Note: Spoilers through Crossroad Blues. I’d intended to finish this thing on the 24th of January, but it was only 3/4 done at that point, then life ate me. ![[livejournal.com profile]](http://s.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
la_perkins and cass404 for beta props, especially for that part where I flailed about and said, “YARGH! TITLE!” and Cassiepants came through.
Dean’s first birthday, and Mary went overboard decorating the cramped living room of their 700 square foot, two bedroom rental near the university campus. Streamers and balloons filled the corners, and the old kitchen table she’d pulled into service, its crooked leg propped up with last month’s issues of Field and Stream and Car and Driver, was so crammed with packages that, in the end, the cake had to go on one of the tray tables instead.
John watched Dean pull himself up on the edge of the couch, tiny face screwed tight in concentration, the hazel-green eyes fixed on the single flickering candle just out of reach, and got ready to lift him out of harm’s way at the first sign of trouble. Dean’d been close to walking for weeks now, and the way John figured, it wouldn’t take much motivation to tip him over into ambulatory: all Dean had to do was figure out how to let go, and he’d be off and running.
When it came time to blow the candle out, John made a big show of helping, keeping his hands wrapped tight around Dean’s small ones until the last wisps of smoke were gone, better safe than sorry.
***
The year he turned 5, it was a little over a week before anyone remembered that Dean even had a birthday, and anyone in that case included Dean himself.
A card from the dentist’s office–arriving in an envelope battered and smudged from the limbo of address forwarding–led to a quick glance over at the calendar and a muttered curse from John. And as bad as he felt when he realized he’d forgotten Dean’s birthday, it was nothing compared to how he felt when he knelt and handed the damn card to Dean, along with the one he’d picked up at the grocery store and signed in the car, only to get a blank and baffled look from his son in response.
“Happy belated birthday, sport,” he said, making another stab at it. The cheer he forced into the words tasted rusty in his mouth. “How’s it feel to be 5?”
Dean just shrugged, the eyes beneath the over-long mop of bangs darting off to the corner, then over to where Sammy sat, contentedly gumming on the He Man figure some well-meaning neighbor or other had given Dean that Christmas, then down to the cards on his lap, never once going back to his father’s face.
The bottle of bubble soap and package of jacks he’d bought to go with the card weighed down John’s coat pocket like so much lead, and he caught himself twisting the ring on his left hand again, round and round, as if doing it often enough would somehow summon Mary’s spirit to tell him what to do next, how to go on.
***
Sixteen’s an age any car-mad boy’s supposed to look forward to, and any car-mad young boy’s father is supposed to dread.
When Dean was born, and they’d come out to the hall to tell him he had a son, John’d thought ahead to pillow forts, games of catch, and driving lessons. Helping him with his homework, maybe even to taking away the keys as punishment for curfew breaking. He’d never anticipated having to convince his son that getting his driver’s license–his legitimate, honest-to-god driver’s license, that is–was worth the bother.
“Did you make the appointment?” John asked from behind his cup of coffee on the morning of Dean’s sixteenth birthday. He didn’t have to specify the what of it: he and Dean’d been going back and forth on this for weeks, ever since he’d ordered Dean to get the learner’s permit in the first place.
His son looked up from the knife he was sharpening with a shrug and a smile that didn’t hide the stubborn set of his jaw. “Don’t see how that’s necessary, seeing as I already have a dozen of the damn things, and have since I was 14.”
“Watch your language, son.” Just reflex by now, not enforced, not for years. Not a priority, any more than taking the time out from the hunt to go into town for a license that wouldn’t change anything was for Dean.
He lifted the mug, swallowing a quarter of the contents in one go despite the fact that it was hot enough to leave the inside of his mouth scorched and feeling like sandpaper. May have hurt like hell, but all told, it still beat letting it cool and actually tasting the damn stuff; cheap grounds and water you couldn’t trust to drink without boiling it made for a brew you drank because you had to, not because you wanted to.
Mary’d always made coffee worth waking up for. Mary’s sons were supposed to have a normal life, not this pieced together rabbit-hole version where a 12 year old threw himself into his homework by way of rebelling and a 16 year old sharpened knives at the breakfast table and couldn’t see the point of a driver’s license.
He clutched the mug tighter, the index finger of his right hand as always seeking the third finger of his left, the warm press of gold worrying a groove into the pad. “You’ll need the real thing, Dean. For later.” Left unspoken, when this is done.
***
Sam didn’t know it, but he gave Dean the emotional weather report for the coming week on Saturday night: mostly gloomy, chance of moping. Laying there on top of the motel issue polyester print comforter, eyes fixed on the popcorn ceiling, voice somehow matter-of-fact and just a little too cool for comfort: “Jess would have been 22 on Tuesday.”
Dean’s first thought was, ‘Since when do you celebrate birthdays?’ His second, ‘Oh, hell.’ His, too.
He tried to remember how he’d spent his last one. Probably a waitress involved, but damn if he knew the where or how. He’d spend this one, no doubt, watching Sam try to tough it out, closing off and clamming up. Great. At least he had fair warning.
Afterwards, he was pretty certain he’d meant to say yet another variation of ‘Sorry, Sammy.’ What came out of his mouth instead was, “Tuesday, I’ll be 27.”
And the moment it came out, he wished to god he could take it back, because Sam gave a full-body flinch and started fucking apologizing. “Jesus, Dean. I’m sorry. I didn’t–”
“Don’t worry about it, Sammy. I don’t do birthdays, remember?” Kept the words light, teasing. “Not since Denny’s stopped doing the free dinner thing, at any rate.”
It worked, got him the affronted little brother voice. “Those weren’t even your birthdays; they were the birthdays on your fake IDs. Yours and dad’s.”
“Aww, Sammy, you’re just sad they ended it the year you got too old for the Kid’s Club freebies.”
A long silence, a huffed breath, and a, “Yeah. Right.” as sarcastic as they came. Crisis averted, at least for now.
***
27 was the age where rock gods fell, the gold standard for live fast, die young. 27 was an age he should have stayed forever, twice over, about a century younger than 28.
Sam slept fitfully in the next bed over while Dean watched the last few seconds of 27 tick away on his watch. One more minute, then another. He took a swig from the flask at midnight, listening to the sounds of Sammy breathing, of his watch ticking away, marking the start of his first full year on stolen time, a gift he didn’t want and couldn’t exchange.