Déjà Vu

Dean slips back into the motel room as silently as he can. Sammy is just where he left him, munching on a bag of chips in front of an old TV that has a layer of dust on it—it looks older than Dad. The munching is passive-aggressive. Sammy hadn't lost track of the date like Dean had—he knew it was his birthday. Dean had had an inkling that it was soon, but he hadn't realised just how soon until this morning when Sammy woke him up by jumping up and down on his bed and announcing happily, "It's today, it's today!"

Sammy had vibrated like he'd had too much soda until Dean had told him that he was too old for birthday presents this year.

As soon as he was able Dean made his excuses and went off on a 'supply run'—not a strictly necessary one: there was still half a loaf and three cans of spaghetti hoops in the cupboard. Sammy didn't ask questions for once—Dean could tell he'd disappointed his little brother.

It's a small motel room, even by the usual Winchester standards, but Dean still tries to hide Sammy's surprise behind his back. He sidles over to stand beside the single chair that Sammy's sitting on. Sammy looks up at him, the disappointment still clear in his eyes.

Suddenly Dean grins and shows Sammy what he'd been hiding—a generous slice of thick chocolate cake. Sammy's whole face lights up with surprise and in a flurry of excited movement the empty chip bag falls off his lap.

"Happy birthday, Sammy!" Dean cheers and he hands his brother the plate and a spoon. If Sammy notices the logo for the local diner printed on the plate he doesn't comment on it—Dean doesn't want his little brother to start stealing too. Not yet, anyway. Dean can handle it.

"Thanks, Dean!" Sammy says, already with his mouth full. He hums in satisfaction. Before long there will be chocolate smudges on both cheeks too, no doubt.

Satisfied, Dean watches Sammy eat for a moment. Then, "Oh, wait—I almost forgot!" Sammy's interest is caught again and his twists in his chair to watch Dean, precariously balancing the cake on his lap. Dean produces a balloon out of his carrier bag, already blown up, and brings it over to Sammy.

There was a packet of balloons ripped in the grocery store. Nobody would miss one, so he sneakily slipped a green one into his pocket. He'd stood just outside for ages, the odd people who passed by giving him funny looks, as he'd tried desperately to get enough air into the balloon to blow it up. He'd had to be silent, too, in case Sammy heard him—that would give away the surprise.

After all of that effort, Dean's a little disappointed that Sammy doesn't much care for the balloon.

There's no point in silence as the Bunker's noisy, clunky door closes behind Dean. He doesn't even know if Sam noticed he was gone—he just shouted out, "I'm off for supplies!" as loud as he could and left. Dean doesn't know when he went to sleep and he doesn't know when exactly he woke up, but he's grateful the store was still open whatever time it is. Sam's probably buried deep in a pile of mouldy books.

He stuffs most of his carrier bag's contents into the refrigerator beside the butter, and the new loaf of bread into the cupboard beside the cans of spaghetti hoops. After a while he goes off in search of Sam.

The Bunker is vast—either that or Dean's going in circles—and it takes him a good fifteen minutes to locate his little brother in a small room that has shelves lined with huge, dusty books. There's a square desk in the centre of the room that only seems to have the space for one giant book at a time. Sam's slumped over it, too-long hair obscuring his face from view, but Dean doesn't need to see his face to know that he's asleep. His guess wasn't far off, then.

He stands for a moment and watches Sam's back rise and fall as he breathes—the hair in front of his face swings like a pendulum. Then Dean very loudly clears his throat, and some of the shelves are so rickety they threaten to fall down. Sam jerks suddenly awake and is sitting up in a heartbeat. He looks confused for a moment until his spots Dean looking at him in open amusement.

Sam brushes his hair messily to the sides. "What?" he asks.

Dean tries and fails to hide his smirk at his brother's appearance. "Happy birthday, Sammy!" he says cheerily, revealing the chocolate cake he had hidden behind his back. It's still in its plastic container, but it won't be for much longer if Dean has much to say about it.

"Oh," is all Sam says, as if he's forgotten the date. Dean's not surprised—they've both been determined to bring Abbadon down, the day's date has nothing to do with it. It's just another day that she's still alive, and every day is one too many. "Uh, thanks."

"Well, come on then. This cake ain't gonna eat itself, you know." Dean strides out of the little room, knowing that Sam will follow him. Because cake. "I even got the one with those girly sprinkles on it—I know how you like 'em," he says loudly as he walks. He doesn't admit aloud like he likes them just as much.

Sure enough, Sam meets him in their modest kitchen that wouldn't look out of place in an army camp. Somehow in the few minutes they've been apart, Sam's hair has fallen back into place and looks as tidy as it ever does.

Dean's already got two slices of cake plated up. Sam sits down opposite Dean, both with spoons in hand. Dean strikes a match and lights the single candle stuck into Sam's slice of cake.

"Make a wish," Dean says lightly. Sam glances at him before staring into the little flame for a moment. Then he blows out the candle.

They dig in—it's a good cake; they're not exactly following regular eating and sleeping habits these days, so they're hungry. Dean's cake's half gone, Sam's not far behind, when Dean suddenly says, "Oh, wait—I almost forgot!"

Sam watches, curious, as Dean hurries over to one of the many cupboards. He reaches in and pulls out the green balloon he'd stashed there when he got back from his supply run. He saw the balloon in the store, in that perfect shade of green, and he'd bought—not stolen—the whole packet just to have it.

As soon as Sam sees the balloon he rolls his eyes; Dean just grins. When Sammy was a kid he'd bought him a balloon for his birthday once. At the time Dean couldn't understand why Sammy didn't like it—Dean thought the clown printed on it looked cool. This balloon is the same shade of green, but this time the clown has been applied with permanent marker. And Dean knows his drawing sucks, but he doesn't care.

"Very funny, Dean," Sam says dryly, looking at the balloon, evidently remembering too. He smiles as if the memory physically hurts.

"Yeah? I thought so," Dean agrees smugly, sitting down to finish his cake. He pretends not to notice Sam warily eyeing the clown balloon as they eat. He hides a smirk behind his fist.

Slices of cake both finished, Sam makes to stand. "Thanks for this... I'll just go and do some research—" Dean stops him by holding his hand out. Sam stares at it. "What?" he asks eventually.

"Wait till you see the after-party," Dean says cryptically, standing and wandering back over to the cupboards.

"But Abbadon—"

Dean ignores him, leans into a large cupboard and flings nearly thirty balloons over his shoulder, all blown up and all with crude drawings of Abbadon in permanent marker. Sam looks at Dean like he's just lost his mind. "Welcome to the after-party, Sammy—you got a pin?"

THE END