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The year was 1996. Just about, anyway.
Chicks were finally ditching the blonde, stringy perms that had them looking like their mothers, guys had finally retired their shoulder pads in favour of flannels and denim, and Dean Winchester was missing all of it.
Because as of right now, he was currently crammed in a phone booth deep in New York City, the angry queue outside of it more threatening than the wendigo he’d burnt to a crisp yesterday. And this was his last quarter.
Thank God.
“Dean? Ugh—Dean? Are you even hearing me?”
“Yeah—yeah, sweetheart, I’m listening,” he half-yelled over the roar of a cab streaming past in a blur of yellow. The car sent a splash of murky puddle water cascading across a few of the angry people glaring at him through the fogged-up phone booth glass, and he flashed them an awkward smile he hoped passed for charming. The woman on the other side didn’t seem amused, least of all charmed, so he bristled and turned back around. He looped the cord around his wrist, lanky limbs folding around the phone as he gripped the receiver with his other hand. “Look, Helen, I’m sorry, okay? I really am, but Sammy—”
A groan that made his jaw twitch silenced him.
“Your brother is, like, thirteen now, Dean—”
“Twelve,” Dean corrected lowly, not that Helen, his girlfriend, paid much notice.
“--Whatever. He can look after himself for one fucking night.”
Her voice was reedy and whiny in a way that made Dean repress a huff. “You know it ain’t that simple, Hel—”
“Actually, I think it is that simple,” Helen cut in smoothly. “I just think you’re dodging me.”
“Then stop fucking thinking. Sounds like it’s giving you a headache almost as much as it is me,” Dean ground out before he could resist.
“Don’t you take that tone with me, Dean—”
“I ain’t taking any goddamn tone—”
“Yes, you were. You know I hate it when you talk like that.”
“Just like that?” Dean asked her sardonically. A bang on the glass made his head snap round to see the glaring woman from earlier, her hand hammering against the booth impatiently. Dean grinded his teeth, pressing the phone into his shoulder, worn leather jacket muffling the noise. “Give me a fucking second, lady!” He turned back around, breathing deep. “You were saying, honey?”
“Yeah, I was. Saying what a prick you are.”
Dean ran a hand across his face and heard Helen sigh.
“Look, I get it’s hard, your dad not being around—”
“Drop it, Hel.”
“...Dean, it's your birthday. You should be allowed to celebrate like every other kid your age.”
He swallowed, glancing around the frosty January street corner.
“I am celebrating,” he told her shortly. “With my brother. I’ll call you later.”
“No, you won’t,” Helen replied bitterly, and Dean slammed the phone down before she could carry on.
He emerged from the booth, graciously bowing and extending a hand towards the phone, smirking at the woman from before.
“She’s all yours, sweetheart,” he said in a smooth tone. The woman just scoffed, barging past him so hard he stumbled out of his dipped posture, muttering something under her breath about ignorant teens thinking they own the world. He imagined it was her life he potentially saved by killing the wendigo yesterday and straightened, scowling, mumbling a few choice words of his own as he shoved freezing hands into his jacket pockets and took off striding down the sidewalk.
He didn’t look in many shop windows as he briskly walked, but the blinding studio lights and singing commercials managed to numb his senses anyway. He grimaced at a tiny white dog yapping at him, winked at a cute blonde waiting for a bus across the road, and absent-mindedly tossed a dollar into the hat of a homeless guy, rolling his eyes when he told Dean that God would bless him for this. Dean hadn’t felt blessed in a long time, least of all by God. He didn’t see why a scrap of cash and a man’s toothy grin would change that.
He rounded the corner, the excessive noise and bustle thinning as his boots crunched against the melted snow laying in the alley. Lit under flickering orange streetlamps, he crossed the space of the mostly empty parking lot, eyes flicking upwards to the buzzing motel sign hanging above the door. The receptionist from earlier was on the porch, smoke curling from the cigarette dangling from his pudgy fingers. They gave each other a nod as Dean pushed open the door.
The air inside was as stale as he left it, beige chairs and generic stock images of sunny beaches far from here lining the walls. He fished in his pockets for another crumpled dollar, sliding it into the vending machine in the waiting room. A can of coke dropped to the bottom with a thud, and after jiggling the machine just the way John taught him to as a kid, a second fell shortly after. Dean smirked, grabbing them both. Maybe the homeless guy had a point.
He unlocked the room door and entered, shutting it with his boot with a soft click. The faint sound of cartoons coming from the crappy TV trailed down the small hallway. The little shit.
“Sammy!” Dean called out, placing the cans down on the table and tossing the room keys along with them. “I said get your ass to bed when I left! What was that, two hours ago—”
Dean faltered, big brother lectures dying on his tongue as he stepped into the room fully. Sam was there sat up on one of the beds, as expected, dark hair swept across his forehead, mismatched pyjamas hung on his frame. His face was twisted in a way that showed he was tense, and Dean could take a guess as to why.
“Hey there, kid,” John said with a sharp grin. He stood from where he was sat on the edge of the other bed. “Happy birthday.”
Dean’s stomach dropped, fists unintentionally curling by his sides. He swallowed hard. “Dad,” he replied carefully. He dared a glance at Sam, who just pressed his lips into an apologetic thin line. His gaze flicked back to his father. “Thanks. We, um, we weren’t expecting you back yet. Right, Sammy?”
“He just showed up,” Sam mumbled from across the room, looking between John and Dean nervously, biting his lip like he always did when he got nervy. God forbid the kid ever tried his hand at poker.
John laughed easily. “C’mon, now. You’d really think I’d miss my eldest kid’s birthday?”
Dean sighed. “No, dad, it’s just—”
“Well, I wouldn’t,” John interjected firmly, making Dean clamp his mouth shut. He'd stood up straighter without even realizing and forced himself to relax. “I mean, seriously, son. You only turn eighteen once.”
Dean suppressed a huff as his eye twitched, glancing away at that, until he heard a small yet sure voice sound.
“He’s seventeen.”
Both Dean and John turned to look at Sam as he stared harshly back at his father.
“What?” John asked blankly.
Dean tensed, but Sam just sat up straighter, suddenly gaining confidence that looked out of sorts bundled up in a little twelve-year-old body, hazel eyes defiant.
“I said, he’s seventeen today, dad. Not eighteen.”
John swallowed, slowly turning back to the elder brother. He forced a tight smile. “Well, all the same, ain’t it? Still can’t take you out for a whiskey, in any case.”
Dean hummed. “Yeah, sure.”
John cleared his throat, tension humming in the room so much Dean thought he could taste it. He slowly stopped biting his tongue, iron seeping onto his tastebuds that he swallowed quickly.
“Son, I got you something,” John said idly, reaching to rummage in his duffel sat atop the dresser. He pulled out a gleaming black shotgun and Dean spotted Sam tensing at the sight, as if their dad was about to shoot him with the damn thing. He gave his brother an incredulous look and Sam just shrugged, as if Dean was the crazy one for seeming calm.
He took the gun from his father, turning it over in his hands under the dim motel lights. “Another gun,” he remarked, trying to sound enthusiastic. He flashed John a practised grin. “Thanks, dad. It’s awesome.”
John nodded, gaze trailing over his son holding the weapon. “Yeah, you’re welcome,” he replied slowly. “Though, maybe you’re best handing it over to Sam.”
Dean scoffed with a laugh, perplexed. “Sammy? He can barely hold a pistol.”
Sam rolled his eyes in the corner, but John just arched a brow, not smiling like Dean had expected him to. “Is that right?”
Dean swallowed. “I mean, no, I’m just kidding, dad. Sammy’s fine.”
“Fine? That what we’re calling it now?”
Sam tensed yet again and Dean let out a breath. “Look, dad, is everything alright?”
“Everything's dandy, kid,” John replied lowly, in a tone that made Dean’s chest seize. “Just figured if you’re now in the habit of abandoning your baby brother, he should have something to protect himself with.”
Dean went cold with dread.
“Dad—”
“What?” John snapped. “You think I wouldn’t find out? Think you can just run around wherever the hell you want, doing what you want, like you’re running this damn show?”
“Dad, stop it,” Sam tried to cut in, but Dean knew it was fruitless. John had probably already forgotten Sam was in the room with them, gaze homing in on Dean, cutting as a razor.
“I told you to look out for him,” John said through his teeth, stepping forwards. Dean forced himself not to flinch back.
“I am,” he ground out, staring John down.
“No, you’re not. I heard about your little fucking field trip yesterday, one of my old pals spotted you in the woods, tracking down some wendigo like you got something to prove.” He scoffed, smiling with no real joy. “Imagine my surprise when they relayed to me that little Sammy was nowhere in sight.”
“Dad—”
“I said to watch him. Take care of him. Not leave him for dead to chase your goddamn ego through the woods.”
Dean glared, irritated now. “He was in the fucking motel room! He had cartoons and juice boxes on fucking standby—!”
“Don’t you take that tone with me, boy!” John bellowed. He was in his son’s face by now, yet Dean’s only grievance with this was that it meant Sam was blocked from view, and so Dean couldn’t make sure he wasn’t going to do something stupid like start crying, or worse, arguing. “Sammy is your responsibility, do you get that?!”
“He’s not my goddamn kid, dad!” Dean shouted before he could think better of it. “I didn’t ask for any of this! He’s your fucking son, so don’t you dare blame me for—”
The hit came sharp and expected. One moment Dean was yelling in John’s face, the next his head whipped to the side. He reached a hand up to touch his aching jaw with his free hand not holding the gun, stumbling back a few steps with a groan.
“Dean!” Sam exclaimed, jumping up. He brushed past John and Dean sighed, looking down at his brother.
“I’m fine, Sammy.”
John seethed. “No, he ain’t. He’s damn irresponsible, is what he is. Do you even remember what happened the last time you left Sam alone?”
Sam whirled around, and though Dean couldn’t see his face, he knew he was scowling something fierce.
“No, dad, Dean didn’t leave me anywhere. He kept me fed and breathing while you trailed around the goddamn country!”
A muscle in John’s jaw ticked dangerously. “Sammy, step aside. This is between me and your brother.”
Dean could hear Sam breathing unevenly, but for once lacked the will to pull his brother back from the edge. Though he straightened behind him protectively, instinctively.
“You don’t get to call me that,” Sam practically snarled.
John swallowed harshly. “The hell did you just say to me, Sammy—”
“It’s Sam,” he cut in sharply. “Not Sammy. Not to you, alright?”
John sniffed, fury still rolling off him in waves. “Sam,” he started pointedly, “I’m just trying to keep you safe. That’s all this has ever been about.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t gotta worry about that, dad,” Sam replied firmly. He took a step back towards Dean, eyes never leaving his father. “I already got someone who does that every day. And he’s doing it just fine.”
Emotion swelled in Dean’s gut as he tore his gaze away from John to stare at Sam, stood in front of him like he was made of stone. Like a storm would have to blow through right now just to get him to leave his brother’s side.
John glanced between his two boys for a long time, Dean not daring to speak, before he let out a bitter scoff. “Fine. Y’all wanna play this game, that’s fine.” He grabbed his bag roughly and stepped past them both. “You call me when you feel like growing up, Dean. And try not to get your brother killed in the meantime.” The door slammed behind him with finality.
Dean let out a long breath, throwing the shotgun he was still holding to the bed with too much force; it bounced off the mattress and hit the carpet with a dull thud.
Sam turned to his brother. “You okay?” he asked quietly.
Dean just shook his head wearily. “You shouldn’t’a done that, Sammy,” he muttered, stepping around him.
He could feel Sam’s blazing eyes on the back of his head when he next spoke. “I wasn’t gonna let him give you shit like that!” he yelled.
Dean turned back around. “Hey, language,” he reprimanded harshly.
Sam scoffed. “You sound like dad,” he mumbled, crossing the room and sitting on the edge of his bed.
Dean sighed, the fight slowly draining out of him. He crossed the room, sitting opposite his brother on his own cheap mattress, rubbing at his aching face. “Don’t say that. Not after this shitshow of a night, anyway,” he grumbled.
Sam’s gaze softened as Dean sat down. “Your jaw okay?” he asked, frowning, though it was barely visible beneath his mop of hair.
He hesitated for a second before shrugging. “He’s given me worse.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Dean swallowed at that, sighing once again, an invisible weight pressing down against his shoulders. “Get washed up for bed, kid,” he said gently. “Early start tomorrow.”
Sam suddenly straightened, and Dean’s brows furrowed. “Wait, what time is it?” he asked quickly.
Dean glanced down at his watch, rolling up his jacket sleeve. “Past your bedtime.”
“Dean, seriously.”
“Almost eleven fifty. Why?”
Sam grinned, seeming almost relieved. “It’s still today,” he said abruptly.
Dean stared at him carefully. “You didn’t eat any of those brownies I put in the fridge last night, right?”
Sam knelt to rifle under his bed, peering round at Dean quizzically. “What? No, you said not to touch them. They smelt terrible anyway.”
Dean pursed his lips, nodding as Sam turned back around. “Just making sure. Why’re you acting so freaked, then?”
His brother stood, an eerily pleased grin spread across his face. His hands were folded behind his back. “Shut your eyes.”
“Sammy, if this is a tarantula again I swear—”
“It’s not!”
“--I will shoot you cold with my brand new toy.”
Sam huffed, eyes pleading. “Dean, just do it, please?”
Dean sighed, seeing the hopeful expression on his brother’s face he could never seem to refuse. “Damn puppy dog eyes,” he muttered, dutifully closing his eyes and apprehensively holding out both his hands.
A second later something hard and rectangular was slotted into his open palms. Confident enough it wasn't another poisonous arachnid, Dean let his eyes flutter open. A grin plastered itself onto his lips.
“No fucking way.”
He turned the cassette over in his hands, a white sticker pressed across the front. He ran his thumb over Sam’s neat script, reading: ‘Metallica: Reload’ then in smaller sharpie beneath it: ‘Happy Birthday, Dean!’ with a squiggly smiley face beside it.
Dean choked on a shocked laugh. “Sammy, this—this ain’t even released yet,” he looked up at his brother's beaming face. “This don’t come out til June, how the hell did you get this?”
He posed the question for two reasons; one, he genuinely wanted to know how his twelve-year-old squirt of a brother had his hands on an unreleased Metallica album. Two, he knew Sam always got a kick out of explaining the weird backstories to his projects.
Sure enough, Sam’s face lit up even further as he launched into his explanation. “Okay—okay, so, I ran into this guy down the street a few weeks back, you remember that record store you dragged me around? The one in Georgia? Yeah—anyway, he owns that, and he was outside the store ranting to one of his buddies about how kids kept pestering him about the new album. He was saying he got an early release copy on tape ‘cus he’s friends with some guy called Lars—Lars Ulrich? The drummer?”
“Yeah, Sammy. The drummer,” Dean affirmed with a nod, grin splitting his face so much his cheeks ached as he watched his brother speak with enthusiasm he hadn’t seen from him in a long time.
Sam nodded. “Yeah, him, the record guy said he was pals with him, probably a load of bullshit—sorry, a load of garbage, anyway, I figured if he was busy yapping his gums outside, the tape must be sitting in his shop. So I went in and looked through his drawers behind the counter, and—”
“Wait, wait,” Dean held up his hands to stop his brother’s rambling for a second. Sam paused and Dean had to suppress a giddy laugh. “Sammy, are you saying you... broke into this guy's store and stole this unreleased album from right under his nose?”
Sam went still for a moment, grin faltering. He rubbed the back of his hair. “I—I mean, I guess, yeah. I just figured—I mean you steal stuff sometimes and... I just had no clue what to get you this year—”
“You don’t gotta get me anything, kid. You know that,” Dean cut in softly.
Sam waved him off like the thought was ridiculous, the notion making Dean’s heart swell. “And I just thought it seemed... I dunno... really cool. I thought you’d like it.”
Dean let out a long sigh, studying his brother’s anxious expression. He slowly clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Sammy, you’re freaking incredible, you know that?” He murmured, and Sam grinned again, eyes crinkling. Dean couldn’t help but mirror it. “This—This is awesome.”
“Metal, right?” Sam asked with a smirk, and Dean laughed.
“Yeah, kid. Pretty fucking metal.”
He sat back, staring at the tape in his hands almost in awe.
“Happy birthday, Dean,” he heard Sam tell him quietly, and met his brother's gaze again, warmth blooming in his chest.
“Yeah. Thanks, Sammy.”