Disclaimer: Sadly, nothing related to Supernatural belongs to me. That privilege goes to Eric Kripke. Just having a little fun.

A Half a Cupcake is Better Than No Cupcake at All

By: Vanessa Sgroi

"Hey, Dean—you plannin' on getting up anytime soon?" questioned Sam Winchester from his position at the small table where he was surfing the 'net.

"Wha?" mumbled his older brother from the dark depths of his bunched up covers.

"I asked if you were getting up anytime soon. I thought you wanted to be on the road early."

This time a sleepy grunt was his only answer.

Sam took a sip of his coffee before threatening, "Okay. I guess you just want me to start singing then."

Dean's hand popped out from under the covers, pushing them down revealing his pillow-creased face. He blinked blearily at his brother. "Singing? Why the hell would you sing at me to make me get up?"

"Don't you know what day it is?"

Scrubbing a hand over his face as he scootched backward and propped himself up against the headboard. Dean thought for a second. "Yeah, it's . . . uh . . . January . . . twenty-fo— Oh."

"Your birthday."

"Yeah. Well, no big deal—it's just another day."

"Not to me."

"Ah, c'mon, Sam—don't go all chick-flick on me."

"I won't. But if you don't get your ass out of bed, I WILL start singing Happy Birthday at the top of my lungs. They'll hear me all the way down at the Gas-n-Go. Just think what Henrietta at the motel office will do when she hears the news."

This got Dean moving a little faster as he shoved off the covers and threw his legs over the side of the bed. "You know," he said as he stood, "since it's my birthday, I shouldn't have to deal with a pain-in-the-ass little brother. That should be like a universal birthday rule or something." For all the complaining, affection ruled the tone of his voice.

"Just quit bitchin' and get in the shower. I saw a restaurant up the road that's serving all-you-can-eat French toast today. Figured it might be a nice way to start your birthday. I'll even pay." Sam swallowed another mouthful of coffee.

"Tell me you brought me coffee too," Dean growled.

Knowing pushing his luck, Sam answered, "Yeah, but I'm not giving it to you until you're showered and dressed."

"It'll be cold by then!" The elder Winchester was nothing if not grouchy before his first several hits of caffeine.

"Not if you hurry."

"Not if you hurry," mimicked Dean, "what's the rush anyway, geek boy?"

"Nothing really. Just thought we could . . . I dunno . . . it's your birthday . . . and I—" Sam shrugged.

Hearing the entreaty in Sam's voice, Dean sighed. "Fine, fine. I'll hit the shower." He pulled clean clothes from his bag and moved into the motel's tiny bathroom. The steady thump-squeal of old pipes sounded seconds after he closed the door.

Twenty minutes later, Dean emerged—showered, shaved, and dressed. Before grabbing his clean socks and boots, he motioned for Sam to hand him his lukewarm coffee, which he gratefully gulped. Finishing half the cup, Dean sat it down on the nightstand and donned his socks and boots.

"You ready? 'Cause that all-you-can-eat French toast is sounding awfully good right about now. So is a side of bacon. And sausage. And maybe even ham."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Might wanna add some orange juice or something to that cholesterol fest."

The brothers exited the motel room and walked toward the Impala. Sam reached it first and slid into the passenger seat. With a small smile, he glanced at the surprise he'd left on the driver's seat.

Unfortunately, Dean failed to see the surprise when he threw himself into the driver's seat.

"Dean, wait!"

Sam's warning came too late and Dean felt something squish underneath his rear end. He turned incredulous eyes to his brother.

"Uhhh, Sam, what—" Dean paused and took a breath, ". . . what did I just sit on?"

The younger hunter couldn't help it; he started to giggle at the horrified look on his brother's face. The harder he tried to stop, the more he laughed.

"Sam!" Dean muttered, menacingly.

Regaining control of himself for a split second, the younger man gasped out, "A cupcake. It was a cupcake."

"A cupcake? What the hell was a cupcake doing on my seat?!"

"It . . . it was," Sam started to laugh again, "a surprise! I kinda thought you'd look before . . ."

"Oh it was a surprise all right." Dean hopped out of the car and started wiping at the seat of his pants. His hand came away smeared with bubble gum pink frosting and yellow cake. "Ahh, geez, Sammy, pink frosting? PINK?"

His brother's complaint made Sam laugh even harder. "It . . . it was all they . . . had."

"Figures." Sam's laughter was infectious, and Dean found himself chuckling. "I'll be right back." He disappeared back into the motel room to change into another pair of jeans.

When he returned to the Impala several minutes later, Sam was still grinning from ear to ear and the driver's seat was wiped clean. As Dean started the car and drove away, he muttered, "A freakin' cupcake on my seat—"

Sam's giggling started all over again.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Dean pushed his plate away with a contented sigh, having just consumed three servings of French toast with a side of bacon and sausage to Sam's two of French toast accompanied by a tall glass of orange juice.

"That was some good stuff," he motioned for the waitress to refill his coffee cup.

Sam pushed his plate away and stood. "Have her refill mine too. I'll be right back."

The elder Winchester brother watched curiously as Sam left the restaurant. He resisted the urge to get up and follow. A good ten minutes passed, and Dean was tapping his foot nervously, nearly ready to bolt, when he spied Sam re-entering the building with a package in his right hand and another cupcake in his left.

Sam placed the cupcake in front of his brother and sat down. He hesitated a second before handing the plainly-wrapped package to his brother. "Happy Birthday, Dean."

"Sammy, you . . ."

"Just open it."

Dean stared at him for a second with a questioning look on his face.

"Open it."

The hunter ran his finger under the paper, loosening the tape until he could peel away the paper. Lifting the top off the thin box underneath, Dean whistled when he spied the well-honed blade nestled inside the box. It glimmered under the lights of the restaurant. Tiny engravings ran along its length.

"Like it? I know you lost one of your knives in Ohio a couple of weeks ago."

"It's awesome," Dean's fingers itched to pick up the knife and test its balance much like a kid anxious to play with a new toy. "But you . . . you didn't have . . . Sam, where—"

"Don't worry about it."

Dean swallowed hard. "T-Thanks, Sammy."

"You're welcome. Happy Birthday."

Suddenly, Dean started to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, I dunno. I was just thinking of how glad I am that you decided to leave the cupcake on my seat this morning rather than the huge knife. 'Cause that coulda been ugly."

Sam's laughter joined his brother's and several other diners looked askance at the two men, wondering at their hilarity.

Once they managed to control their mirth, Dean put the lid back on the box and placed it in his lap. Grabbing a butter knife off the table, he pulled the chocolate cupcake—thankfully topped with fluffy white frosting and chocolate sprinkles—toward him and proceeded to cut it in half. He kept a half and pushed the other half in front of Sam with a rare happy smile gracing his face.