Disclaimer: I do not own or profit from these characters.

Warning: One or two bad words. No spoilers.

Summary: Dean's ninth birthday. An improvised present.

"Dean, get your brother. We're leaving."

The order left John Winchester's lips as soon as he entered the motel room, trailing the scent of thick smoke and cold air on his clothing.

"Dad?"

His eight-year-old eldest sat up straighter on the couch, but made no move to wake his sleeping little brother. Sammy was snuggled between Dean and the couch arm, oblivious to the quietly babbling television.

Outside, not far, John heard the warbling of sirens.

"Dean. Now. Move!"

John started collecting the dirty shirts and socks and shoes from the floor, stuffing them haphazardly into his bags to be sorted later. Hopefully, in the next state. The sound of sirens seemed to be coming closer.

"Nooo!"

"Sammy, come on. We gotta go."

Sam sobbed tiredly as Dean stuffed his small arms into his jacket.

"You can sleep in the car, Sammy."

"Don't want to!"

Sammy started to flail, large tears rolling down his face. One little hand smacked Dean in the jaw and the older boy seized it.

"Sammy! Knock it off!"

"Ow!"

Sam wailed, twisting. He let out a howl that John was sure would wake the neighbors.

"Dean! Let go of him right now!"

John stormed by, scooping little Sammy up in the arm that wasn't carrying the duffels. He missed Dean's hurt expression as he kicked open the motel room door. There were no police in the parking lot. A good sign.

He crunched over the snow, hauled Sammy up onto his shoulder. Little arms clamped around his neck, choking him slightly, but John allowed it, his hands now free to stuff their luggage in the trunk.

"Dean. Get your ass in gear."

Unless you want to visiting your old man in the slammer, John thought, but didn't add. Just his luck that a patrol car had just been rolling by as he'd finished up a fairly simple salt-and-burn and noticed the smoke. It wouldn't have been the first grave desecration John Winchester had been arrested for, but one thought had spurred John to run as fast as he could. The last can of spaghetti-o's, open and empty in the kitchenette's single sink. He thought of the orange-tinged insides of that can as he sprinted. If the cops caught him and detained him, his kids wouldn't have anything to eat.

John shut the trunk with a grunt. Caught sight of his eldest sullenly kicking the back tire.

"Dean. Keep it up."

The kid stilled, bit his lip, stared at his shoes.

What the hell's gotten into you? John spared him an irritated glance, before opening the car door.

"Get in," he ordered and didn't wait for Dean to buckle up before he passed a half-sleeping Sammy in, too.

He maneuvered into the driver's seat, the car still warm from his narrow escape earlier, and allowed himself the smallest moment of relief as he burned rubber out of the parking lot. By dawn, he'd be in South Dakota…following up on a lead from Bobby Singer. Another nursery fire. Maybe this could be the one.

"Daddy…"

John glanced in the rear-view, surprised to see his youngest peering back him with droopy hazel eyes.

"Get some sleep, son," he said, turning his gaze back on the road.

"Daddy, we going for pizza?"

"Sammy. Shut up," Dean hissed.

"No, sport. We're not going for pizza," John answered. It was after two AM…kids were damn strange sometimes.

"Dean said that--"

There was a minute scuffle in the back seat, but Sammy was stubborn and gave a muffled squeal, his brother's hand over his mouth.

"Dean. Let your brother go." John sighed.

As soon as Sammy was free, he spouted out the rest as quickly and triumphantly as he could.

"Dean said you always get us pizza on his birthday!"

Sammy stuck out his tongue at Dean, but the older boy was studiously staring out the window. John rubbed a hand over his jaw. He glanced back. Damn. Had yesterday been the 24th? Already? His eldest son was now nine-years-old. Without presents, pizza, cake or ice cream. Without even a "happy birthday," for fuck's sake.

"Dean, I'm…" The words stuck in John's throat. Sorry wasn't good enough. It never would be. He licked his lips, swallowed, tried it again.

"Dean, get up here."

The boy looked up sharp from the window. The coveted front seat was a rare and special treat and he didn't have to be told twice. He scrambled over the divider and plopped down next to his father. Sammy clambered to peer over.

"What's goin' on?" He demanded.

"We're going to get pizza," John answered, and smiled at his eldest, "and Dean's gonna drive us."

Dean's look of befuddlement turned to one of sudden surprised joy when John reached over and tugged him onto his lap. Tentatively, two small hands gripped the steering wheel above his father's large knuckles. Dean could feel the chuff of his father's chuckle against his hair.

"Happy birthday, dude," John said, quietly. "Think you can handle her?"

"Yes, sir."

Dean's voice was full of awe. The straight-away stretched on in front of them, magically black and impossibly long.

"Wow…" Sammy murmured. "But Dad, Dean can't drive…he's too little!"

"He'll get us there safe, won't you, Dean?"

John couldn't see his son's face, but heard the seriousness in his son's voice.

"Yes. sir. Don't worry, Sammy. I'll keep us safe."

John felt an absurd rush of pride and pressed down on the accelerator.

Feeling Dean's heart-beat like a drum-roll against his chest, John let go of the wheel.

END.