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fannishlissFive Ways Dean Celebrates his Birthday
(And One Way He Doesn’t)
spoilers through 5.11
Gen, rated G, no pairings
1300 words
~*1*~
Sunday rolls around and Dean wakes up no earlier than usual.
When he comes out of the bathroom, Sam is tightening the laces on his sneakers.
“Run?” Sam says. Sam has been real serious about training ever since he got back from his “sabbatical.”
Dean likes it too, even though the long runs don’t help him sleep.
The air is in the mid-thirties outside, but at least the sun is shining, low and thin just above the horizon.
Neither brother takes the lead. They pace each other beautifully, despite the advantage in height Sam has over Dean. All those years keeping up with his brother, he knows Dean’s paces as well as his own. The two of them choose their path with a flickered glance, a lift of the chin –little signs almost imperceptible to anyone watching.
The motel where they’re staying is old, a relic on a US Highway. The fields nearby are stubble, frosted over, sparkling in the sunlight. One place, the crows are roosting, thick in the fields, dozens in the trees, watching Sam and Dean from a careful distance, cawing softly amongst themselves.
Dean remembers Lucifer, crazy in the future, talking about the Earth as God’s supreme creation. Will he restore it to human-free perfection when he’s wiped the world clean?
It’s not gonna come to that, Dean reminds himself, because Dean is meant to stop it, and besides, he’s got Sam, and Bobby, and Castiel, and that ain’t nothing.
Dean stubbornly clears his mind, counting his breaths. The clean air feels good and his legs feel strong, and Sam’s breathing easily beside him.
~*2*~
They get back from the run and Sam opens up his laptop, letting Dean have first shower. When he comes out he digs into his duffel and finds a brand new package of socks, and all the ones wearing thin are gone.
Sam is deep in his google fu, but his mouth is twitching.
“I love a new pair of socks, man,” Dean musters. “Happy toes!”
Sam stifles a grin as they pack up the duffels and haul them out to the car.
The Impala is already a little bit warm inside, her perfect black skin soaking up the sunshine.
~*3*~
Sammy’s driving; the radio’s set on classic rock and doing a pretty good job of it.
Sammy pulls over at Nancy’s Country Buffet. The parking lot is already full of cars, and it’s only 9 am on a Sunday morning. Good sign.
Sam and Dean stroll in, free of bloodstains and dirt, hair combed, faces clean.
The sign on the door says, “All you Care to Eat – $9.95.”
Their waittress is a smiling blonde named Emily. She looks a few years younger than Sammy, a gold ring and a diamond on her left hand, a “#1 mommy” charm on a thin chain necklace.
Dean has a meat course first, sampling the sausage and ham, with a pile of scrambled eggs on one side.
Then he goes back for the biscuit and gravy course – one biscuit with chipped beef, one with sausage.
Sam had grits with fruit and cream, wheat toast with marmalade, and a short stack of blueberry pancakes.
Emily comes back two or three times to warm up their coffee. The coffee is medium bold and perfect, and Dean wolfed the first cup, and savored the second and third.
“Pardon me,” says Sam, “but do you have pie?”
Dean’s eyes light up.
Emily notices, smiling at Dean. “Why, of course we do: apple, blackberry, cherry, mincemeat, lemon meringue, key lime, vinegar pie, and pumpkin.”
“Did you say mincemeat?” Dean asked. “Does that have meat in it?”
Sam wonders how Dean can eat any more meat in one sitting.
“Yes, it does. In fact,” she leans in conspiratorially, “it’s a local recipe. It’s venison. It’s like a meal in itself.”
Dean almost visibly slobbers. “I’ll have that. With vanilla ice cream on top?” Dean looks like a kid sometimes.
Emily nods. “Sure thing. And you, sir?” she adds, turning to Sam.
Sam clears his throat, “Can you put another one in a box to go?”
“Absolutely.”
She’s back in short order. Dean is in ecstasy over the pie. Sam steals a spoonful, savoring the interesting combination of stewed meat, raisins, and apples in their thick, spicy syrup.
Dean groans as they push away from the table. Sam leaves the money for the tab, with a generous tip.
~*4*~
Later that afternoon, while Sam is driving, Dean calls Bobby.
Ostensibly, he’s checking on leads on the case they’re headed for, and of course, any headway on the Apocalypse, but really he just wants to hear Bobby’s voice, assure the old man they’re okay, find out how much snow is on the ground in South Dakota, how cold it’s getting at night, if the house is staying warm.
Sam and Dean had installed a first floor shower to Bobby’s specifications, so Bobby doesn’t have to haul himself up and down the steps, and he doesn’t have to heat the second floor. The first floor is warm, the windows caulked, the drafts stopped.
He’s doing fine, all things considered. He tells Dean to take care, stay in touch.
Dean closes the phone with a smile.
~*5*~
They stop for the night in a nicer looking place than they sometimes find. It’s an old place, but the management plays up the kitsch factor and everything is clean.
As Dean checks in, Sam is leafing through a box.
“Dude, get this.”
It’s a DVD leaflet for “Ghostbusters.”
“Movies are $5 – DVD players already in the room. Complimentary popcorn!” The guy behind the counter offers cheerily.
They’d gotten subs at a Sheetz earlier and pulled them out of the cooler, ate in the room, and then Dean watched the popcorn popping in the little microwave while Sam set up the movie.
“I loved this movie,” Sam says.
“No kidding,” Dean chuckles, and Sam remembers how Dean would quote whole chunks of it. And he thinks Sam’s the nerd.
When Akroyd and Murray call the EPA guy “dickless” both brothers choke laughing, just like old times.
~*0*~
Sam is asleep, but Dean is awake. Sleep won’t come.
Drinking doesn’t help, not really. Tonight he just goes outside to look at the stars.
He hears a soft flapping, and Castiel steps up beside him. They don’t speak for a while. Apparently gazing at stars is one thing an Angel can understand.
“Many happy returns, Dean,” Castiel finally says.
Dean nods. “Thanks, Cas.”
A moment passes, then he says, “What are the odds, though, really.”
“The odds? I don’t understand.”
“Of me getting happy returns. I mean, not like this year is all that hot, and not like last year was either, or any other year, I mean, for a long time...”
Castiel silently lifts his hand. He grips Dean right on the shoulder, right where he pulled that sorry torturer out of hell, and where the body he remade perfectly still bears the mark. It doesn’t eaxctly feel weird, except Dean’s heart is pounding. The Angel meets his eyes.
“The Lord doesn’t deal in odds, Dean. You are destined to stop it. And so you will.”
Dean shakes his head. “You’ve put your faith in a sorry son of a bitch, Cas. I broke in Hell, what makes you think I won’t break again?”
“You won’t, and neither will Sam. We will go down fighting, if need be. That’s all that can be asked of a soldier.”
Like Jo, Dean thinks. Like Ellen. He lets the tears rise.
“I, for one, rejoice that you were born, Dean. And so does your brother.” Castiel has apparently finished his thoughts for the evening, and with a fluttering of unseen wings, he is gone.
Dean looks back at the stars. The red eye of Betelgeuse glares at Dean from Orion’s shoulder. The air is thin, and Dean is getting cold.
“Another year wiser,” Dean sighs, and goes back inside.
~*o*~
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAN WINCHESTER,
AND MANY HAPPY RETURNS OF THE DAY!
