Author's Note: Even though I really haven't been around lately, (Senior Year guys, you all know what I'm talking about) as soon as the year slows down, I'll be back and ready for action. But here's a little something I had to put out there, because, I'm a Sam girl, and I don't know why, but I love his character. Something about his darkness and his pain that makes me drawn to him I supposed. But here, its Sam's birthday, and I have to do angst the only way I know how!
I'm not sure if I got all the ages right with the seasons, but I hope I'm pretty close
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural
He almost can't bring himself to believe it's real.
After years of telling himself that 30 was just a pipe dream, something that normal people got, it was their milestone, their dream, their time to pretend to cry into drinks with their friends from work. After years of accepting that dream would never be his reality, Sam almost can't bring himself to believe that this day was really happening.
It was his dream at some point. If Sam thinks back hard enough, he can remember when his hair was short, and his days were filled with classes and work, and at night, he didn't have nightmares about Hell, and Leviathans, instead, he'd hold Jess in his arms, and she would lull him to sleep with her rhythmic breathing that assured him that it was okay to dream again. Shamefully, he pushed all thoughts of his father out of his mind, and with a little more effort, sometimes he was able to blur Dean's face to. Sam could close his eyes, and see his future, where he was a lawyer, and he worked long hours, but when he came home, because he would have a home; not nameless motel after nameless motel that blurred together in his mind, but a home. A real home, with a door, and windows, and drive way.
Someday, Sam Winchester was going to have an address.
Those years at school, Sam dreamed of turning thirty, being married, and having kids. Having a family, who would greet him at the door when he got home from work on that thirtieth birthday, and they would smile and laugh and tease him for being so old. But Jess would kiss him, and his kids would grab his hands and drag him to some poorly constructed birthday cake with neon frosting, and a comical number of mismatched candles. But it would be his cake, and his family, in his house at his address.
And sometimes, when the dream was really good, Dean was there too, thirty four but hadn't aged a day. Dean would glance at his cake, reach up to ruffle his hair, and tell his brother that he was too damn old to have his hair that long. He was a lawyer for Christ's sake.
Sam always woke up from that dream with a smile, and he'd promise himself that someday, it would be real, and he'd get it all.
He really should've known better.
After Jess died, in the first nameless motel room of several nameless motel rooms to come, Sam sat on his bed, unable to sleep. All he felt was the heat of the flames, all he could smell was the scorched flesh and rotted wood, and eyes opened or closed, all he could see was Jess, burning to death above him, and Sam couldn't do anything to stop it.
Sam gave up his future that night, sitting alone on the motel bed while Dean slept beside him. It was a sick kind of karmic punishment. Sam hadn't remembered to be a hunter, hadn't given any thoughts to salt lines, or holy water, and whatever had gotten his Mom, had gotten Jess. Sam couldn't be bothered to remember the past, fuck, he'd run from the past. Now, the past came for him, and came for him hard. The past had destroyed his future, and let the love of his life die, her blood raining down on him from above. A true Hunter's baptism.
That night, while Sam sweated from heat that wasn't in the cold motel room, he decided that when he turned thirty, he would spend it alone, no friends, no wife, no kids, and no address. No Dean, if he could find a way to shake his ridiculous older brother.
Sam would spend this thirtieth birthday remembering the past, and mostly remembering Jess.
He didn't give any thought to his age for a long time after that. In fact, he and Dean hardly ever brought themselves to remember their birthdays. Why bother? They were drinking every night no matter what, sex wasn't special anymore, and each case blurred together. They didn't really have time to celebrate. So, Sam wasn't big on birthdays, and he'd pushed his out of his mind.
Then Dean went and fucking sold his soul to a Demon to bring Sam back from dying.
That hadn't been fair, and Dean had to have known that. His brother was impulsive, selfish, and damn fucking stupid. Hypocritical little fucker as well, seeing as Sam could remember intently that Dean had been pissed at their father for doing the same thing. But hey, Self-Sacrifice was always the Winchester way, and Dean would follow his father to the ends of the earth, and straight into Hell apparently. There was nothing Sam could do to stop it, so Sam basically just went along with everything Dean had for him. That awkward Christmas where they got drunk, and watched the game when all Sam really wanted to do was cry. Cry like a little bitch who'd just broken a nail, because Dean was dying, and there was nothing Sam could do to stop it.
When Sam's birthday rolled around, they had gotten wasted, and had poured themselves back into their hotel room, both of them passing out on the nearest bed. The lights were off, and the sky outside the window was peppered with stars, and one hell of a full moon. Sam can remember that so clearly. The moon was beautiful, like the earth wanted to wish him a happy birthday too. Sam smiled, and thanked Dean for the party. Dean only waved his hand back and forth.
He was 26, and he was still young. But he'd seen so much, and done so much, it honestly just didn't make sense to him anymore. But he was carrying on, because that's what Dean needed from him right now. Because when Dean's birthday had rolled around, he'd taken turning 30 like a-
His entire body had frozen, and Sam felt like throwing up. Dean was thirty, and he was never going to be older than thirty. That was the end of his brother's timeline. Everything Dean was, and everything Dean could ever be would end at thirty. End at one of life's milestone. Only, rather than crying into a beer, Dean would be using his tears to cool off his wounds. Dean would be fucking trapped in Hell, body strong, something for the Demons to play with, something more for the world to take away from him.
Dean would always be thirty.
Someday, Sam would be thirty.
The dream he'd once had now mocked him, and his determination to hide away on his thirtieth birthday fell flat as the birthday fell into a different slot. Fear. Cold, icy primal fear engulfed the younger Winchester as Dean's situation really hit him. Dean was going to die, and there was nothing Sam could do to stop it.
Sam had been raised by Dean, and anything he knew about his life, he knew from his brother. Sam didn't know how to learn anything else. All Sam knew was Dean…and if Dean ended at thirty, then so did Sam's knowledge of the world. Without Dean, Sam was nothing.
The dream turned into anger, which turned into fear.
Sam was fucking terrified to turn 30.
That fear was eventually sated, and once the Apocalypse had started, Sam stopped worrying about it. Between Demons, Angels, and the fucking Devil trying to wear him to the prom, Sam gave up on keeping track of the days. His calendar changed several times over those two years. They were measured in Days Without Dean, then measured in Days Without Demon Blood, Measured in Demons Killed, Missed Calls From Bobby, Empty Bottles, Fucking Ruby, Failed Crossroad Deals. Once Dean was back with him, he measured life in Number of Broken Seals, Number of Dead Comrades, Numbers of Tears Leaked in Silence, Number of Broken Looks on a Wayward Angel's face. Sam stopped counting in days, and started counting in things that mattered. The world was at stake here, who gave a fuck how old he was? Not the world, not the Demons, not the Angels, and Hell, Sam really didn't give a shit either.
Sam didn't care, until right before he stood above an open pit to Hell, and was able to peer inside with human eyes.
It was violent, blood slicked everything he could see, and Demons, prancing around in their true forms, unprotected by human flesh met his eyes, and they jeered. They all knew him, their failure of a leader, their pussy general, and he was finally headed home to meet the angry troops. Their faces were grotesque, and they had to forcefully contort their jaws apart to give him a mockery of a smile. They were waiting for him, for prince Sam to come back to them.
He could see the Racks, where Dean served his time. Tools were lined up to be drilled into the body of whatever sinful piece of shit would be heading for them next. Sam could see the master Demons working, and they artfully flayed the flesh off a young girl, who screamed and cried, but the Demons only laughed, something that sounded painful and wet to Sam's ears. That was the soundtrack in the Pit. Everything was wet. Blood, sweat, and tears ran down everything, and he was about to jump head first into the Pit. Where he would be trapped, no soul for the body, and no body to return the soul to, and his eternity would be spent in the body he had now.
Twenty eight, he would be twenty eight forever.
Something unbelievably sharp and bitter broke in Sam, and he got ready to jump.
He was never going to turn thirty, and that filled him with a sorrow he'd never felt. It was the one fucking thing, the one fucking thing he'd allowed himself to hope for, and the world was taking that from him to.
Sam's tears filled up his eyes, and he flung himself into the Pit. He couldn't bear the thought of having Dean seeing him cry, and he wouldn't every let himself admit that he was crying over what would be a missed birthday.
In the Pit, Sam turned thirty a grand total of six times. Each time, Lucifer would reach his fingers into Sam's mind, and the torture was especially worse that specific day. The Prince of Darkness wasn't known for his kindness, and when the Fallen Angel stood, and his blackened wings stretched out around him, and a dim halo of fire engulfed the air around him, Sam only shook his head. Begging was useless, and only made Lucifer enjoy it more. He was sadistic, willing to drill holes into Sam's brain and rip away everything he cared about. He killed Dean, and he killed Jess, he killed Mommy and Daddy and anyone else the Devil could pull out of Sam's brains, he would. He didn't know how many times he'd lived through their deaths, and he couldn't stop crying. The Devil loved that, he loved how easily his vessel broke, and he made sure to break Sam into even smaller pieces every day. Lucifer wasn't stupid, and the Winchesters were tricky little fucks. The Devil broke Sam because the Devil wasn't sure how long he'd have Sam, and he had to make sure that if he got away, he'd be good and fucked.
On the days of Sam's birthday, Lucifer really pulled out all the stops. Sam would wake up from whatever the pervious torture was, and he would be whole. He would be whole, in bed, a mess of blonde hair sleeping next to him, a baby monitor alerting him that a baby was asleep a few rooms down, and a new message from Dean, telling him to get his old ass out of bed, because Dean was bringing him birthday pie, and he was going to like it, damn it.
Sam tried to remember that none of it was real, tried to remember that this was what Lucifer did, but he would always forget, and he would fall into the scenario, and he would live happily. He made love to Jess, and he ate pie with Dean, and he rocked a baby in his arms for God knows how long. He was happy, and his broken and beaten soul would shine, once again.
Then Lucifer would rip him right back to Hell. Jess' face would have the skin ripped off, Dean's eyes would slowly start to bleed, right before they went pitch black, and a Demon stared back at Sam, and the baby would just cough, and choke, until the small baby was throwing up a dark spattering of blood, that dripped down Sam's hands.
Sam would drop to his knees and sob, all of his pain, and sorrow, and anguish only served to amuse the Devil, who would throw back his magnificent face and laugh, a sound that was so fucking pleasant it pissed Sam off to no end. The Devil would laugh as Sam cried for a life that was almost his, a life he was so fucking close to having.
When Sam finally woke up again, and was greeted with a sun that didn't rain blood, the first thing he did was glance at a calendar, and breathed a slight sigh of relief. He didn't remember why it was important, but he could remember being really fucking glad that he was still twenty nine.
Now, he still sat in some nameless motel room, while his brother was gone, probably buying more alcohol to fill a flask that was tying Bobby to this world still, and Sam shook his head. He was thirty, and he still couldn't believe that fact. It had to be a trick, because Sam Winchester was not supposed to live to be thirty, it just couldn't be possible.
But no matter how many times he blinked, the date on his phone screen didn't change. He was thirty, sitting in some nameless motel room, alone. Waiting for his brother, and waiting to move on from the town. Sure, he was alone, but he wasn't exactly mad.
They had one upped the Leviathans. They had finally taken something from Dick Roman, and they had pissed him off. They had made him hurt, and they hadn't lost Charlie in the process. They had finally won a battle.
Sam didn't have an address, he didn't have a wife, or kids, or a job. He didn't have anything that he'd wanted back when he was twenty two.
Instead, he had his brother by his side, his brother, who was still aging. They had a girl who's life hadn't been sacrificed in the name of their cause, he had his father figure around still, and he'd had the crazy sucked out of his head, a penance from someone Sam had forgiven a long time ago. They had kicked Dick Roman's ass, and they had a hunk of red clay that Sam was currently guarding while Dean was away.
He'd had a pretty fucking amazing 30th birthday.
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