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And so it went: another year, another birthday for Dean that he chose to ignore. Again. Even though Sam wasn't so big on birthdays, for some reason he loved to acknowledge Dean's when the time of year came around. Probably because Dean didn't want him to.
So the morning of the anniversary of his brother's birth, Sam woke up early and hit the little store in the center of town that had a bakery. (Well, it was actually a counter with two cakes and a dozen cupcakes.) He bought a couple of cupcakes and before walking out of the door, a box of multi-color candles.
Just a little something extra to piss Dean off.
Sam also purchased two cups of coffee from the coffee shop, figuring that a peace offering would be something that he may need -- after he gave Dean the cupcakes, of course. He stopped just short of purchasing a party hat and a black mylar balloon with 'Over the Hill' on it because, well, he wasn't completely stupid.
So the balloon remained at the store.
When Sam entered the motel room, he was surprised to find Dean sitting on the bed, his hair damp from the shower and one of his guns dismantled in front of him. Cleaning guns was one way that Dean dealt with stress. Of the million things that he could not control or change, he had complete control when he handled his guns.
Sam knew that the cupcakes should wait. He wisely held out the cup of coffee to Dean, which he took with a nod and a growl of acknowledgment. Or possibly thanks.
"So, um. What are you doing?"
Dean looked down at his gun then back up at Sam as if he were a pod person - or more of a pod person than he already thought Sam was.
"Cleaning my gun, Sherlock. You sure you went to Stanford?"
Sam glared, his fingers tightening on the bag with the cupcakes as he fought the desire to grab one and lob it right in Dean's face.
"Ha ha. You're quite the comedian today."
He watched as Dean's fingers worked quickly and efficiently, his movements almost graceful. Dean knew that gun like the back of his hand and he could probably dismantle and reassemble it with his eyes closed.
"You gonna stand there watching me all day, Sammy? Could get a bit boring for you."
Sam smiled when he saw the sly smile on his brother's face.
"I'm sure that you'll make it worth my while."
Dean raised his eyebrows and looked at Sam, laying down the brush he was using to clean the barrel. Not wanting to keep his brother guessing, Sam walked over to the tiny table that housed the laptop and yesterday's empty coffee cups and took the cupcakes out of the bag, setting them near the edge. He put a candle in the middle of one and lit it, turning to face Dean and take it to him. Sam watched as Dean's eyes darkened for a moment, the smile leaving his face.
"Sam, you know I don't -"
"I know. You don't celebrate your birthday. Doesn't mean I can't celebrate it." He reached out his hand, offering the cupcake to Dean. "Take this. Blow out the candle."
Surprisingly, Dean took the cupcake but kept his eyes trained on Sam. If looks could kill, well, Sam would be gravely injured because he didn't really believe that Dean would kill him over a cupcake. Still, he could see that Dean wasn't pleased and he really, for the life of him, couldn't understand why.
"Dean, what's the big deal? And will you blow out the candle before the wax drips on the cupcake?"
Dean blew out the candle and set the cupcake down on the bed, picking the gun up and resuming his cleaning.
"Fine. You happy now?"
Sam's happiness was completely irrelevant because it was more than obvious that Dean wasn't.
"Jesus, Dean. It's your damn birthday."
"Shut up, Sam."
"Dean, I'm just telling you - it's not a big deal."
"I know it's not a big deal, so can you just shut up about it?"
"Well if it's not a big deal, can you tell me what that gun ever did to you? You're throttling the damn thing, not cleaning it."
Dean looked down at the gun in his hand, which was the cleanest that Sam had even seen it. He sat the pieces down on the bed, wiping his hands on the rag that lay next to him.
Sam took a seat on the bed directly across from Dean, their legs so close they almost touched.
"Just tell me what the hell your deal is with birthdays. I don't remember you being this bad when we were younger."
And just as the words had left his lips, it him Sam like a punch in the gut.
"Dean. I know that everything with Dad..."
Dean shook his head quickly as he interrupted him.
"Know how old I'll be next year, Sammy?"
Sam wrinkled his brow for a minute before answering.
"Twenty-eight."
Dean nodded slowly and Sam could have sworn that he saw the weight that Dean had been carrying on his shoulders reflected in his eyes.
"Know how old Mom was when she died?"
And it took a moment for Sam to believe what he was hearing from Dean. He'd never even stopped to think that this could have had something to do with Mom. He'd just assumed it was Dad...
"I had convinced myself years ago that I wouldn't even make it to 29. I just felt - that would be it."
"Did you think you were going to die like Mom did?"
Dean didn't respond but the heaviness in his silence spoke volumes. Sam put his hand on Dean's leg, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He wondered how he had never thought about this before. But then the reality of it all bit him on the ass. So much shit had gone down, there would have been no way that Sam could have known that this was going on in Dean's head. Hitting on that idea would have been like finding a needle in a landfill. Near fucking impossible.
"Dean, that bastard's not going to be able to do anything to you."
"No?"
Dean looked up at him and the look of pain and - What was that? Fear? - scared Sam, but he tried to smile, giving his leg a strong pat before getting to his feet.
"No. We're going to get him. Trust me."
Sam headed to the door, grabbing the keys to the Impala off the table.
"Now come on."
"Where're we going?"
And even as Dean questioned him, he got to his feet, tucking the now reassembled gun into the back of his jeans and grabbing his leather jacket.
"I'm taking you to Gino's to grab some pizza to not-celebrate your birthday."
Dean's smile was bright and genuine and infectious as he slapped Sam on the back before placing his hand on the doorknob.
"Now that's what I'm talking about. Give me some real food."
Sam shook his head as he laughed, amused at his brother's ideas about what "real food" was.
"All right, Dean. We'll go, but only one condition."
He could see the lines appear briefly in the center of Dean's brow. "What's that?"
"You can't dip your garlic bread in the ketchup."
"Why not?"
"'Cause that's just gross."
"Dude, it's my non-birthday. I can do whatever I want."
~end