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The blood on Dean's split lip has long since dried, but the bruising around his ribs—John's bootprint—still blooms purple-green when he lifts Sammy onto the counter. The kid's legs dangle, knocking against the cabinet where the flour should be. There isn't any. Dean made do with pancake mix.
"Stop squirming," Dean grunts.
His fingers tremble slightly as he guides Sam's hands around the piping bag. Batter oozes out in uneven spirals onto the dented baking sheet. It's supposed to be a croissant. Looks more like a deformed snail. Sam giggles, pressing his shoulder into Dean's side.
"It's lopsided."
"Yeah, well, so's your face," Dean shoots back automatically.
The black eye John gave Sam has faded to a sickly yellow, but Dean's stomach still knots when he sees it. Sam's smile doesn't waver. He dips his finger into the bowl—streaks chocolate batter across Dean's nose.
"Asshole," Dean mutters, but his chest feels lighter.
The scent of vanilla and sugar curls thick between them, almost masking the mildew creeping up the motel walls. The power's been out for three days. They're working by the guttering light of a stolen emergency candle, its wax pooling dangerously close to Sam's pajama sleeve.
Dean nudges him back. "You're gonna set yourself on fire, dork."
Sam leans in anyway, batter-sticky fingers clutching Dean's sleeve. The dark presses in around them, but here—with Sam's laughter muffled against his neck, with the smell of something sweet baking in a broken oven—Dean forgets for a second that the rent's due tomorrow. The oven door screeches when Dean shoves the tray inside.
Sam's breath hitches. "Dean—"
"It's fine," Dean lies. The knob's broken; the temperature's a gamble. But Sammy's looking up at him like he hung the moon, so Dean ruffles his hair. "Happy birthday, kid."
Sam's smile is worth the burned cake. Worth everything.