Title: Happy Whatever, Candles and Cake

Disclaimer: Not mine, don’t sue.

Summary: Sam/Dean Wincest. Part of the Still Life 'verse. Sam has fallen in love with his brother three times. This time, he’s sure, is the last. Oneshot. Complete.

Feedback: Is love.

Sam is used to his father missing major events. Like Christmas, parent-teacher meetings and birthdays. Some hunt is always more important. But his sixteenth birthday? Shouldn’t his dad be giving him a set of car keys or at the very least a pat on the back?

Anyway. That doesn’t bother him. Particularly.

What worries him is that his brother has clearly lost his mind. Which, yeah. That does bother Sam – because why can’t Dean choose to do these sorts of things on days that aren’t supposed to be special?

The night before, Dean leaves Sam in the motel room and returns four hours later at two in the morning, bleary eyed and stinking of booze. It is officially Sam’s birthday. Sam lies in bed and pretends not to hear Dean’s clumsy attempts to undress.

“Sammy,” he eventually moans, “give me a hand, dude.” He stumbles heavily in Sam’s direction, there’s a crash, then, “Crap,” and Sam guesses that Dean’s broken the bedside lamp. “Gimme... Sam... come on... I really gotta lie down.”

Sam hunches up and closes his eyes tighter.

“Fine. Be like that.” Dean collapses next to him and Sam’s body jolts in surprise when his older brother throws an arm over him, trapping him in place.

“Go to your own bed,” he murmurs, trying to sound sleepy.

Dean snores in his ear. Loud.

“Dean. Dean!” There is literally no wiggle room.

Sam can barely breathe under the unfamiliar weight of Dean’s arm. He lies there, eyes examining the shadowy room, and thinks: Happy birthday to me.

They don’t speak over breakfast a few hours later; Dean drives him to school in silence, eyes hidden by dark glasses. When Sam goes to mention it’s his birthday, Dean says, “Don’t yell, Sam.”

“Ass face,” Sam mutters.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“Good. Go learn some shit. I need to sleep this off.”

That afternoon, Sam waits around for Dean to pick him up from school but the Impala never shows so he ends up walking three miles in the early May heat. He wonders if Dean has choked on his own vomit.

When he gets back to the motel, the mattresses have been taken from the bed and propped against each other to form a kind of... triangle. Like a tent or something.

“Dean?”

“In here, Sammy!”

“Oh god. It’s happened.”

“What’s happened?” Dean pokes his head out. It looks bizarre.

“You’ve gone insane. I knew it was gonna happen.”

Dean rolls his eyes and smirks. “Bring on the straitjacket. But first, can you come into my office, Samuel?”

He sounds weirdly like a teacher.

Sam drops his books on the base of his bed. “Dad’s going to kill you.”

“So make my last hours before I ascend to Heaven a little more pleasurable.”

“Like you’d ascend to Heaven.”

“Sure. They have angel wings and a halo all reserved. And a throne. Duh. Now come on.”

“But you’re such a terrible person.” Sam gets down on his hands and knees and crawls into Dean’s mattress fort. “Okay. So now I’m in. What next?”

“What do you mean; what next?” Dean looks honestly perplexed. “This is it.”

“This is what?”

“Your birthday present.”

“Wait...” Sam blinks. “You do know it’s my birthday?”

Dean frowns at him as if he’s said something really distasteful. “Look, I know you don’t think much of me, but give me some credit. You’re my little brother. Sure I remember your birthday.”

“It’s just... you didn’t say...” Sam looks up. “Why the fort?”

“Because you wanted one.”

“Like, ten years ago.”

“See, I have an awesome memory.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Besides, I lost big at pool last night. I was gonna buy you a cake or something.”

“Which you’d eat.”

“I’d let you blow the candles out first.”

Sam smiles. “So, what’re we supposed to do in the... birthday fort?”

“I got us beer.”

“Thanks...”

“But I got pretty smashed last night. So if you drink it close to me I might throw up.”

“So my sixteenth birthday present is a mattress fort?”

Dean gives him a big grin. “And my heart warming smile.”

As Sam’s about the punch him in the arm for being such a smart ass, he catches the light behind Dean’s eyes. Some splintered hope nestling there that Sam doesn’t entirely understand. He doesn’t quite get it when he lets his hand fall on Dean’s knee either, why he’s doing this, what he’s thinking – Sam switches off the sensible part of his brain. Which is quite an achievement.

He doesn’t so much fall in love as he trips into it. One unsteady step at a time. Blushing and mumbling and wrestling each other. Their father yells at them when they fight more than usual, when Dean jumps Sam and tackles him to the ground with unexpected force. “Eat dirt, Sammy!” becomes a term of endearment.

Sam is fully aware of how strange he is. How messed up. And whenever he gets the chance to run his hands through Dean’s hair, to get lost in one of Dean’s special just-for-him smiles, he forgets.

Forgetting is magical. Forgetting that the real world matters at all. Diving in and swimming through love is like wading out in deep water after spending his whole life kicking around in the shallows.

He might drown. But he’s okay with that.

The second time that Sam falls in love with his big brother, he’s not sure he ever fully got out of it in the first place. It’s just... Jessica. It’s been several months since her death, yet he can’t quite bring himself to touch Dean. To hold him. There is still a level of achy betrayal that won’t go away.

Dean insists on celebrating Sam’s twenty-second birthday, even though it was months back. He says he wants to, and there is that familiar flicker of Please, Sammy behind his smirk. Sam lets him play pretend, sits there and tries to blank out all his real birthdays, the ones he shared with Jess. He pokes at his takeout meal dinner for a while before pushing the tacos away. Dean has been singing Happy Birthday on and off all day, embarrassing Sam at the worst moments.

“What’s this?” he asks with disgust when Dean presents him with some kind of dessert, complete with one lit candle.

He has to blow it out and make a wish before he gets an answer. Sam wishes for happiness.

Dean is practically glowing with pride. “It’s Dean Winchester’s Patented Birthday Cake Surprise!”

“It’s peach pie with a candle stuck in it.”

“That’s the surprise. It’s not cake.”

“You’re really screwed up.”

“So’s your face,” Dean replies, glaring. “I’m trying to do something nice. I was gonna say you could eat it off my ass, but now... now you have to eat it off the plate like a normal person.”

“Don’t be a drama queen.”

“So now I’m a queen?”

Sam catches Dean around the waist before he can storm off. “I said drama queen.”

“Oh, okay, I feel better.” Dean is practically pouting. “Happy whatever, bitch. I got you a candle. You should be grateful.”

“I am grateful.”

“You’re never grateful, Sammy.”

Sam thinks: If that’s true, why do you keep trying with me? Dean keeps trying because he believes one of these days Sam will love him so completely he’ll never leave, and even though Sam can accept that he loves Dean, he doesn’t know whether he will ever love him that much, with that level of sacrifice. He squeezes his brother tight and holds him in place. “I am. It’s great. Let’s have half each.”

“Nah, it’s all yours,” Dean puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders, “I got you somethin’ else, too.”

“Oh, yeah? What?”

Dean rifles in his back pocket and pulls out a key. “For my car,” he explains.

“Are you sure?” It’s kind of like someone proposing. Just that level of: Oh my god, I can never accept this, this just isn’t right.

“Wouldn’t be doing it if I wasn’t, moron. Been meaning to get another key for a while. Makes sense for you to hang onto it for me. Just... y’know. In case.”

Sam doesn’t ask: Just in case what? In what possible scenario will he need his own key to the Impala? Like Dean will ever lose his.

“Take it,” Dean says thickly.

Sam obediently unlinks his arms from around Dean and opens his palm. His brother drops it into his hand and sighs. Smiles.

Dean coughs to clear his throat. “Maybe I’ll have a little of your birthday cake.”

“It’s pie.”

“Don’t be a drama queen,” he shoots back smugly, sitting down heavily on Sam’s lap and cutting himself a generous slice of the birthday pie.

It only takes Dean’s accident for Sam’s love to go cold. It freezes to the point of shattering against his grief and he tells himself that his brother no longer exists. And yet it only takes Dean’s trust, his love, his progress, for Sam to tumble back down into the depths of everything that made him love Dean in the first place. The core of his precious big brother is still there. What matters remains. Dean’s generous, adoring, faithful heart is still the same as it ever was.

Two days before Sam turns twenty-four, he realizes that nobody knows except him and also that he’s only just remembered himself.

What sucks is that Dean seems to be getting a cold.

The first sneeze catches Dean by surprise. Sam is writing down the address of some woman who left a voicemail message on his dad’s phone when it happens. He’s getting itchy for a hunt – it’s sort of annoying that Bobby is right, Sam needs to do the job he’s basically programmed to do – and this seems like his best lead.

Dean is sitting on the floor, leaning up against Sam’s legs. He’s pulled Sam’s socks off and put them on his own feet. For some reason, this amuses him endlessly. For about twenty minutes Sam has been listening to Dean’s discordant giggles.

Then Dean sneezes. Sharp and dry and sudden. His whole body jumps against Sam and he looks up, eyes wide, mouth open.

It makes Sam smile. Seeing his brother like that. Surprised by something so utterly simple and mundane. “Tell me you’re not getting sick,” he says softly, touching his hand to Dean’s hair, flat and feathery against his head. Untouched by any of the gel he used to love so much; that Sam used to literally beg him not to use.

I like your hair the way it is now, he’d say, running his fingers through Dean’s hair, still damp from the shower.

Gotta get my spikes up, Sammy, Dean replied, rolling his eyes, don’t be so gushy.

“Not,” Dean says, shaking his head and wiping his nose on his sleeve, “not sick, Sammy.”

Sam nods. “Okay. Good. You just sneezed.”

“Just sneezed.” He goes back to playing with Sam’s socks, pulling them off his own feet and rolling them back on. Sam observes this without saying anything for quite a while. The joy that Dean gets from these little games is nothing like the explosion of affection and happiness that runs through Sam when he sees Dean’s innocent smile. The smile of a proud child.

No way can he concentrate now. Not with Dean having so much fun without him. Sam puts down the book he’s writing in and leans forward. “What’re you up to, Dean?”

Dean doesn’t look up. “G-getting dressed.” His voice changes a little, deepens. He’s imitating someone. “Get dressed Dean, damn it, hurry up.”

Sam gets a shivery-sick feeling. Dean sounds like their father. He presses his lips to Dean’s hair for a moment, savouring the sweetness of it, the intimacy. “You don’t need to hurry. You can take your time now.”

Still Dean’s eyes are downcast. He won’t look at Sam. He won’t look anywhere except at his own feet and his shoulders are shaking ever so slightly. “Sammy...”

Doing his best to sound offhand, Sam says, “Yep?”

“Too slow.”

“You’re not too slow.”

“Yeah,” Dean’s head tilts and he looks at his hands. “Stupid Dean. Stupid slow.” His tone lightens. “Getting dressed, Sammy!”

Sam looks down at his book and doesn’t trust himself to speak any more.

On Sam’s birthday, he gets up as usual. He presses his hands to Dean’s cheeks and figures that the cold he definitely has isn’t bad enough to warrant calling in a doctor. Since it’s his birthday, he decides to spend the day doing things they’ll both enjoy. No books, no practicing Dean’s numbers or his writing, no shape drawing, no thinking about hunting. Instead he decides he wants to give Dean a bath.

Baths always seem to make Dean happy. He likes the water, likes having his hair washed, likes sitting down and... well, splashing Sam.

A burst of water hits Sam directly in the face and he wipes it away with the palm of his hand, flicking it in the direction of his assailant. “Dean, splashing isn’t nice.”

Dean chuckles. “Sammy’s wet.”

Sam fights a smile and tries to look stern. “I had a shower last night; I don’t need a bath, too... Careful, don’t get soap in your eyes. Let’s wash your hair.”

“I like baths.”

“I know.”

“Shhh... Sp..., Sammy.”

Sam sounds out the word for Dean. “Sp-lash.”

“Sp... lash. Splash, Sammy.” Dean gets that sweet, happy grin that always blossoms when he learns something new.

“Okay. You can splash one more time.”

Bobby will freak if the water goes through the floorboards. Sam uses a dirty towel to subtly mop up.

Dean submerges his hands in the water and pulls them up, just about dumping half the contents of his bath out, getting Sam suitably soaked.

“You know what today is?” Sam asks as he’s shampooing his brother’s hair. Dean’s eyes are squeezed shut.

“Morning? Morning’s bath time.”

He laughs. “Yeah, Dean, it’s morning. But it’s also my birthday. I’m twenty-four.” He rinses Dean’s hair and wipes a towel over his eyes so he can look at Sam without fear of getting water in them.

Dean’s eyes widen as Sam kneels down next to the tub. “Twenty-four?” he asks. He holds up both his hands, spreading his fingers.

“It’s more than that. A lot more. More than all our fingers put together. I thought you might like to go and get some cake for my birthday.”

“Yes!” Dean nods and grins. “Birthday cake.”

“Yep, happy birthday to me,” Sam says, and he knows it’s not the first time in his life that he’s said that to himself.

Dean half-leans out of his bath and messily kisses Sam’s cheeks, his chin, his lips.

The taste of Dean’s almost-sick, sloppy-wet kisses nearly hurt. That taste always hurts as much as it heals. “Happy-happy, Sammy,” he says with the familiar, shy look of pleasure on his face.

Sam smiles. “Thank you, Dean.”

This, Sam is sure, is the last time he’s going to fall in love with Dean. Or anyone else, for that matter.

This time he’s staying. Him and his reckless, hopeful heart.

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End

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