a/n: Because today is Dean's birthday, and Sam would know things like that.

Sam was working his way through anything and everything that anyone had ever written on angels on the internet when it happened.

He'd been at it for hours already and his mind was filled with so much fluff he felt like his brain was cushioned on velvet clouds. Angels, according to the omniscient internet, were lovely and bright, always kind and patient and would help a person in need. Always. Every once in a while, Sam remembered his own belief that hadn't been that far off and he grimaced about his naivety. Angels –and here he had to agree with his brother – were dicks. Selfish, arrogant, cruel, overbearing, pretentious, supercilious dicks. With an unfortunate desire to be more than they already were.

So consequently, Sam's head was already pounding and his mood was pretty much in the 'stuck in a sewer without rubber-boots' area when one of the sites he clicked open showed him the date. In big, swirly, blinking,sparkly-pink letters.

January 24th, 2017. 12:24

It was so unexpected that he didn't really get the meaning of it right away. When he did, he just sat and stared at that html-monstrosity like it might vanish or change any second.

It didn't.

Sam let go of the pen and leaned back, further from his laptop. Maybe distance would show that it was somehow wrong, or maybe he was just seeing things now?

Nope. No such luck.

It was, and it would still be for another eleven hours and forty-six minutes. Forty-five. Forty-three.

Sighing, Sam scratched his chin, then stood to uncrank his back. Coffee would be a good thing right now. And his stomach was growling, had probably done so for a while. Since he'd eaten the last of Cas' sandwiches for breakfast, he hadn't had anything to eat.

So maybe coffee might not be the best thing, on an empty stomach. He'd only get heartburn again.

And his heart was already burning brightly.

In the kitchen, Sam stared at the pots and pans in the cabinet. He couldn't decide on any of them, and only when he'd finally selected a large iron-pan did he remember that he didn't even know what they had in the fridge.

Still eleven hours to go.

It turned out that there was plenty of food. Looked like Cas had gone shopping one of these days, because their stock didn't look like anything a Winchester would dare to buy.

A bag of starfruits.

Litchis. Do they even belong in the fridge?

Milk, half-and-half, non-dairy creamer – that one definitely didn't belong in the fridge – full fat cream. Sour cream. Cottage cheese.

Cheese in any form and color.

Joghurt. Hm. Sam took one out for later. Strawberry-rhubarb, with a grinning farmer on the side.

Bananas and pineapple, corn – cobs. Really? Something … squishy.

A frozen chicken. Sadly, that one was still mostly frozen, otherwise Sam might've done something with it.

Carrots and beans, tomatoes and ten glasses of grape-jelly.

Sighing, Sam closed the fridge again, then opened it to take out the milk – half-fat – and searched the upper cupboards for the sure-to-be-there Lucky Charms.

Ten hours and forty-five minutes.

The sweet taste of his meal was still clinging to his tongue when Sam sat back down at the table, ready to continue his search. When the screensaver stopped saving the screen, though, the date was still on the open site.

January 24th, 2017. 13:17

Quickly, Sam closed it and caught his eyes straying to the lower right-hand edge of the computer-screen. It only showed the time – 13:20 – 13:21 – but he knew now what else it hid. Weary and still with his brain pounding out through his ears, Sam shut down the computer. He'd never find anything but froofy crap in there, anyway, apart from painful references to a series of very unfortunate books.

Maybe he could take a nap? He hadn't slept well the last days, even after Cas had healed him. His mind had kept him awake, trying to remember remember, remember! what he – his body – might have done during his possession. Because it wasn't anything but that, a possession. Maybe more on the dubious side of a date-rape rather than a snatch-and-assault, but still very much unwanted.

He didn't even want to think about the king of hell leaving any slimy traces inside. Sam shuddered. Sleep would be a good idea.

A good idea, maybe. But the brain just wouldn't. shut. up. Are you really this mad? it asked, forcing Sam to say Yes, yes I am even if maybe he wasn't. Don't you want to know what he's doing now? it needled, making him say no, absolutely not when truthfully, he did want to know. Well, or not. Well, maybe a little. Or not? Sam, do you think he wouldn't at least call if the roles were reversed? and Sam would think back I know he would. But that doesn't change anything, and that would be the truth. Except that it did. Change things. Is it fair to hold a grudge that hard?

"I don't give a fuck about fair! Nothing since Jessica burned has been fair! Nothing! So will you just shut the fuck up!"

His voice reverberated through the halls, making him conscious of their emptiness. No "Sammy?", no "Dude! Look at this!". No "Geek" and no smirk from across the room.

No concerned glance about Sam just talking to himself. Shouting to himself, even.

Sighing, he tried to find a more comfortable position on the couch but something was digging into his backside. Sitting up, he found his cellphone, wedged between the cushions. He hadn't even realized it had dropped from his jeans. Good thing nobody had called.

Then he remembered that there wasn't anyone around who would. Could. And the one who might… wouldn't. Or couldn't?

With a frown, Sam punched in the code for the key-lock. No missed calls. No message. Just the date and time, mocking him.

January 24th, 14:01

14:02

"This is so stupid," he said, but still opened his phonebook. First name, last call had been weeks ago, before the whole mess had fallen apart. Had Sam answered that? Or had it been for his passenger?

The second name on the list was Kevin. And that had him gripping the phone so tight, he could feel the material groan under the strain. Maybe if he squeezed it hard enough, it would break and no-one would ever be able to call. And there would be no temptation.

Except, maybe Cas would need his help. Or he might find something.

And what if… He'd at least have to be able to know. He couldn't not know.

Carefully, he laid the phone away from him, on the coffee-table. Dean had been grinning from ear to ear when he'd found out they now had a coffee-table, of all things. Right before he'd found the swords on the wall.

Quickly, with a hand over his chin and mouth, Sam wiped that thought away.

The phone's key-lock went back up. Sam regretted now that it showed the time.

14:15

Nine hours and forty-five minutes.

Down in the library, in between the dusty old filing cabinets, Sam finally found some peace. Books and paper don't talk, and their quiet acceptance of the people reading them was soothing his mind. He even found some interesting tomes about angels, though sadly those were mostly in Enochian. The Enochian-English dictionary seemed to be missing, so he settled down with one that would help with translating the angel-language into Latin. Better than nothing, Sam figured.

It must have been hours that he spent down in the library. His back ached like … well, terribly, and his eyes felt like the Sahara had emptied itself inside. He should've brought something to drink. Smacking his lips led to a coughing-fit, which disturbed the dust on the old furniture, which really didn't help with the coughing. It seemed that his research-time would have to be cut short.

Upstairs, Sam's eyes went to the clock automatically.

18:45

He'd spent over four hours sitting in a hard wooden chair without anything to drink – no wonder his head and back and throat ached so hard. In the kitchen, he swallowed three glasses of water in rapid succession until his tongue wasn't so parched anymore that he felt able to slow down. Sam filled another glass and took it with him into the… could you call it living room? Well, the room with the most comfy furniture. His notes from the library had tickled some ideas, and he wanted to check them out. For a second, he thought about pasting a sticky note over the edge so he wouldn't be tempted to look at the clock every second, but he considered himself adult and rational enough not to need it. Cracking his fingers, Sam started his research.

At 19:03, he went to his room to get the sticky notes.

The longer the evening-shadows outside grew, the louder became the ticking clock in the bunker.

tick tick tick it went, driving Sam slowly insane. Maybe, if he climbed on a chair, he'd be able to remove the battery? Or he could take it down and hide it somewhere.

"That's stupid, Sam. It's not getting louder, you just have to stop listening to it," Sam told himself.

It didn't help.

With a groan, he closed his laptop again and went to get his jacket. He was hungry anyway, and buying groceries and maybe a pizza would help him kill some time.

In the store, he couldn't stop looking at the pie-display. Cherry, pecan, apple. He didn't even like pie overly much, but right now he wanted a piece and knew at the same time that it would taste like ash and death and smell like betrayal.

He bought turkey-breast and red peppers, more sandwich-bread and a loaf of rye-bread. As a last-minute decision, he packed a carton of Lucky Charms into the shopping-cart and decided against El Sol, bringing some Coors light instead.

He'd been distracted by his shopping-adventure, but once he got back to the bunker and sat down with his still-hot, deliciously smelling vegetarian pizza, everything tumbled down and crashed around him.

The silence was too loud, the clock was annoying and he kept checking his phone for calls that never came and couldn't come without him noticing.

Again and again, he unlocked it, only to shut it down again. Twice, he even switched it off entirely. For all of two minutes, because who knew who might call. Cas might be in trouble.

Yeah, right. Cas, his brain mocked him, but that didn't matter because he was already punching – well, touching – in his code.

It was 22:25, and Sam wasn't even pretending anymore that he wasn't thinking about the date, or that he wasn't hoping and fearing in equal measures that the day would finally end.

He was mad. So damn mad at his brother. He didn't want him to think that all was forgiven – that it would be that easy. Sam didn't want to make the first step because well, that was like admitting to be wrong. Right?

Where was Castiel, anyway. Why wasn't he here, trying to talk Sam into calling Dean. Maybe he was with his brother, maybe they were celebrating? Maybe Sam was sitting here all alone, miserable and feeling guilty for not wanting to feel guilty. For knowing that he wasn't wrong, he was the one wronged. That he was right, dammit!

Maybe Dean was having a raging party somewhere, with lots of pretty girls hanging from his shoulders. Maybe they were naked already.

For a second, Sam saw Dean among happy girls covered in pie and he smiled.

Until he realized that his stupid brother wouldn't do that, because his stupid brother never remembered his own birthday. That he only ever remembered Sam's and Dad's. Mostly just Sam's.

"So why should I call him, if he won't even know what day it is?" he asked the couch. It didn't answer, but the brain did, unasked as always. Because it's never been about him, it's about you. You know what day it is, and you know the significance. Maybe you are the only and last person on earth who does. Don't you think that merits the push of a button?

Sam gritted his teeth, put the phone down and went to the kitchen for more beer.

Dean was probably drinking right now. Not because of the date, no. He'd do it because that was Dean, to the core. Bury anything bad until you can't see and feel it anymore, and if there wasn't enough sand to cover it all up, you drown it in liquid. John Winchester's survival-lesson number… well, probably number one. Sam had always hated when his dad was drunk, had always felt uncomfortable when the big, strong John Winchester got misty-eyed and teary. Yes, John was a maudlin drunkard, rarely got angry from liquor. That should've told Sam a lot about what a man his father had been, but sadly, he never realized it until it was too fucking late.

What if it already was too late for Dean?

With a slight tremor in his hand, Sam put down his beer.

That would be really sad, wouldn't it?

"He's fine. He'll be fine."

Of course he is. Of course he will be. Because Dean Winchester is always fine. Right?

"Shut up. He's… well, he's healthy. Alive."

Is he? Oh, I'm sure he is. He's too careful to get injured. Too smart to go hunt alone. Right?

"He's good enough. He's hunted alone more than once, he can handle himself!"

Of course, of course. Never implied anything else. And of course, Crowley wouldn't mess with him, he wouldn't dare.

"Crowley… has bigger things to worry about than my stupid brother."

Sure. And he probably has a lot of resources to fall back on. What would he need a hunter for? I'm sure he'd have plenty of help, even when he's been locked up in your dungeon for months while Abbadon walked around.

Sam yelled "Just shut the fuck up!" when he threw the phone against the wall, watching silently as it clattered into the same corner Kevin had dropped with his eyes burned black and empty. He watched the cover fall off and the battery drop out but it wasn't a really satisfying destruction.

He felt his heart crumbling into itself, like a piece of paper in a fist.

"Just shut up."

"Yeah?"

The voice was gruff and grainy, like he'd been sleeping. Sam stared at the clock on the wall, the fingers just barely apart. One minute to midnight. Still the 24th.

"Sam?"

Because even with a suppressed number, Dean would know it was him.

"Sammy?"

A minute into January 25th , Sam switched off the phone and went to bed.

~end~