For some reason, I happen to enjoy fucking up deadlines and then speedwriting everything in the last possible second. But like, what the hell; it's Sam's birthday today! Congrats, and let's hope he gets a not-nine-kinds-of-hell-awful birthday this year!

Set pre-series, where Dean's 15 and Sam's 11, and John's...something.

Dean's a good son (a good soldier). He's a quick learner, can handle weapons just as well as he can charm his way out of sticky situations, is a great hunter in the making, and above all, he knows how to follow orders. He loves his father (respects, looks up to, idolizes), and keeps the arguing and complaining to a minimum.

"Dean," his father calls out, face pinched. He's speaking with his steady, patient voice; the one with the underlying edge as sharp as a knife, warning that he's seconds away from losing said patience.

Well.

Dean follows orders and does it without bitching – most of the time. Today is one of his exceptions.

"Nah, I'm good here," he says, forcing a light tone into his voice.

Their dad's face twitches slightly, as though he's bitten into something particularly sour and is doing his best to remain stoic and oh-so-very manly. Dean can see Sam's jaw clenching from the corner of his eye; stupid kid is trying to hide a smile – yes, because smiling will certainly make their dad happier, indeed, thanks a lot, Sam, real helpful.

"It's not a request, son," John tells him, "I need your help on this hunt."

Dean refrains from informing his father that he's calling bullshit, instead opting for the more polite version; "No, to be fair, I don't think you actually do. Sir."

"Dean." Ah, yes; there's the this-is-your-final-warning-young-man-don't-make-me-say-it-again voice signaling that smoke's about to start leaking out his old man's ears.

Fine. Time to bring out the big guns. "Dad. C'mon – it's Sammy's birthday, can't I just skip out on this one?"

John, predictably, flinches as though he's been struck and abruptly breaks eye contact. Dean aims a quick smirk topped off with a wink at his little brother before hastily schooling his features into something sincere and pleading.

"Dean," his dad repeats as though it's the only thing he's able to say, before breaking off. It's clear he wants to add something more before changing his mind and wordlessly leaves the motel room, letting the door slam behind him.

Sam scrambles up from the motel bed, leaving the bed's sheets neatly undisturbed, and presses his nose against the window, watching their father leave. "Wicked," he declares solemnly, as though managing to drive off their stubborn father is an accomplishment, and Dean dutifully rolls his eyes.

"He left his duffle behind, Einstein, we're not out of the woods yet. Dad's just cooling off a bit, that's all." It's not late, but it's late enough for him to cool down with a beer or two (which isn't something he wants to mention, to be honest).

Dean flops down on the couch and zaps through the crappy channels, letting Sam blow air on the window and draw patterns on the previously almost-clean glass. It's an okay motel; the wallpaper is horrid, the electricity isn't exactly reliable (what else is new), but it's got clean furniture and it doesn't stink worse than dad's socks after a hunt in a swamp.

Sam joins him after a while, and they devotedly mock the bad movie they end up watching before Dean hops up and strolls over to the little fridge. He pulls out the pathetic excuse of a cake he snagged from the store and shoves a candle into the middle of it. The chocolate cake is still practically frozen, and the candle ends up crooked and looking like the Leaning Tower of Pisa went on a bender, but he figures it doesn't really matter. It's not like he's going to bother lighting it anyway (neither of them are particularly fond of fire, and for good reasons).

"Sammy," he announces dramatically, before flinging himself back down on the sofa, barely avoiding falling onto Sam, "Eleven years, huh? My, oh my, sweetie, you're growing up," he coos and pinches Sam's cheeks, before taking a deep breath.

"No," Sam warns, in an impressive mixture of pleading and deadpan voice. Dean ignores him and breaks out in song, making sure to sing Happy Birthday as off-key and loudly as possible. Sam, trusty and devoted little brother that he is, kicks him in the shin and covers his ears, but his eyes are sparkling so it's alright.

Dean drops the cake on the little table in front of them, which wobbles dangerously under the staggering weight of a two-dollar cake.

Sam wrinkles his nose as Dean cuts up two pieces and places them on separate paper plates. "You know I can't eat that," he admonishes gently but graciously pokes at the cake anyway.

"Hey, it's the thought that counts," Dean points out and waggles a finger at his brother. He puts his own plate on the armrest of the couch and doesn't touch it again. Neither of them mention it.

Dean's not sure how long they laugh at crappy television, but by the time their dad comes back it's darker outside and the cake has melted into something that's probably the mostly-correct cake texture.

He stands in the doorway watching them for a while, before sighing and dragging a weary hand through his hair. He walks up to the sofa and rudely makes room for himself next to Dean, ignoring Sam's offended squawk as he scurried out of the way.

John, surprisingly, doesn't smell of alcohol, and Dean sits up straighter as he lowers the volume on the TV. Their father scrubs at his face and leans his elbows on his knees. "I know this is hard," he starts, sounding nothing like the confident and strong-as-a-bull man Dean's used to. He doesn't like the change. Their dad only sounds like this on anniversaries (mainly November the second). "It's hard, and it sucks, and I wish you could have a better life-" he breaks off and coughs, clears his throat. Starts again. Repeat. "Life's a bitch, I know, son. And this," he gestures at the uneaten cake symbolizing their celebrating and lets out a harsh laugh, "this stops now, do you understand? You're not gaining anything from this – this…unnecessary birthday celebrating."

"Dad, he's just a kid –"

Sam immediately jumps in, "Dad, we weren't doing anything bad –"

"Don't you think you're too old for this?" John thunders and shoots away from the sofa. "Damn it, Dean, how long are you going to keep this up?" He drags in a hoarse breath and presses his knuckles into his eyes, but Dean's not feeling particularly sympathetic. Sam's head is lowered, bangs covering his eyes, John appears to be approaching a breakdown, and damn it, why can't their family just be freaking happy for once?

"Come on, son," John orders gruffly, clearly uncomfortable, and swoops up both their duffels from the beds. Dean shoots Sam an apologetic looks before rushing after their father. John's already loaded the bags into the truck before Dean finally registers that he took both their bags.

"We're leaving town for good?" he asks cautiously.

"There's no need to stay here any longer."

Dean turns around and ignores his father's command to get into the car. "I just forgot something in the room," he calls over his shoulder and tumbles back into the room, making sure to swipe a foot through the salt line and thoroughly breaking it.

"What's going on?" Sam asks, still curled up in a dejected bump next to the sofa.

"Up and at 'em, Samantha, we're leaving," Dean says with false cheer, "Come on, I'll take you to the library in next town, alright?"

As soon as Dean's jumped into the passenger seat John forces the car into motion, and Dean winces as the poor, poor Impala screeches in protest. It takes a while before he notices that their dad's hands are shaking, and he pretends not to notice when he wipes at his eyes. Maybe he did have some alcohol after all.

"Dean, Sammy… It's been almost eleven years since the fire. Son – Dean, please tell me you know Sammy's gone."

Sam appears in the backseat, flickers a bit, looking as real and bitchy as ever and sticks out his tongue at them. "Yeah, okay," Dean says and meets Sam's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Sure, dad."

Ta-daaa.

Plotholes, questionable information about everything, check. Is Sam imaginary or a ghost? In that case, why doesn't John (kickass hunter that he is) do something about it? Why the hell did Sam, "Azazel's chosen one", die in the fire? God knows. However, overlooking the sloppy writing, it was really nice to write in this fandom again.

Reviews equal happiness and happiness makes me happy! :)