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Cas and Claire will take care of Mrs. Novak’s body alone. Sam had quietly volunteered, but Claire, voice scratchy from weeping, vehemently rejected his offer. Sam hadn’t argued Whether it’s for the best, Sam can’t say. He’s only buried a parent once, which doesn’t make him an expert. Perhaps Dean knows a little better, but either way, Sam won’t be bringing it up.
He and Dean check on the rest of Tamiel’s victims. Shockingly, all but one are alive—too many to anonymously drop off at the nearest hospital. This means an anonymous call to the cops instead, and clearing out from the farm ASAP. Cas bears Mrs. Novak to the car like a martyr, Claire following stone-faced behind him. Neither he nor Dean ask where they’re going, or about a hunter’s funeral; it’s none of their business (though he catches Dean glancing over his shoulder at them more than once). After calling the police, they take off themselves.
About five minutes into the drive Sam asks, “Do you think she’ll be okay?” knowing it’s a dumb question. Dean bleakly replies, “It’s her birthday,” which just about sums it up. Sam keeps his mouth shut until they reach the hotel. The rest of the trip back is dead silent.
Sam gets them a room for the night, figuring Cas will continue watching over Claire whenever they return (and sure that their looming presence will only make things more uncomfortable than they already are). Their room’s on the opposite side of the complex, which is fine. There are only singles left, which is less fine, but Dean doesn’t seem to care when Sam tells him. He doesn’t either, to be honest.
Dean doesn’t say another word until their shoes are off and flat on their backs on the king-sized bed. “I’m gonna get her something.”
“What?”
“I wanna get her—”
Sam’s brain catches up with the surprise conversation. “Everywhere’s closed,” he points out. What could Dean have in mind? Hopefully something more appropriate for an eighteen-year-old girl than a stuffed cat from an alternative clothing store.
“I know that,” Dean snaps. “I mean tomorrow.” A pause. “I’m gonna get her Caddyshack.”
“O... kay.” Random. Sam resists the urge to roll onto his side and stare. Right now they’re both over the covers which felt natural at first but now is strangely uncomfortable. At least it’s not cold.
“I took her out for mini-golf,” Dean explains. “While you were busy getting jumped after benching me.”
Sam ignores the barb. “Why?”
“We were bored. She wanted a drink, I told her no.” Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean nod resolutely. “Too young.”
Dean was too young; definitely younger than eighteen, though Sam’s not sure of the exact age. It’s one of those things he doesn’t like thinking about. It’s a problem that Dean doesn’t think is a problem, even after saying things like that, which just makes the whole thing worse. So it’s ignored, like so many other non-problems. It’s hardly the worst thing, though.
“Been a while since we’d gone,” Dean continues. “Haven’t lost my touch, though.” He nudges him.
“Speaking of, when was the last time we went?”
“My eighteenth birthday,” Sam says blandly.
Dean cackles. “Seriously?” Sam doesn’t join in and the laughter dwindles. “Seriously?” he repeats quietly.
Sam shrugs. “It’s not a big deal,” he says, which is true. He never hated putt-putt per-se, but it’s not the most thrilling thing when you’re over twelve and not allowed to drink on the course. The trip had been for want of anything else to do, he’s pretty sure. It was that or stare at the door knowing Dad wasn’t going to make it back in time. Again.
“That can’t be right,” Dean mutters under his breath. “No, I’m positive that... I thought we... Are you sure?”
That makes Sam smile. “Yeah, I’m sure. We went to a place with putt-putt a few years back, but you got us kicked out because you were playing bumper cars on the go-kart track.”
“That guy ran into me,” Dean replies immediately, just as indignant as he was back then. “But seriously, you love mini-golf. No way we haven’t gone in over a decade. You’re crazy.”
“Not this week,” Sam replies blithely, but Dean’s too busy working himself up to notice.
“Your birthday’s coming up,” he says. “We’ll go somewhere, hit some balls around. Not anywhere with a kart track, the courses are never as good—but somewhere, somewhere fun. With good hot dogs! You used to love it, you know? With the windmills or whatever, thought all the miniature buildings were a hoot.”
“Dean—”
“It made you smile real big, you know? Even when I beat you, you thought it was real fun. Your favorite thing.”
It was never Sam’s favorite thing, even when he was twelve. But Dean? Dean loved it, so he did too. “We don’t have to—”
“We do!” Dean interrupts, overly loud and a touch manic. “We do! It’s your birthday, dammit! We should do something, we have to do something!”
The tension radiates off Dean in nigh tangible waves. Considering how rough he was with that witness earlier (according to Cas, anyway) it should probably make him nervous. Instead, Sam simply lays his hand on Dean’s forearm (no Mark here, thankfully) and Dean steadies, muscles unknotting and breath calming.
“First off, my birthday’s not for a month and a half,” Sam points out. “And second, we don’t need to do anything for it because I don’t like celebrating it anyway.”
“And why’s that?” Dean demands unhappily. Does he even realize they’ve skipped over a decade of birthdays already? He must. He’d never sound so bitter otherwise.
“Probably the same reason Claire won’t,” Sam answers carefully.
He can tell it takes a moment for Dean to connect the dots. It’s amazing how fresh the wound from Dean’s death (horrifically, only the first of many) still feels. Maybe he should be just as affected by his own death from the year prior, but to be honest he doesn’t even remember it. There’s only the realization that the countdown to May 2nd would be a race against the clock to ensure that Dean would see May 3rd—a race that Sam ultimately lost. The failure still stings. It always will.
Dean turns onto his side to look at him, breaking the unspoken contract to not make this weird and go to sleep. Maybe Sam should have gotten under the covers. “It’s not all bad, is it?” Dean asks quietly. “Hating your own birthday... that’s just sad, man.”
“I don’t hate it,” Sam says. “It’s just not important to me. Just another day on the calendar.” Unless you stare directly at it. Then it burns, like noticing a paper cut for the first time.
Dean nods, though Sam doesn’t think it’s in acceptance. He’s proven right mere seconds later. “What do you want for your birthday?”
“What?”
“What do you want? Mini-golf? We can do mini-golf.”
Sam gives up and twists so he and Dean are practically nose-to-nose. “I don’t think you were listening.”
“I wasn’t. Do you want to do mini-golf for your birthday?”
His brother’s insane, Sam muses fondly. How confidently he recreates reality to suit him. Sam’s turning thirty-two, but for Dean he’s turning twelve and loves putting balls past spinning windmill blades—no other facts will do. He’s a regular Don Quixote.
“No, I don’t want to do mini-golf. That was always your thing anyway,” Sam points out.
“No it wasn’t.”
“Yes it was.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Was. Besides, you just went. Really think you’ll have a hankering for it again so soon?”
Dean strokes the bridge of Sam’s nose; a sneeze threatens him then subsides. “Sorry. Woulda taken her somewhere else if I thought about it. Don’t be jealous.”
Annoyance spikes. “Jealous? That’s—Don’t be stupid. I’m not jealous.”
“Are.”
“Not.”
“Are. But it’s okay, I get it. We’ll do something else. Anything at all. Baseball game, car show, wrestling. Whatever you want.”
Those are all Dean’s favorite things, and Sam nearly agrees to all of the above out of habit. Not that he’d mind (he likes those things too, though not with the same fervor as his brother), but now he’s feeling indignant and petty. “Museum. And not a car or aviation museum. History museum.”
“Bo-ring. Pick something fun.”
“You said anything!”
“I lied. Pick again.”
“Jerk,” Sam complains. Dean pets his nose again and it occurs to him that that is probably odd. His brother being crazy is just more of the same though, so he doesn’t call him out for it. If Sam didn’t want it to get weird he shouldn’t have turned on his side. He shouldn’t have said anything at all.
“Natural history museum, then,” Sam compromises. “Somewhere with dinosaurs.”
“Dinosaurs are cool,” Dean agrees. “That all?” His finger skips off the tip of his nose and taps his lips. Sam bites him lightly, but Dean doesn’t remove his finger. They blink at one another, Dean’s index finger in Sam’s mouth. He asks again, “That all?” and Sam licks the digit. Dean finally withdraws.
Is that all? Sam wants Rowena to crack the Book of Damned and find a cure for the Mark. He wants for every monster in the world to disappear. He wants his brother to realize that his favorite thing isn’t mini-golf, has never been mini-golf, and that’s never mattered because that’s not the point. It’s never been the point.
On Sam’s eighteenth birthday, Dean stood behind him and wrapped their hands around the club after Sam had popped his ball over the curb with his last swing and whispered in his ear, “It’s all in the hips,” as they tapped Dean’s ball, cherry red, over the hill, through the windmill, and into the hole—hole-in-one. He remembers being hot and cold and scared. And then they never played mini-golf again.
They won’t be playing mini-golf or going to a natural history museum in a month and a half. In a month and a half, Dean will forget they even had this conversation, and Sam will make himself forget. In a month and a half, he’ll be lucky if one or both of them aren’t dead.
“I guess,” Sam mumbles.
Dean looks at him hard but nods. He turns onto his back. Sam does the same. “A book, too,” he says. “One of the angel books. She took the angel sword, you know. She wants to hunt. Might as well do it right.”
Happy birthday, Claire, Sam thinks, closing his eyes. She’s lucky. Dean always gives the best gifts.