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five birthdays
Supernatural
Gen; PG-13
Warnings: No specific spoilers, general series spoilers through Season 2
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money off it.
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wendy wanted to know how Dean celebrated his birthday.
When Dean turned 32, it was your ordinary, average day, popping an annoying poltergeist that had been playing with the traffic lights in the touristy part of Santa Fe. He and Sam hung around for a while, because poltergeists were sneaky little bastards and you couldn't be too careful, but everything stayed calm and they were clear and on their way back to the hotel right at dawn.
The plaza was filling up as they walked through, people spreading blankets and setting out trays of jewelry and pots and ... stuff. Dean was all for people making a living, but being as how the Impala was still home, he didn't see much need for anything they were laying out. Sammy, of course, had other ideas, and the second, the second, Dean took his eyes off him, he was crouched down next to some old dude, talking a mile a minute and oh, hey, even better, waving Dean over.
"--was thinking mountain lion," Sam was saying as Dean walked up.
The old guy looked Dean up and down, dark eyes sharp and alert. "No," he said, shaking his head. "The bear."
Sam was looking at Dean, too, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful, but before Dean could give him the universal sign for 'dude, c'mon, I'm tired and I want a shower; quit princessing around and let's go,' more commonly known as a smack on the back of the head, he turned back to the old guy.
"Yeah," Sam said, smiling. "I guess you're right."
"Sammy," Dean started to say, but then he had to stop and pinch himself, because he did not just see his little brother hand over nine Ben Franklins. He did not.
"Self-knowledge," the old guy said, still looking at Dean while he passed something off to Sam. "Healing. Strength in the hunt."
"C'mon, Dean," Sam said, straightening up and thanking the guy. "Shower, right?"
"Dude, the hell?" Dean fumed, but Sam only grinned and kept walking, snow crunching and squeaking under his boots. He held out his hand and Dean reached out automatically. The stone was cold and dark, the perfect size for skipping, but polished smooth and shiny.
"Marble," Sam said, when Dean looked up at him. "Inlaid with turquoise." Dean flipped the stone over and saw the blue eyes, the carefully placed cuts that shaped the muzzle and paws, the jagged lines like lightning bolts across the body. "Heart lines," Sam murmured, tracing over them, his touch light and quick. "Not just the bear, but the snake, as well."
"For..." Dean hesitated, trying to sort through legends and meanings to remember the Anasazi.
"Rebirth," Sam answered, closing Dean's hand around the bear. "Happy birthday, man."
*
When Dean turned 30, the doctors told Sam to be prepared for the worst. Dean was breathing on his own, but he'd lost too much blood, sustained too many injuries for them to see any real hope of recovery. Sam nodded and asked if he could be moved into Dean's room. The doctors all looked grave and talked about separating and denial and undue burdens on Sam's mental health, but Sam hadn't grown up John Winchester's son without learning how to dig his heels in, and frankly, they were no match at all.
Sam couldn't do anything for Dean, not with two broken legs and enough stitches to hold together half of the world, but he'd be damned if Dean was going to be alone. Once they got him moved, and the parade of nurses and doctors and technicians left them alone, Sam laid his head back on the soft hospital pillows and started talking.
He babbled, mostly; memories and questions and bits and pieces of his life at Stanford that he thought Dean might find funny. When the volunteer came around with the library cart, he took whatever she had and read that out loud, too. The nurses were competent and kind, stretched too thin to spend time with them beyond what was absolutely necessary, but they confirmed what Sam halfway remembered, that coma patients could hear what was happening around them. He made doubly sure to say, every single day, that he was fine, that the demon was gone and Bobby had the car. Dean could rest now if he wanted; everything was taken care of.
He'd finished The DaVinci Code and was half-way through The Hobbit when Dean opened his eyes. "God, Sammy," he mumbled. "Do you ever shut up?"
*
When Dean turned 23, he was riding shotgun with Caleb, hot on the heels of some Bigfoot-wannabe in Oregon. Nobody tracked like Caleb, not even his dad; Dean was usually so fascinated he didn't even notice how fucking cold and wet and miserable he was until they stopped for the night. Half the time he'd run through all the hot water and still feel chilled, but there wasn't much to do about it other than to pull on an extra layer of socks and have a shot or two before finding someplace to eat.
Outside of the hunt, Caleb was a pretty boring guy, nice enough, but not really all that great of a conversationalist. Then again, he never gave a damn where Dean spent his nights, as long as Dean was there and ready to go when Caleb said. There were definitely worse people to be stuck on a hunt with, for sure, even if it did make for days where Dean would have given just about anything to hear something other than his own voice, even Sam and Dad going at it.
Even with Caleb's tracking mojo on high alert, it took them the better part of six lousy weeks to run the thing down and put it out of its misery. Way out in the woods like that, out past even the logging trails sometimes, cell phone reception sucked. Dean was tempted to throw the damn thing away and start with a new one rather than go through all the messages and missed calls. He would have, too, except that credit checks were a pain in the ass.
He listened to the messages from his dad and deleted everything else unheard, except for the one from the 650 area code. That one, he just saved. He told himself he was going to listen to it, someday, but then the credit card they were charging the cell phones to hit its limit and the service was terminated.
*
When Dean turned 9, his dad got to Pastor Jim's late, but Dean hadn't doubted that he'd be there, not for a second. He saw the lights of the Impala turn in at the driveway and was waiting at the back door when his dad knocked.
"Sammy's fine, Dad," he said, because that was the most important thing. "He lost a tooth, but act surprised when he tells you, okay?"
"Dean," Pastor Jim said. "Maybe you should let your father sit dow--"
"I'm fine, Jim," his dad said, even though he was holding on tight to the kitchen table and sitting down slow and easy, the way you did when everything hurt and you didn't want to cry. "Bring me my duffel, okay, Dean?"
"Yes, sir," Dean said and carefully dragged the scuffed and dirty canvas bag across the floor. His dad unzipped the big compartment and looked up at Dean before he reached inside.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier, kiddo," he said. "Things took a little longer than I thought." Dean started to say that it was okay, because it was, but Dad was pulling a shotgun out of the bag and it was the coolest thing Dean had ever seen and he was handing it to Dean.
It settled perfectly on Dean's shoulder, like it had been made for him. He vaguely heard Dad talking to Pastor Jim, cut down stock and twenty gauge and over-under with a rocker trigger, easy to fire, everything distant and far-away, until Dad laid his hand on his shoulder and said, "We can start target practice in the morning."
"Yes, sir," Dean breathed. When he looked up, he thought his dad looked sad, but before he could ask, Sammy came charging into the kitchen.
"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, I lost a tooth, right here, and Dean got it for me and told me I hafta put it under my pillow, but I forget how come, and we had cake for dinner because it was Dean's birthday and I drew him a picture and he said it was the best picture ever, and--"
"Whoa, tiger, calm down there." Dad sounded fine, but when Sammy threw himself onto his lap, Dean knew he hadn't been imagining things. Dad flinched, just a little, but that meant something had hurt him. It was a really good thing he'd brought Dean the shotgun. He needed help and Dean knew he was only a kid still, but he wouldn't be for long.
"C'mon, Sammy," Dean said. "It's way late and Dad's pretty tired. He'll be here for breakfast and you can tell him everything then."
Dean held his breath, because sometimes Sammy wouldn't go quietly and Dean understood, he really did--it was hard to have to leave Dad and go to bed--but Dad was hurting and the last thing they all needed was Sammy getting stubborn. But hey, it was his birthday and somebody must have been looking out for him, because Sammy slid off Dad's lap without any fuss. He watched while Dean carefully zipped the shotgun into its case, his face squinched up in that funny, too serious expression that meant Dean was gonna get a bajillion questions as soon as they were alone but he slid his hand into Dean's and didn't say anything right then.
"Happy birthday, kiddo," Dad said, as Dean let Sam pull him out of the kitchen. Dean wanted to say thank you, but Dad hissed and swore as Pastor Jim leaned over him and Dean just hurried Sam up the stairs before he noticed.
*
When Dean turned 5, he crept out of the big double bed in the motel and sat on the floor next to the other bed. It was cold out from under the covers, but he needed to be close, so he could see when his dad woke up.
sleepyhead
"I'm not a baby now," he said, as soon as his dad opened his eyes. It felt funny to talk, like his voice had forgotten how while he hadn't had anything to say. "I'm five." He held up his hand, fingers spread apart.
starfish
He could count and read if somebody helped him and he knew when Sammy wanted a bottle and when he needed a new diaper.
"You don't have to take care of me now," he said. "And I'll take care of Sammy, too."
little man
"Okay, buddy," Daddy said, after a minute. He smiled at Dean. "You do that and I'll take care of everything else."
Dean smiled back because Daddy didn't smile very much anymore and hugged his knees close to his chest. The floor was hard and cold and even though he slept in sweatpants now, like Daddy, he was shivery cold, too.
popsicle toes
"C'mon," Daddy said, holding open the covers. "Crawl over on the other side and get warm and when Sammy wakes up, we'll go get pancakes."
"Chocolate chip," Dean whispered. "With whipped cream."
"Whatever you want, Dean-o," Daddy said, tucking the blanket around him. His voice was soft, like he was remembering, too. "Whatever you want."
happy day, love
Supernatural
Gen; PG-13
Warnings: No specific spoilers, general series spoilers through Season 2
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money off it.
wendy wanted to know how Dean celebrated his birthday.When Dean turned 32, it was your ordinary, average day, popping an annoying poltergeist that had been playing with the traffic lights in the touristy part of Santa Fe. He and Sam hung around for a while, because poltergeists were sneaky little bastards and you couldn't be too careful, but everything stayed calm and they were clear and on their way back to the hotel right at dawn.
The plaza was filling up as they walked through, people spreading blankets and setting out trays of jewelry and pots and ... stuff. Dean was all for people making a living, but being as how the Impala was still home, he didn't see much need for anything they were laying out. Sammy, of course, had other ideas, and the second, the second, Dean took his eyes off him, he was crouched down next to some old dude, talking a mile a minute and oh, hey, even better, waving Dean over.
"--was thinking mountain lion," Sam was saying as Dean walked up.
The old guy looked Dean up and down, dark eyes sharp and alert. "No," he said, shaking his head. "The bear."
Sam was looking at Dean, too, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful, but before Dean could give him the universal sign for 'dude, c'mon, I'm tired and I want a shower; quit princessing around and let's go,' more commonly known as a smack on the back of the head, he turned back to the old guy.
"Yeah," Sam said, smiling. "I guess you're right."
"Sammy," Dean started to say, but then he had to stop and pinch himself, because he did not just see his little brother hand over nine Ben Franklins. He did not.
"Self-knowledge," the old guy said, still looking at Dean while he passed something off to Sam. "Healing. Strength in the hunt."
"C'mon, Dean," Sam said, straightening up and thanking the guy. "Shower, right?"
"Dude, the hell?" Dean fumed, but Sam only grinned and kept walking, snow crunching and squeaking under his boots. He held out his hand and Dean reached out automatically. The stone was cold and dark, the perfect size for skipping, but polished smooth and shiny.
"Marble," Sam said, when Dean looked up at him. "Inlaid with turquoise." Dean flipped the stone over and saw the blue eyes, the carefully placed cuts that shaped the muzzle and paws, the jagged lines like lightning bolts across the body. "Heart lines," Sam murmured, tracing over them, his touch light and quick. "Not just the bear, but the snake, as well."
"For..." Dean hesitated, trying to sort through legends and meanings to remember the Anasazi.
"Rebirth," Sam answered, closing Dean's hand around the bear. "Happy birthday, man."
When Dean turned 30, the doctors told Sam to be prepared for the worst. Dean was breathing on his own, but he'd lost too much blood, sustained too many injuries for them to see any real hope of recovery. Sam nodded and asked if he could be moved into Dean's room. The doctors all looked grave and talked about separating and denial and undue burdens on Sam's mental health, but Sam hadn't grown up John Winchester's son without learning how to dig his heels in, and frankly, they were no match at all.
Sam couldn't do anything for Dean, not with two broken legs and enough stitches to hold together half of the world, but he'd be damned if Dean was going to be alone. Once they got him moved, and the parade of nurses and doctors and technicians left them alone, Sam laid his head back on the soft hospital pillows and started talking.
He babbled, mostly; memories and questions and bits and pieces of his life at Stanford that he thought Dean might find funny. When the volunteer came around with the library cart, he took whatever she had and read that out loud, too. The nurses were competent and kind, stretched too thin to spend time with them beyond what was absolutely necessary, but they confirmed what Sam halfway remembered, that coma patients could hear what was happening around them. He made doubly sure to say, every single day, that he was fine, that the demon was gone and Bobby had the car. Dean could rest now if he wanted; everything was taken care of.
He'd finished The DaVinci Code and was half-way through The Hobbit when Dean opened his eyes. "God, Sammy," he mumbled. "Do you ever shut up?"
When Dean turned 23, he was riding shotgun with Caleb, hot on the heels of some Bigfoot-wannabe in Oregon. Nobody tracked like Caleb, not even his dad; Dean was usually so fascinated he didn't even notice how fucking cold and wet and miserable he was until they stopped for the night. Half the time he'd run through all the hot water and still feel chilled, but there wasn't much to do about it other than to pull on an extra layer of socks and have a shot or two before finding someplace to eat.
Outside of the hunt, Caleb was a pretty boring guy, nice enough, but not really all that great of a conversationalist. Then again, he never gave a damn where Dean spent his nights, as long as Dean was there and ready to go when Caleb said. There were definitely worse people to be stuck on a hunt with, for sure, even if it did make for days where Dean would have given just about anything to hear something other than his own voice, even Sam and Dad going at it.
Even with Caleb's tracking mojo on high alert, it took them the better part of six lousy weeks to run the thing down and put it out of its misery. Way out in the woods like that, out past even the logging trails sometimes, cell phone reception sucked. Dean was tempted to throw the damn thing away and start with a new one rather than go through all the messages and missed calls. He would have, too, except that credit checks were a pain in the ass.
He listened to the messages from his dad and deleted everything else unheard, except for the one from the 650 area code. That one, he just saved. He told himself he was going to listen to it, someday, but then the credit card they were charging the cell phones to hit its limit and the service was terminated.
When Dean turned 9, his dad got to Pastor Jim's late, but Dean hadn't doubted that he'd be there, not for a second. He saw the lights of the Impala turn in at the driveway and was waiting at the back door when his dad knocked.
"Sammy's fine, Dad," he said, because that was the most important thing. "He lost a tooth, but act surprised when he tells you, okay?"
"Dean," Pastor Jim said. "Maybe you should let your father sit dow--"
"I'm fine, Jim," his dad said, even though he was holding on tight to the kitchen table and sitting down slow and easy, the way you did when everything hurt and you didn't want to cry. "Bring me my duffel, okay, Dean?"
"Yes, sir," Dean said and carefully dragged the scuffed and dirty canvas bag across the floor. His dad unzipped the big compartment and looked up at Dean before he reached inside.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier, kiddo," he said. "Things took a little longer than I thought." Dean started to say that it was okay, because it was, but Dad was pulling a shotgun out of the bag and it was the coolest thing Dean had ever seen and he was handing it to Dean.
It settled perfectly on Dean's shoulder, like it had been made for him. He vaguely heard Dad talking to Pastor Jim, cut down stock and twenty gauge and over-under with a rocker trigger, easy to fire, everything distant and far-away, until Dad laid his hand on his shoulder and said, "We can start target practice in the morning."
"Yes, sir," Dean breathed. When he looked up, he thought his dad looked sad, but before he could ask, Sammy came charging into the kitchen.
"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, I lost a tooth, right here, and Dean got it for me and told me I hafta put it under my pillow, but I forget how come, and we had cake for dinner because it was Dean's birthday and I drew him a picture and he said it was the best picture ever, and--"
"Whoa, tiger, calm down there." Dad sounded fine, but when Sammy threw himself onto his lap, Dean knew he hadn't been imagining things. Dad flinched, just a little, but that meant something had hurt him. It was a really good thing he'd brought Dean the shotgun. He needed help and Dean knew he was only a kid still, but he wouldn't be for long.
"C'mon, Sammy," Dean said. "It's way late and Dad's pretty tired. He'll be here for breakfast and you can tell him everything then."
Dean held his breath, because sometimes Sammy wouldn't go quietly and Dean understood, he really did--it was hard to have to leave Dad and go to bed--but Dad was hurting and the last thing they all needed was Sammy getting stubborn. But hey, it was his birthday and somebody must have been looking out for him, because Sammy slid off Dad's lap without any fuss. He watched while Dean carefully zipped the shotgun into its case, his face squinched up in that funny, too serious expression that meant Dean was gonna get a bajillion questions as soon as they were alone but he slid his hand into Dean's and didn't say anything right then.
"Happy birthday, kiddo," Dad said, as Dean let Sam pull him out of the kitchen. Dean wanted to say thank you, but Dad hissed and swore as Pastor Jim leaned over him and Dean just hurried Sam up the stairs before he noticed.
When Dean turned 5, he crept out of the big double bed in the motel and sat on the floor next to the other bed. It was cold out from under the covers, but he needed to be close, so he could see when his dad woke up.
sleepyhead
"I'm not a baby now," he said, as soon as his dad opened his eyes. It felt funny to talk, like his voice had forgotten how while he hadn't had anything to say. "I'm five." He held up his hand, fingers spread apart.
starfish
He could count and read if somebody helped him and he knew when Sammy wanted a bottle and when he needed a new diaper.
"You don't have to take care of me now," he said. "And I'll take care of Sammy, too."
little man
"Okay, buddy," Daddy said, after a minute. He smiled at Dean. "You do that and I'll take care of everything else."
Dean smiled back because Daddy didn't smile very much anymore and hugged his knees close to his chest. The floor was hard and cold and even though he slept in sweatpants now, like Daddy, he was shivery cold, too.
popsicle toes
"C'mon," Daddy said, holding open the covers. "Crawl over on the other side and get warm and when Sammy wakes up, we'll go get pancakes."
"Chocolate chip," Dean whispered. "With whipped cream."
"Whatever you want, Dean-o," Daddy said, tucking the blanket around him. His voice was soft, like he was remembering, too. "Whatever you want."
happy day, love
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He made doubly sure to say, every single day, that he was fine, that the demon was gone and Bobby had the car. Dean could rest now if he wanted; everything was taken care of.
Oh, meeeeep.
It felt funny to talk, like his voice had forgotten how while he hadn't had anything to say.
*sigh*
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"God, Sammy," he mumbled. "Do you ever shut up?"
and we had cake for dinner because it was Dean's birthday and I drew him a picture and he said it was the best picture ever, and--
Oh I don't even know to express how much I love this. I love it SO MUCH Missy. You are amazing.
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(Anonymous) 2007-01-25 05:53 am (UTC)(link)no subject
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Good, good stuff.
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*hugs Dean*
Favorite lines:
and the second, the second, Dean took his eyes off him, he was crouched down next to some old dude, talking a mile a minute and oh, hey, even better, waving Dean over.
*g*
"Rebirth," Sam answered, closing Dean's hand around the bear. "Happy birthday, man."
Aww. *pets Sam* Trust Sam to find a thoughtful gift wherever they are.
He made doubly sure to say, every single day, that he was fine, that the demon was gone and Bobby had the car. Dean could rest now if he wanted; everything was taken care of.
I love that Sam keeps making sure that Dean knows the important things (especially and most of all that Sam’s OK).
He'd finished The DaVinci Code and was half-way through The Hobbit when Dean opened his eyes. "God, Sammy," he mumbled. "Do you ever shut up?"
LOL! I love how Sam kept talking and talking and talking.
He listened to the messages from his dad and deleted everything else unheard, except for the one from the 650 area code. That one, he just saved. He told himself he was going to listen to it, someday, but then the credit card they were charging the cell phones to hit its limit and the service was terminated.
Aww, Sam called. So sad Dean waited to long to listen to the message.
"Yes, sir," Dean breathed. When he looked up, he thought his dad looked sad
Poor John. His son’s growing up too fast.
He watched while Dean carefully zipped the shotgun into its case, his face squinched up in that funny, too serious expression that meant Dean was gonna get a bajillion questions as soon as they were alone but he slid his hand into Dean's and didn't say anything right then.
I love how Sam’s all inquisitive but he goes with Dean anyway, and the image of his hand in Dean’s is too sweet.
"Whatever you want, Dean-o," Daddy said, tucking the blanket around him. His voice was soft, like he was remembering, too. "Whatever you want.
I really like this gentle moment between John and Dean, and I love Mary’s presence in this last section.
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So sweet, and sad, and I just want to hug them all so much. ♥ it. Thankyou.
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Missy, these were SO good. So many tiny moments and details, and they add up to such a beautiful whole.
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