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One
The first birthday Sam remembered was his seventh. They were on a hunt, though he didn’t know that at the time, staying in another crappy motel for the week. He couldn’t remember where they’d been, only that the sheets were scratchy and smelled like cigarette smoke, and that he woke up curled up against Dean.
“Mornin’ Sammy,” Dean muttered, blinking awake as Sam came back from the bathroom. “How’s it feel to be seven?”
Sam had forgotten that it was his birthday at all, and excitement rushed through his little body like lightning.
“It feels amazing, Dean!” He shouted, jumping onto the bed and tackling his brother in a hug. Dean laughed, and Sam couldn’t help but join him as John stirred in the bed next to them.
“What’re you boys doin’ up so early?” He asked, looking angry despite the light tone of his voice.
“It’s my birthday, Dad!” Sam shouted in response, jumping onto his dad’s bed.
“Is it now?” John muttered, and Sam knew that even though it sounded like his dad had forgotten, he was just playing.
“Yeah! I’m seven now.”
“Well, birthday boy, what would you like for breakfast?” John asked, and Sam didn’t hesitate.
“Pancakes. A whole stack of ‘em, too. I don’t wanna split with Dean no more.”
“Any more, Sammy,” Dean corrected, ruffling his hair. “And I think we can make that work, right Dad?”
“Hell yeah we can,” John hauled himself out of bed, smiling at his sons. “I’m gonna get dressed, then we’ll get pancakes.”
“Do I get any presents, Dad?” Sam asked, bursting with excitement.
“Oh, uh, well,” John stammered, and Sam’s smile fell. “See, we’re kinda tight on money right now, but uh…why don’t I get you somethin’ after the hunt? We can go into town, and you can get anything you want from one of the stores. How does that sound?”
“Okay, Dad,” Sam muttered, looking down at his shoes. “I can still have my own pancakes, right?”
“Of course. Dean, why don’t you help your brother get dressed?” John answered, disappearing into the bathroom.
“Did Dad forget my birthday, De?” Sam asked, frowning as Dean grabbed his favorite jacket out of the duffel bag laying discarded at the foot of they’re bed.
“No, Sammy, he didn’t. He just, uh, left your gift in the last motel and he’s upset about it. It was a really awesome surprise, I saw it. Just don’t tell him I told you, okay?”
“I promise, De, I won’t tell.” Sam smiled again, holding out his pinky. Dean looked strangely sad, wrapping his finger around his brother’s with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Sam got his pancakes, a whole stack the nice waitress had given to him with extra syrup and butter and candles sticking out the top. Dean wasn’t with them, but John was there, and so Sam was happy. The whole diner had sung Happy Birthday, and he recounted it to Dean later, as he lay on the bed gripping the Optimus Prime action figure he’d come back to find wrapped on his bed.
“I can’t believe Dad got me this, De!” Sam laughed, waving his new toy in the air. There was a look in his brother’s eyes that Sam couldn’t quite figure out, but he didn’t care. His dad hadn’t forgotten his birthday, and that was enough.
Two
“Sammy, hey, wake up,” Someone was shaking Sam, and he shot awake, his hand poised to hit whoever was there.
“Dean?” He asked, lowering his fist. “You scared me.”
“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean apologized, sitting down next to him on the bed. “How’s it feel to be thirteen?”
It was his birthday, Sam realized in an instant. It was their tradition, of sorts, to wake each other up before dawn on their birthdays and ask how it felt to be older.
“Same as it felt to be twelve,” Sam responded, flopping back down onto his bed. “We should go back to sleep, Dean. Bobby’ll be pretty mad if we wake him up.”
“Come on, the old man loves us. Hell, I think he’s probably awake already. It is your birthday after all.”
“I’m tired, Dean,” Sam snapped, teenage selfishness rearing its head. “I’d like to sleep in as a birthday present.”
“Oh come on, Sammy. Don’t be stupid. I bet if we go downstairs, Bobby’ll already have breakfast started. We can make pancakes, if you want. Or waffles.”
Sam hesitated, sitting up after a moment. “Alright.”
They walked downstairs, finding Bobby in the kitchen as Dean had predicted, chopping up bacon and onions to mix into scrambled eggs, just the way Sam loved. Waffle batter was mixed up in a bowl on the counter, the iron heating up next to it.
“Happy birthday, kid,” Bobby grunted in acknowledgement as Sam sat down. “Food’ll be ready in a minute.”
“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam answered, looking over into the dining room. “Hey, what’s—”
“No presents until after your breakfast, Sammy,” Dean teased, grinning as he leaned on the counter next to Sam.
“You’re not the boss of me, Dean,” Sam snapped back.
“Chill out, dude. I’m just messing with you,” Dean answered, a sadness in his eyes Sam couldn’t quite place.
“Sorry, Dean,” He said after a moment. “I…I just wish Dad was here.”
The room was quiet, the only sound the hiss of the oil in the pan as Bobby stirred the eggs.
“Me too,” Dean answered, sighing. “But it’ll be a good birthday regardless.”
“Your dad might show up later,” Bobby added, spooning a heap of eggs onto Sam’s plate. “He said he’d try to be here, but there was an incident in Tulsa.”
“Is he alright?” Both boys asked, and Bobby nodded, sitting down next to them with his own bowl of eggs.
“Yeah, but the hunter he was with got pretty roughed up. John’s stayin’ up there to make sure he doesn’t get arrested.”
Sam wanted to be mad about that, but he couldn’t find it in himself.
“Can I open my presents after breakfast?” He asked through a mouthful of eggs, and Dean rolled his eyes.
“Of course, dude, it’s your birthday. We can do whatever you want. Just maybe don’t spit eggs everywhere.”
Sam rolled his eyes, shoveling another bite into his mouth.
He opened his gifts after breakfast was over. Bobby had gotten him a book on different types of spirits, his dad had left a new iron knife, and Dean...Dean had bought three books that Sam had read over and over at various libraries when he was done with research.
“Thank you,” Sam whispered as he opened the box, wrapping his brother in a tight hug. Five years later, those three worn books were among the few possessions Sam took with him to Stanford.
Three
Sam woke up before dawn on his sixteenth birthday. Dean wasn’t there, still out on a hunt with their dad, but some force of habit made him blink blearily awake anyway.
“How’s it feel to be sixteen?” He whispered to himself, curling onto his side in the bed as he stared into the dark.
It’s fine that Dean isn’t here, he reminded himself, feeling tears prick at the edges of his eyes. You told him to go.
But you wanted him to stay. Some subconscious part of him whispered, and he sat up, gasping for a moment as a sob threatened to tear from his chest.
“It’s fine,” He muttered, standing and turning the light on before wandering over to the coffee-stained table in the corner where he’d been doing research the night before. “You’re not a kid anymore, Sam.”
He felt like a kid, though, as he sat in the bed reading through a book on demon banishment rituals to keep the tears at bay.
Dean came back just after sunrise, panting as he burst through the door, a heavy-looking package in his hands.
“Sammy, it’s time to…” He shouted, trailing off as he spotted Sam reading on the bed. “Oh, you’re awake.”
“Hi, Dean,” Sam said, staring up at his brother and feeling the tears prick at the corners of his eyes again, this time out of relief. “Need a hand?”
Dean just stared at him for a moment, frowning. “Uh, no…You alright?”
“Of course, man, just tired,” Sam scoffed, blinking to rid his eyes of tears as he set the book down and stood up, heading for the bathroom. “Where’s Dad?”
“He went to grab some breakfast. Pancakes, I think. You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, Dean!” Sam snapped, turning to face his brother. The shock and hurt on Dean’s face was enough for the anger to bleed out of him instantly, his shoulders sagging as he sighed. “I…I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it’s fine. You’re allowed to yell, Sammy,” Dean laughed, setting the box down on the bed. “Hell, I probably deserve it sometimes. But, uh, you’re sure you’re okay?”
“I…” Sam began, and something in Dean’s expression, the smile that didn’t reach his eyes, made him break. “You weren’t there,” He muttered softly, staring at his sock-covered feet. “When I woke up. You weren’t there.”
“We told you where we were going last night, Sammy. I said I’d be back ‘round sunrise, but—”
“No, Dean, it’s…it’s my birthday,” Sam cut him off, trying to get him to understand.
“I know,” Dean looked at him like he’d been slapped, looking over at the gift on the coffee table. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”
“No, that’s…that’s not…you didn’t do anything wrong, Dean. I just…wanted you there, I guess,” Sam confessed, laughing nervously. “Sorry, that was sappy. I think I watched too many episodes of that soap opera at the last motel.”
Dean laughed at that, a real laugh, and that was that.
“How’s it feel to be sixteen, Sammy?” He asked later, when they’d eaten their fill of pancakes, and Sam felt a little more complete.
Four
Sam woke up at noon on his nineteenth birthday. He almost cried at the sight of sunlight streaming through the window, the brightness a harsh reminder of everything he’d left behind. Sam spent the day in bed, watching crap TV on his laptop under the guise of being sick, grasping for his phone every time it rang in the hopes that it would be Dean or his Dad, calling to wish him a happy birthday. It wasn’t.
His friend Alex stopped by at some point, setting a box on his bed and begging Sam to open it in front of him.
“Come on, Samuel,” He said, smirking. “Jess wants to know if you like it or not.”
Sam almost smiled at that, ripping into the gold wrapping paper to reveal a silver cross on a thick silver chain.
“Tell her thank you for me,” He whispered, hating himself for the tears that filled his eyes. “I think I’m going to take a nap. Thanks for stopping by, Alex.”
“No problem, Sam. Happy birthday.”
Then Sam was alone again. He wanted to cry, to tell Alex to come back, to scream and break something, but, more than anything else, he wanted Dean to be there. Sam wanted his brother to shake him awake and ask how it felt to be older, to laugh as he told him it didn’t feel any different, that it never did. He wanted Dean to hand him a book wrapped in brown paper and call him a nerd when he opened it even though Dean was the one who had bought it for him.
I hate being nineteen, He thought as he fell asleep that night, ignoring the part of himself that whispered “No, you don’t. You just miss Dean.”
Five
Sam didn’t remember much of his twenty-first birthday. He woke up before dawn, Jess curled up in the bed next to him.
“How’s it feel to be old enough to legally drink?” She’d asked him as she cooked an omelet with peppers and onions and bacon. The food was achingly similar to the breakfast Dean had always made him, the question to the one Dean always asked, but he swallowed the sadness and laughed.
“Same as it did to be old enough to illegally drink, just without the fear of getting arrested,” He joked back, hugging her from behind and burying his face in her hair. She laughed, and he smiled. He didn’t think it reached his eyes.
Later, when Jess was gone, he’d try to remember every detail of that day. Friends trickled in and out of their house, dropping by on their way to or from exams to wish him a happy birthday. When it got dark, Jess took him to a bar called The Wreck and they danced to the live music and got drunk enough that Sam couldn’t remember how they got back to the house. It was the best birthday Sam could remember.
Six
On Sam’s twenty-third birthday, he was gone before Dean woke up. There was a tight feeling in his chest when he opened his eyes, a need to run as far away from everything as he could, to distract himself so he couldn’t think about Jess, about his dad, about anything at all.
He found a 24-hour diner near the motel for breakfast, ordering black coffee and scrambled eggs and wishing that Dean would make him the breakfast he’d made Sam as a kid. The thought made the too-tight feeling stronger, and he stared at the yellow-and-white scramble on the plate.
“You alright, sugar?” The waitress asked when she brought the check, her eyes kind and warm. Sam could only nod, passing her a fifty and whispering that she could keep the change before walking out into the warm Texas air, feeling like he was drowning.
He spent the day in the library, pouring over documents and old newspapers to try and find information on the spirit they were hunting. His phone rang, once, twice, three times, before Sam turned it off. He knew that Dean was probably worried, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. When the library closed, he wandered into town and found himself in some shithole bar asking for a bottle of tequila. He hated the taste, but it burned in the back of his throat and he finally felt a little bit like he could breathe.
A girl came in after the first few shots, guitar case in hand as she wove through the crowd, short brown hair sticking out from under a black denim baseball cap.
“What’s the occasion?” She asked, setting the case on the counter and pulling out a steel string guitar.
“It’s my birthday,” Sam answered, downing another shot, and the girl raised an eyebrow.
“You aren’t drinking like it’s your birthday. You’re drinking like you want to forget something,” She said, hopping up onto the counter and beginning to tune the instrument.
“I want to forget it’s my birthday,” He muttered, and poured himself another shot. “I want to forget Jess, and I want to forget my dad, and I want to forget everything.”
“I’m sorry,” The girl said after a moment, her hands stilling on the strings. “I’m Alice, by the way.”
“Sam,” He answered, looking up at her. She was beautiful, dark brown eyes shining in the dim light of the bar. Any other day, he might have flirted with her, but he was too deep in his sorrow to even consider it.
“Well, Sam, is there anyone I can call when you are finally drunk enough to forget?” She asked, a sad smile on her face that reminded him of Dean.
“My brother,” He answered, too far into the bottle to care about what Dean would think if he found Sam like this. “His name’s Dean. His number is, uh, 866-907-3235.”
“Alright. Thank you,” Alice said, and then she began to play. She had the most beautiful voice Sam had ever heard. Maybe he was just drunk, but looking up at her he thought for a moment that she could be a siren, luring him to his death. The song was slow and sad and he was entranced, the tight feeling in his chest giving way to an aching chasm. He fumbled for his phone, eyes blurring with tears as he found his brother’s contact and hit the call button.
“Sam?” Dean answered almost immediately, the panic in his voice causing a sob to bubble out of Sam’s mouth.
“Dean, ‘m sorry,” He slurred, crying in earnest now, everything that he’d been trying to forget surging to the surface in an instant.
“Sam, where are you?” There was an angry sort of panic in Dean’s voice now, and Sam blinked sluggishly.
“I…I dunno,” He mumbled, looking up at Alice. She’d stopped playing, the guitar resting in her lap. “I’m in a bar, De, and there’s a pretty girl playing guitar for me, and I’m so sorry.” He choked on the words, tears streaming down his face.
"Hey, Sammy, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m not mad, I’m just worried, alright?” Dean reassured, and it made Sam cry harder.
“Hey, Sam, why don’t you give me the phone?” Alice asked, holding out a hand. “I’ll help your brother find you, okay?”
“M’kay,” He mumbled, sniffing as he handed the phone to her and took a sip from the bottle of tequila. Alice was saying something to Dean, but everything had gone fuzzy and he slipped out of awareness, wallowing in sorrow until he felt a familiar hand on his back.
“Sammy?” Sam sat up, blinking blearily up at his brother. He distantly remembered Dean’s panicked voice on the phone, and the relief in his voice when he said Sam’s name made him want to cry all over again.
“‘M sorry I scared you, De,” He muttered, leaning into Dean’s chest as he was wrapped in a tight hug.
“It’s alright, Sammy. It’s alright,” Dean answered, squeezing him as tight as he could. “I’m gonna pay your tab and then we’ll head back to the motel, okay?”
“Don’t worry about that, Dean,” Alice said from where she was sitting next to Sam. “I already paid it. You just take care of him, okay?”
“I can pay y–” Dean began, but she cut him off.
“Nope. I owe you like ten favors anyway. Kate, Saira, and I will get the poltergeist out of that house, too. You just take care of your brother.”
“Thank you,” Dean said, and Sam realized distantly that Alice must be another one of Dean’s friends from when he was at Stanford. “Come on, Sammy. Let’s get you home, okay?”
“M’kay,” He mumbled, and they left. Sam wasn’t sure how they got into the Impala and back to the motel, but they did. Dean shoved a glass of water and some food into his hands and he ate them diligently, feeling himself slowly sober up.
“Sammy,” Dean asked after the fog started to clear, sitting across from him at the little table. “What happened?”
“I dunno,” Sam muttered, and Dean scoffed.
“Bullshit. You’ve been avoiding telling me all sorts of stuff for ages, but that’s not gonna cut it this time. Cut the crap, Sam. What is going on with you?” The words were angry, but really they were desperate, and Sam’s resolve crumbled.
“I…” He began, and he suddenly found he couldn’t meet Dean’s eyes. “I woke up this morning feeling like I was going to explode. So I left, and I went to this diner and I got breakfast but I couldn’t eat it because it wasn’t the one you used to make me as a kid and it made the too-tight feeling worse so I left. I went to the library and I was there all day because if I was researching I didn’t have to think about anything other than the case and I could pretend that it was any other day of the year and it didn’t matter that Jess was gone and Dad was missing and I couldn’t breathe right because everything was wrong. And then the library closed and the tight feeling wouldn’t go away and I just wanted to forget. So I went to that bar and I got drunk and then Alice played this song and then I just…I wanted you, Dean. I wanted you to tell me it was okay, and ask me how it felt to be twenty-three. I wanted…I just wanted my brother.”
Dean was silent, staring at Sam with that strange sad expression he’d worn since they were kids.
“I love you, Sammy,” He said after a moment, wrapping Sam in a tight hug that seemed to close the chasm in his chest. “I promise, everything is going to be alright.”
It was.