Author's note: HI all! I will not be updating on a schedule, because my life is hectic and this is a relief hobby. Unsure if this will help since it's very likely that the comments I am getting on my last post are bots, but I AM NOT INTERESTED IN COMMISSIONS, PLEASE STOP ASKING. Ugh. All the spam messages are, like, super discouraging, so if you have the time to review something else to keep morale high I would greatly appreciate it. Also, it's a little early to ask, because I have some ideas stockpiled for this AU, but if there's something you want to see written, from the show itself or just a general idea, I would love to hear it! Keep in mind, this fic is mostly Gen and family-oriented so I will not be writing anything spicier than strictly necessary to move the plot along. Thank you!

Chapter summary: Deanna is turning six and just wants to celebrate her birthday.

xXx

Deanna is six years old now. Six years old today, in fact. She knew because when they checked into the motel last night, She'd read the calendar on the wall, just like Pastor Jim had shown her. Daddy sat her down on the counter and put Sam on her lap. She usually wasn't supposed to sit on counters 'cause it's rude. There weren't any chairs, and Daddy had put her there so she guessed it was okay just that one time. The cabinet was cold against her bottom, covered by a thin pair of candy cane-striped leggings. Her ankles were cold too, but that was because the leggings from her old house were starting to look like capris. Sam squirmed in her arms, the one-year-old forever moving. She had adjusted his fat little calf so it didn't touch the chilly countertop. A big calendar adorned the wall behind the register, with a woman in a little gold swimsuit in the snow. She was holding tiny sparklers in each hand. The poor lady was probably cold, Dean doubted that sparklers that size would keep anyone warm. A little headband sat on her pretty black hair with letters on it. Dean wasn't too good at reading, but she knew it was January. And she knew her numbers, 'cause pastor Jim had taught her up to 50. (not that she remembered anything after 32.) The numbers were crossed out in messy blue x's. Since today was Wednesday the 23rd, that meant tomorrow was the 24th. January 24th was the day. The day when she would be six years old. And since now she had slept and woke up, that meant it was today.

Dean shimmied out of bed sporting a mile-wide smile. She had to kind of yank her hair out of Sammy's hand because he always liked to pull on it in his sleep. She peeked over the edge of the mattress but didn't see her father's bedraggled hair or hear his snoring. He wasn't there. She walked the few steps to the bathroom, her bare feet feeling itchy on the dirty motel carpet. She knocked. Dean knew better than not to knock. When she didn't get a response, she swung open the creaky door. Still no Daddy. There wasn't really any other place to check. Motel rooms were usually just that. A bathroom and two lumpy beds. Sometimes a counter they called a kitchenette, but Dean was pretty sure that you needed more than a microwave and a coffee machine to call something kitchen. They only had a small table. He wasn't there either. Maybe he was out getting her breakfast?

Her heart sped up at the thought of pancakes and strawberries and whipped cream. She checked that the door was locked and that the salt lines still looked good. And wrapped Sammy in another blanket because she thought maybe he looked a little cold. The baby coughed some but didn't stir. Coughing is bad. She hoped that he wasn't getting sick on her birthday. Dean grabbed her hairbrush and dug out her favorite pink striped shirt to go with a pair of jeans that looked like they were mostly clean. Couldn't say the same about how they smelled, but that was okay. Her hair was put up into the best ponytail she could make. Even put on her prettiest bracelet. Well. her only bracelet, but it didn't make it any less pretty.

She wished that she could wear the dress pastor Jim had bought her last year. It was a green one, with flowers made of thread and a big puffy skirt. A line of buttons wrapped in velvet fabric danced down the back. They had been on the way to the store to get groceries and some ingredients for a birthday cake. She couldn't help but stop and stare into the store window, amazed. It was simply the prettiest dress she had ever seen. When he noticed Deanna had stopped, Pastor Jim came to look at the dress too, Sam gurgling on his hip. Dark and velvety, the dress was something Dean imagined a princess would wear. Daddy used to call her princess. He still does sometimes but it's meaner now. Don't be such a princess, Deanna, he'd say. Would Daddy even like something so pretty?

Pastor Jim must have noticed her staring because he grabbed her hand and walked into the store.

"Excuse me," he said in that soft voice of his, " I would like to get that dress in the window for her to try on." He gestured to the little girl beside him. The store clerk went and got it in the smallest size they had, then led them to a dressing room. The dress was lowered into Deanna's hands, and she stared up at Jim, wide-eyed.

"Do you need help?" she shook her head. "Well, go on then. Try it on."

The fabric was so soft against her skin as she slid into it. Deft little fingers buttoned up the back as best she could. When she poked her head out of the dressing room door, the pastor's eyes lit up at the sight of her.
" Wow, Deanna! Come out where I can see you, sweetheart."

Fabric swished around her knees as she stepped out, a shy look on her face. The old man tugged her a little closer, turning her around and subtly fixing some of the mismatched buttons in the back.

"You look so lovely, honey." The store clerk stepped up behind Jim, nodding her agreement. Sammy had clapped his little hands, shouting. Dean didn't know if he thought the dress was pretty. Sometimes he clapped when he was excited to see her. Or when he was hungry. Or mad. All the time really. She would take it as a compliment, though.

Then the crazy old man actually went and bought it for her. Which, she definitely had decided to say thank you but when she opened her mouth her throat felt like she had swallowed sand and she felt a little nauseous. She settled for giving him a card she drew during his preaching service the next day. It wasn't talking, and the pastor gave her a big hug so she thought maybe that made up for her not saying it out loud.

There was a cake last year, too, a huge one with tons of chocolate icing and a swirly green candle on top. The ladies at the church made it from scratch because that was supposed to be better for you. It tasted like cake, so Dean couldn't be mad at it. Sammy's fat cheeks had been covered in sugar. Pastor Jim took her and Daddy and Sam out to dinner, and Dean's dress was the highlight of the night. She had twirled and twirled whenever the waitresses commented on it and her cheeks were sore from smiling. It didn't even really matter that her dirty old sneakers didn't match. And she didn't even pout when Daddy got a little mad at her because she wouldn't stay sitting down.

When they came back to the parish from the diner, John had frowned at her.

"Alright Dean," he'd rumbled, " You've had your fun for tonight. Go take that dress off, so we can leave it here with Pastor Jim. You have enough clothes to take on the road as it is."

Eyes wide, Dean stared up at him, shocked.

"Don't look at me like that Deanna, you can't play around in that dress, and you'll just ruin it if you try. It's impractical. You go take that off before you get something on it. Yes sir?"

It took a second for her to move her head in a nod. He wanted her to say it back, (yessir, very impractical, I'll take it off right away) and she knew that, but she hoped he wouldn't make her do it because it was her birthday and Daddy looked tired. And it was her birthday. He only sighed, choosing to skip the battle this time. He turned to Jim, so that meant the conversation was over and Deanna was supposed to do what Daddy said now.

The heat of tears pricked Dean's eyes, but Daddy told her she was being a baby when she cried. And five was far too old to be acting like a baby. So she went to hide on the stairs so she could stare at the pretty green color for a little while longer. Why did she have to leave it at the parish? She wasn't allowed to track mud in the car, so how would it even get dirty on the road? It just wasn't fair. She swiped a few tears off of her hot cheeks. She heard Pastor Jim's soft voice float up the staircase and caught her father's attempt at a hidden conversation.

"Jim, why the he-" Jim must have given him a look. Dean could almost feel the roll of her father's eyes. "Why in the world would you even buy that frilly thing?" she didn't quite catch the pastor's response. He was good at whispering, a lot better than Daddy. He practiced all the time when he prayed at the altar and the table, on the floor beside her bed. God had to have really good listening ears if he could hear Pastor Jim.

"She doesn't need all that crap, Jim, when is she ever gonna wear it? She'll just get the damn thing dirty. Now is not the time for her to be prancing around in stupid dresses."

He nearly spat out the word. Dress. Stupid dress. It sounded so bad when Daddy said it like that. So she scrambled upstairs to slip out of the beautiful and forbidden thing. She didn't want to wear it if it was bad. When she was clean and changed into fresh pj's feeling nothing like a princess, Pastor Jim came in to help put Sammy to bed. Before she set in on changing her little brother, Dean handed the thing over to pastor Jim. He looked sad. Maybe he'd thought it was pretty too. But the old man didn't say he was sad to see it go. So neither did Dean. It must be bad if he doesn't want to talk about it. He just brushed out the fabric and draped it onto a hanger. Dulled by shadows, the princess dress hung dejected in the closet.

John stalked into the bedroom, his heavy boots making the floorboards creak. He nodded at the sight of the dress in the closet of the guest room, seeming satisfied. Pastor Jim was at the end of a prayer, but he moved to the side as John stood beside him, waiting his turn to send his children off to sleep. He had settled himself onto the end of the bed and smoothed his hand over his daughter's forehead. Sammy had already dropped off into the land of dreams, his nose only scrunched a little when John brushed the baby hair away from his face.

"I know you're upset since you can't take Pastor Jim's gift with us, Dean. But I want to give you this. You can take it with you and it can help you keep your brother safe."

The hunter stretched out a fist in Dean's direction, his fingers parallel to the bedspread. Offering. Head cocked, Dean obliged, sticking her hands out to catch whatever he was giving her.

A glint caught her eye as he dropped something into her little waiting hands. It was cold, and a little heavier than the girl had been expecting. Dean uncurled her fingers from around a closed pocket knife, the pearl handle gleamed in the shabby lamplight. She snapped it open, carefully, and examined her gift with the reverence only a child or a disciple could manage. The curve of the blade, the cut of the serrated edge, the curl of the pattern in the silver. All of it would be committed to memory. It was beautiful. Dean's hand touched Sam's back as he whimpered next to her in his sleep. Gently. Automatic. She clutched the knife closer to her chest.

"Someday soon, I'll teach you how to use it. Make sure you keep it in a safe place. Happy birthday, Deanna."

Pastor Jim looked on, his eyebrows bunched up at the sight of the glinting metal in little Dean's hands. The amazement on her face didn't seem to amuse the pastor as much as it did John. Not that John or Deanna noticed his discomfort. After chuckling at her expression, John ruffled her hair and wandered off in search of a drink (in search of a bar where there weren't any children to be put to bed).

Pastor Jim's smiling face looked down on her while he pulled the blanket up to her chin. The knife was still clutched in her hands as she curled up, ready for sleep, or anything else that might come.

"Dean, sweetheart. Do you mind if I borrow your knife for a moment? I promise I'll give it back."

She gave him the knife because he had asked so nicely. Pastor Jim tucked Sammy in next to her and gave Dean this long weird look.

He turned out the lights. He walked out of the room. And Dean waited.

A moment had passed, but he didn't give it back. Pastor Jim wasn't supposed to lie because he was a holy man or something, so Dean chalked it up to him having forgotten on account of being old and all. She had rolled over and kissed Sammy's chubby cheeks and gone to sleep. But now a whole year had passed and she never got back either birthday present. She half wondered if they were really presents if she didn't get to keep them.

But today was different. There was no Pastor Jim to give her bad gifts or to take the ones that her father had given her. It was just her and Sammy and Daddy.

Well. It would be once Daddy got back. With pancakes, maybe. Dean reminded herself. The littlest noise came from behind her. Dean set down her brush and bounced to the bed because Sammy was up now and if he was making little noises it was time for Dean to start his day. The start of the day was different now because Sam was bigger. He mostly ate regular food instead of carefully prepared formula, now he wore tiny jeans instead of onesies. Dean didn't have to do as much as she used to. She still had to change stinky diapers though. Sammy hadn't quite caught onto using a toilet but it wasn't like Dean could do much to help. She is a girl after all. Her little brother giggled up at her as she slipped his little shirt over his fat head.

"De!" he shrieked. Dean smiled at him.

"Good morning, Sammy." her voice came out a little quiet this time. Kind of rough from not using it for a few days. Not that it mattered. Sammy still heard it. He didn't talk as much as a two-year-old was supposed to. Dean had never met another two-year-old so she wouldn't know. It's because you don't talk to him, that's what Daddy said. How will he know what words to say if he never hears anybody say anything? Which makes sense. Daddy doesn't like to talk much either unless it's to his hunter friends. So it's up to her. She doesn't really like it, but Sammy's easy enough to talk to.

The boy giggled, seemingly amused by Dean's whispered greeting. He babbled out a long string of Dean's fragmented name because that was what he always did. Dededededededeeeee. Because Sam could not complete his morning ritual without abusing the crap out of a single syllable. Dean sure didn't mind. At first, maybe she thought it was annoying. He never did that to Dad before. Or Pastor Jim. Then she thought maybe it was special for her, so she never tried to make him stop. After Dean cleaned, changed, and dressed her brother, she started to worry.

It was getting late in the morning, and Daddy still hadn't come back. Sammy was busy smacking at her chest while she got him some stale Cheerios out of the baby bag. She had hoped maybe he'd get pancakes too. But now at 11 am, it was almost too late to eat breakfast. She hiked her brother higher on her hip. He was getting a little bit heavy for her but she couldn't find his socks and she didn't want him touching the gross floor without them. She settled Sam on the makeshift high chair ( which was just a normal chair with pillows piled on) and gave him a little bowl of cereal and a mashed-up half of a browning banana from yesterday. Dean decided to hold out in case there really were pancakes on the way. She hated bananas anyway. The baby let out a wet cough into his breakfast. Dean frowned.

"That don't sound too good, Sammy. Are you feelin' sick?" she tugged a chair over to stand on and placed a hand on his face. A little warm. Daddy told her she wasn't allowed to give Sam medicine without him unless it was an absolute emergency. Was this an emergency? She pressed her forehead to his to check. The baby startled at the sudden closeness, but quickly recovered, grabbing at her hair with a giggle. Tugging his slimy fingers out of her hair, Dean screwed up her nose. He felt warm, but it didn't seem like an emergency. Not that she really knew what kind of emergency meant he needed medicine. She would have to try and ask Daddy what that might be. And what medicine to give him. She could do that for Sam. Probably.

She would make him soup but they didn't have any. Though, he seemed pretty happy with his Cheerios. Sam smacked the table and let out another wet cough, which sounded a little worse this time for sure. She decided that keeping him warm was the best solution.

"S'my birthday, Sammy. You can't get sick, okay?"

Big hazel eyes blinked back at her. "De. Cheero." He offered her a slobbery cheerio. Sort of an agreement. She took the offering but didn't eat it. She didn't like cheerios either.

"Thanks, Sammy."

She sat back in her chair to wait for Daddy.

xXx

Dean startled at the sound of the motel room door slamming open, her father's footsteps loud as he made for the phone on the bedside table. John's arms are full of books and loose paper, and a little brown sack is nestled in the crook of his arm. Sammy jolted on her lap, and his face started to screw up from the surprise. They had only just sat down to watch some cartoons to calm down because the toddler just couldn't get comfortable. His cough had worsened, and he'd started to tap his neck, with a whispered 'hurts', willing Dean to understand. She got it, sure, but there wasn't much she could do about it but rub his back and make him feel warm. After a few episodes of Scooby-doo, Sammy had fallen asleep on his sister's chest. But now he was awake, and clearly not feeling any better. Sam started to wail, his little feverish face turning red as he cried past his sore throat. Dean gripped him a little tighter as he bucked against her, shushing and whispering platitudes to stop his panic.

John whips his head around in surprise at the sound of his son's cries.

"Did I wake him? Sorry kiddo, I thought you were both still sleeping." The look Dean gives her father is skeptical, or as skeptical a face a six-year-old can manage. The hands on the wall clock signaled that noon had come and gone 20 minutes ago. She may not know how to read very well, but telling the time was one of the first things John taught her to do after the fire. And that clock said that it was far too late for them to be sleeping. Sammy's cries got a little louder.

"Jesus. Why is he crying like that?" He said, making his voice a little louder to be heard over the toddler. His daughter only looked up at him with pained eyes. John heaved a sigh and set the phone back in its cradle. Pages flutter to the floor as he drops the heavy books onto the bed.

"Give him here."

Hands outstretched, John made a grab for her little brother. Dean almost moved away, because Daddy's hands were usually cold and Sammy Hated that. But she knew Daddy would get mad if she didn't hand him over. She flinched with her little brother when John lifted him from her lap. He squirmed for a second, then cried even harder. Of course. The hunter bit back his own wince at the assault on his ears.

"Alright kid, come on. You don't need to do all this cryin'." He tried, bouncing lightly. Sam wailed on.

There was a tug on his jeans, and John looked down. Dean stood there with the first aid kit in hand but said nothing.

"Dean, do you know what's wrong with your brother?" It was less of a question, more of a command, hard-edged and laced with a slight threat. She nodded. There was a pause as John waited for her to tell him. She pushed the first aid kit closer to him.

"Deanna," he snapped, "You have to speak, I can't read your damn mind. Don't show me the kit, tell me why I need it." The girl shrunk at his tone. Well, she did say that she would do it for Sam. What if something was really wrong?

"He's sick." The words came out as a whisper again.

"What? Speak up, Dean."

"His throat," she tried.

"God help me-" Daddy's head rolled back to the ceiling before he looked back to her, irritation written all over his face. "I can't hear you over your brother, Deanna."

Now it was getting a little annoying. She was trying to talk, just like he asked her to. She reached for her brother, and he practically threw himself out of his father's arms trying to get to her. John scrambled to catch him before he fell and broke his neck.

"Sam! Stop, son-"

She climbed the couch next to her father and scooped Sammy out of his arms. Immediately, he gripped her hair and curled into her shoulder. His crying tapered off into quiet whimpers. Dean sat down on the couch - because it's rude to stand on furniture. There. Now she didn't have to yell.

"His throat hurts. He's sick." John put his cold hand against the baby's forehead. A frown wormed its way onto John's face as he watched his son turn his head into Deana's neck to get away from the touch. Not too hot, but a fever, nonetheless. Clearly, the toddler was fighting something.

"Why didn't you give him some medicine? That might have made him feel better, Deano."

"You said not to give Sammy medicine without you. Unless it's a 'mergency."

"Oh. Right."

"Is this a 'mergency, Daddy?" she asked. Her hand stroked downy soft hair on Sam's head. John considered this for a second.

"No, this isn't an emergency. When I said that, it was because you didn't know how much medicine to give him. But you're a big girl now, Dean." He took the med kit off the table and set it on his lap.

"Dad's going to be really busy for a while because he has to work a lot. So it's real important you know how to take care of your brother when I go out."

"This one," He said, pulling out a little white bottle that rattled when he shook it. The word on the front started with an M, she was pretty sure of that. "is for his fever. You have to give him one pill every six hours until the fever subsides. Can you do that?" Big green eyes stared up at him as he shook a purple tablet into the palm of his hand.

"Um. What's super- suberside mean?

"Subside. It means something goes away." He capped the bottle and wedged it back in the med kit.

"Will it make his throat better?"

"It should. Sammy, buddy. Look at me. You have to take your medicine." John said. Whimpering, Sam turned to look at his father, still nestled into the crook of Dean's neck. He recoiled a little, bumping his head lightly against his sister's, but John stuck the pill in his mouth. It must not have tasted all too bad, because Sam chewed it without too much fuss.

"Good. Listen, Dean. I have to make some calls. You two can watch cartoons for now, just keep it on low volume. If Sam goes to sleep, let him. He'll probably feel better once he wakes up, okay?"

She nodded.

"Speak, Dean."

"Yessir."

Then Daddy was off making phone calls, the cord stretched along the floor and through the slightly cracked bathroom door. For privacy, he said. What little he could get in a room like this one.

The two children were resigned to watching reruns on TV. Scooby Doo went off sometime after one, and then thunder cats reruns were on. Sam, of course, went back to sleep, occasionally coughing phlegm into his sister's pretty pink tee-shirt. Gross. Deanna couldn't help but feel a little upset.

"I thought we had a deal," she whispered into Sammy's hair. "You weren't supposed to get sick on my birthday."

The toddler didn't stir an inch. The birthday girl let out a weak cough.