Ten bottles of beer on the wall

Summary: It's Sam's sixteenth birthday, and Dean's got a decision to make.

AN: Shannanigans: Not quite what you were expecting, maybe, but here's the story you prompted.

Best Birthday Ever, Maybe

Dean's staring is starting to creep little brother out. He can tell; the small wrinkle between the dark brows barely discernible under the wavy brown bangs, the nervous tip-tapping of the slender fingers on worn-out jeans getting too short for the freakishly long legs, the frequent glances at him out of the side of his eyes, the beginnings of the bitch-face…

And finally, there it is: "Dean! Stop that!"

"Stop what?" Dean parries with his eyes wide open in a too-innocent-to-be-innocent expression.

"Stop staring at me," Sam growls. "Why are you staring at me? It's annoying."

Dean rolls his eyes. "'Cause you're ugly, that's why."

Sam sighs exasperatedly. "Then why are you staring at me? You wouldn't want to stare at me if I was ugly. And I'm not ugly!" he adds for good measure.

"Yeah, sure you're not," Dean smirks.

Sam huffs. "I'm not. Watch the movie." He turns back to the TV in an attempt to set an example.

"Dude, movie's almost over." Dean stretches, his heels scraping against the worn carpet.

"It's still my birthday," Sam replies harshly, still staring hard at the screen, on which the spirits of Obi-Wan, Yoda, and Anakin Skywalker smile proudly at Luke. "I wanna watch the movie."

Dean snorts. "Okay, yeah, let's watch the rest of the two minutes left of Episode VI, shall we?"

Sneaking another look at the scowling features of the newly sixteen-year-old, Dean thinks that maybe he'd better put off that plan for next year, huh? Sam's obviously not mature enough for—

"Sorry, Dean." The mumbled apology comes as a surprise. "I just wish Dad was here."

Dean sighs, leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, me too. But you know—"

"—he has to work?" Sam cuts in. "I know. I just want a normal birthday for once."

Dean's gotta frown at that. "Dad tries, you know. He does."

"Does he?" Sam looks up at him through his bangs. "Sometimes, it doesn't seem like it. He misses Christmases, Thanksgivings, Father's Days, birthdays…"

"Sam," Dean's lips are in a tight line. He's trying not to blow up at his brother, but sometimes, he just pushes it, ya know? "Sam, he does try. Little things that you don't see, or don't wanna see, he does 'em. Alright? So chill."

Sam's too busy glaring holes into the rolling credits on the screen to answer. "Why were you staring at me earlier?"

Changing the topic, huh? Dean can deal with that. That's a 'Dean' tactic, that one. Sam doesn't want to fight on his birthday either.

Dean purses his lips. "I was thinking about something."

Sam's lips twitch. "You were thinking? I didn't know that was possible. Hope you didn't strain anything."

Dean slaps his palm into Sam's gut. "Very funny, birthday boy. I was thinking about giving you a haircut." He flicks a finger at the chestnut waves spilling down over his brother's ears. "It's too long. Someone might think you're a girl; a really ugly, really tall girl."

Sam tries to pull his bitch-face, but the laughter shows in his eyes. "You suck. And stay away from my hair." He squirms away from the finger poking his side. "Dean, stop tickling me! I'm sixteen. Sixteen, dude."

Dean dodges the hands batting at him and sneaks another tickle at an exposed expanse of skin. "Uh-huh. That squeaking you got going on is real convincing, man."

"Deeeeeaaaannnnnnn!"

Giggles taper off into full-blown laughter as the tickling turns into a full-blown brotherly wrestling match that has them rolling across the room, bumping into the rickety furniture and flaking chunks of drywall off of the walls. Finally, tired out from the brief tussle, they plop down on the couch, panting.

Sam flops his head over to look at his brother, who's gazing at him with that odd expression again. "What?"

Dean suddenly stands up. "Hey Sammy. Ya wanna go to a bar? You're driving." Then he tosses the keys over. The keys to the Impala. The car Dad had given to Dean on his eighteenth birthday.

Sam catches them mostly by reflex. His mouth's hanging open, and his eyes are glazed over.

Dean waves a hand in front of him. "Sam, you still in there?"

Sam blinks. "Yeah, yeah. Dean." He stares at his brother. "You're letting me drive? The Impala?"

Dean nods, putting Dad's old leather jacket on; it's now his, as of his fifteenth birthday. "Yep."

"And we're going to a bar." Sam's still on the couch, staring up at his brother.

"Yep."

"To drink alcohol? Both of us?" Sam's still having trouble wrapping his genius mind around the idea.

"Yep." Dean turns around at the door. "You coming or what? And here, pop one of these—don't want to be in the car with you and your pizza-breath." He tosses a clear plastic box of Tic-Tacs at Sam.

"You have pizza-breath," Sam retorts, still on auto-pilot. He's driving the Impala, and Dean's taking him to a bar. Best. Birthday. Ever.

"The tablesh underwaddah, Dee. We're underwaddah. You think we're mermaids, Dee? We can breathe underwaddah. Maybe we're mermaids. I wondah if we haff gills. Fish haff gills. Maybe mermaids haff gills, so dey can breathe underwaddah."

Dean catches his brother as he tips over. He chuckles. "Dude, I think you've had one beer too many, which is saying something, since you've only had two." He slings the long arm over his shoulder. "I think you might be a mermaid, Sammy, but no way you're calling me a fish-chick."

Sam's eyes are at half-mast; he's too drunk to reply. He stumbles and his legs momentarily get tangled with Dean's, until the older brother gets them all sorted out. "Yeah, I think you might need to hurry up and get those sea-legs, fast. Whaddaya think, Sammy?" Dean props Sam up against the car while he unlocks the door.

"Fishy," Sam says to the Impala's side mirror.

"That's nice." Dean opens the door and gently maneuvers his brother in. "Watch your head."

"Head's underwaddah," Sam mumbles, curling up against the window.

Dean chuckles and starts the car. "I need a video camera. Times like this…I need to get one of those."

"I hate you, Dean." The words are heaved into the toilet bowl, along with the contents of Sam's stomach, or what's left in it. Sam spits into the vomity water. "I hate you."

Dean leans against the doorway, disgustingly hangover-free. "Ya gotta learn to hold your liquor, Sammy. Ya gotta be a man!" Then he chuckles that annoyingly chipper chuckle.

Sam hates this birthday. Worst birthday ever. He gags again and groans. "Oh God, kill me now." His head's pounding, the slightest light burns his eyes, and his intestines are threatening to come out of his mouth. He groans again for good measure. "Kill me."

Then there's a warm hand on his back, rubbing circles. Ohhhhh, that feels gooooooood. He whimpers into the stained toilet seat. Dean, head hurts. Fix now.

"Okay, kiddo. Drink this." Something cold hits his hand and he looks up with bleary eyes to see that it's a glass of water. "Mmgh." Gentle hands help him guide the glass to his lips and wipe away the water that dribbles out messily. "Thanks, Dean."

"Here." Now, there are pills being pushed into his mouth. The glass comes up again. "Swallow." Sam does.

"Okay? Done puking? Good. Now let's get ya back into bed until those aspirin kick in." Then he's being guided off of the floor and half-carried into the darkened motel room. The bed feels nice, so he snuggles down into the warm sheets and wraps his arms around his pillow to anchor himself in the roiling sea of the hangover.

The bed dips a little, but Sam doesn't mind. It's just Dean. Dean's always there when he's sick. "Sorry, dude. Didn't think it would hit you this hard."

Sam pries his eyelids open a crack. "Best birthday ever," he smiles weakly. "Thanks, Dean."

"Go to sleep, Ariel."

Huh, what? The Little Mermaid? Or Shakespeare?