep-warm haze. His voice drops as he tells them about the first girl he fell in love with. How her hair was soft as a corn tassel and her eyes as bright as two fireflies. How she had a laugh that sounded like an angel's and how she loved them more than they would ever know.
They fall asleep to the gentle rocking of muffled sobs.
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On Dean's 12th birthday, he gets his own gun. The same Ruger P-85 he's been practicing with for months, but it's his now.
Dad takes him to a real shooting range – just the two of them.
He feels the weight of molded steel in his hand, sites down the barrel and squeezes.
Ten shots, center mass. Again and again and again.
He feels invincible.
He and Dad don't talk as they field strip and clean after, the movements so ingrained he could do them blindfolded. He puts the gun back in the case, his father's nestled beside it.
"Take care of your weapon, Dean, and it'll take care of you."
He nods like it's the most important thing he's ever heard, committing the words to memory. Dad claps him on the shoulder as they walk, side-by-side, back to the car.
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They spend Sam's 10th birthday in the hospital.
He's groggy from painkillers and he's more gauze than skin. The nurses keep giving them sympathetic looks, but all Dean can be is grateful when Sam sinks back into unconsciousness so he doesn't have to answer Sam's pained, "But we can still go to the circus, right?"
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Dean turns 15 in Michigan.
It's cold out – almost a blizzard. They're hunting a wendigo. Or so they think.
Sam is at Jim's, upset at being left behind. Dad says, "too dangerous," but Dean says, "you help, too." He shows him Jim's library, a wealth of faux leather and dust and the smell of old parchment.
"Demon lore," he points, watching Sam's eyes grow large. "Exorcisms. Binding spells. Hauntings. Witchcraft."
The book he's buried in when they leave is bigger than he is. Sam barely looks up to say goodbye.
In the end, it's a ghoul. Hard to track, a little harder to kill. There's a real sense of victory when they're on the road again.
There's praise in Dad's posture, the way he asks Dean's opinion and settles his arm over the back of the seat like they're just out to see the sights. He lets him drive, even though it's snowing, mutters corrections with one eye on the journal. The sense of trust that conveys means more to Dean than the feel of the wheel under his hand.
When they get back, Sam is anxious but filled with new knowledge.
Dean lets him chatter on, throws an arm around his shoulders and says, "We couldn't have done it without you."
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Sam's 14th birthday is forgotten.
They've been on the trail of a werewolf for over a week, and Dad's surly temper and Sam's growing rebelliousness butt against each other with a ferocity that grows daily.
Dean walks in on the tail end of a confrontation that ends with " . . . and as long as you're under my roof, you will do as I say, do you understand me?"
The "yes, sir" is missing, but Dad keeps going anyway. "Any time you want to try it on your own, there's the door."
It's less symbolic and much too literal when Sam shoves the screen door open, slapping it angrily against the siding. Sam's breathing so hard he doesn't even see him until Dean grabs his arm. Rather than the rage he expected, Sam's face is twisted with such hurt and confusion it takes Dean's breath away.
"Come on, come on," he says, tugging.
Sam follows almost blindly. Dean doesn't let go.
They stumble toward the open field that adjoins the motel parking lot. It's weed-strewn, uneven, littered with beer bottles and garbage. He finds a clean patch halfway in, pushes Sam down, sits beside him. Sam draws one long, shaky breath and rolls back, stretching out on the rough grass.
Dean rolls back, too.
They don't look at each other.
Everything is magnified. The stars wink on and the cicadas buzz relentlessly. He thinks Sam is crying, tiny gasping breaths that make him sound like he's choking.
A bat swoops overhead. Dots of plane lights fly past quickly, high above.
"He doesn't mean it like that, Sam. He's just – "
"Please, don't. Just . . . don't. Not now, okay?"
Dean nods, even though Sam still isn't looking at him.
The choking sounds fade. Somehow, the stillness is worse.
When Sam finally speaks, his whisper pierces like a scream. "One of these days, I'm going to do it – just keep walking. This isn't how it's supposed to –"
It's Dean who wants to scream then, hearing resignation, conviction, where there should only be rash predictions and idle threats.
He knows Sam is telling the truth.
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Dean turns 19 at a bar in Ganonoque. He's had a fake ID for years, so the whole "legal in Canada" thing doesn't mean much.
There are two hundred fresh-earned dollars in his pocket (Canadian, too, but what the hell?). There's a girl on his arm who giggles and touches him every time he talks. She smells like honeysuckle and menthols.
The Impala's in the lot with his name on the title, his Dad's "Happy Birthday, son" still ringing in his ears. He feels the imprint of the keys in his pocket, attached to a bright pink and gold key chain that says, "Princess." His gift from Sam, the little shit.
The beer is cold and the music is loud and he's buzzed just enough to feel bemused by it all.
This is his life. His family and the road and the hunt, and it's good. It works.
Dad's had a few too many, and it'll take some effort to get him home. Sam will be waiting up, the way he always does, even though he pretends he doesn't. He'll pull that face, the one Dean hates, when he sees Dad's drunk again. But he'll sit on the couch with him once Dad's in bed, listening to Dean spin yarns about the evening, watching hockey highlights, looking at him every now and then like he's the coolest person in the universe.
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Sam's 18th birthday is a solitary thing. And it's not a celebration.
He reaches the Greyhound station before dawn, waiting on a bus to Palo Alto. He's got a knapsack over his shoulder – clothes and his acceptance letter and a few weapons his Dad might have been proud to see under other circumstances.
He can still picture Dean's face – closed off, shuttered – and he wonders if there will ever be a day it doesn't hurt.
It's Dad's voice he hears, though, telling him to go, telling him to never come back.
It overlaps with a memory. Any time you want to try it on your own, there's the door.
In the end, he thinks, there was no other choice.
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They spend Dean's 24th birthday in the hospital. But it's just the two of them, now.
He's not aware of it – not aware of much, really – until Dad leans over his bed. Dean's eyes aren't open yet, but he feels a shaking hand touch his forehead, push gently through his hair. "Come on, Dean. You've got to wake up. Can't miss your birthday."
When he finally manages to blink, Dad's face is above him, almost gray, his eyes bright with tears. Even so, the first thing Dean wants to ask is where Sam is.
Instead, he says, "Can't get rid of me that easy," and they laugh as only they can in the face of almost-was.
He knows Dad didn't call Sam, knows he wouldn't have, either. But there's a comfort he doesn't expect when he sees a missed call on his cell with a 650 area code. There's no name, no message, and he won't call back.
But when he closes his eyes, he can see Sam's smile.
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Sam doesn't get presents for his birthday anymore.
Except, this year, he does. A little late, maybe, but he's pretty sure it counts.
Dean's alive.
It's a small thing, really. Six billion other people in the world are alive. No big deal.
But he doubts more than one of them nearly died of electrocution, facing a creature most people have never even heard of while he tried to protect a pair of kids and his brother.
He doubts even more that anyone else is still alive because they were traded, one life for another, the choice on the lips of a woman with bloodstains on her soul.
Dean rolls over in his sleep, something he never used to do. Sam's not the only one with nightmares anymore.
He knows Dean's confused, grieving, angry – even a little bit with Sam. But he doesn't care.
. . . protect you, Dean. Nothing's going to happen to you. I'll take care of you. You're safe . . .
He sits in the dark, watches Dean's chest rise and fall, counts every breath as a miracle.
It's the best present he's ever had.
Fin