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firmament2009-05-04 08:28 pm
gorgeousnerd) wrote in firmament2009-05-04 08:28 pm
Entry tags:
"January, May, and June (Or, Three Birthdays)", Supernatural, PG, gen.
Title: January, May, and June (Or, Three Birthdays)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Length: One-shot, about 1100 words.
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Sam, and Bobby.
Spoilers: Through 3x16.
Summary: A look at three birthdays in a half-year and their variations.
Notes: Another birthday fic written in summer 2008; this time, I wrote it for my mom. Additional notes are after the story due to their spoilery nature.
January, May, and June (Or, Three Birthdays)
January 24th
When Sam asked days ago what Dean wanted to do for his birthday, he wasn't sure at first. (Sam vetoed his preloaded answer of “strip club” before he even got to the question, which was totally not cool.) If he had gotten to answer, he probably would have asked to spend a day in a bar and spend a night with as many ladies as he could find.
Original? No. Fun? Hell yeah!
But Dean took too long stewing, and before he knew, they were off hunting succubi. Which wasn't as fun as it sounded, of course. And from there, they picked up the trail of a werewolf – which meant that Sam had not been in the mood for anything but brooding for days – and by the time they'd killed that, it was the twenty-fourth, and Dean hadn't made any plans.
That meant, on that night, they were doing what they usually did: sitting on their beds in some shit-hole motel (and yes, Dean's bedspread even had suspicious stains), drinking the shittiest beer the gas station down the block had, and watching the shittiest episode of CSI that their shitty TV could pick up. There wasn't a bar within a hundred miles, and not only did Dean have the fugliest shiner that he'd ever seen (stupid werewolf), his left arm was still wrapped up from the good twist a succubus gave it.
This is not how I wanted to spend my last birthday.
Dean scowled the minute the thought crossed his mind. There was no reason that he wouldn't make it to thirty (no reason besides the contract for his soul), no reason that he wouldn't be putting singles in a g-string at this time in twelve months.
“Damn it,” he whispered. His stupid puffy eyes were beginning to water. Stupid werewolf.
~
May 2nd
“Sam? Sam!”
The voice sounded like Bobby's. Was Bobby around? Sam couldn't remember.
He felt a tug on his sleeve. “Come on, boy. We gotta get out before the cops show.”
Sam blinked, and the world that had been blurry and unfocused washed away as water dripped out of his eyes. He touched his cheek. Yeah, it was moist.
A figure moved into his line of vision. All he could see was the brim of the hat the figure wore.
“Sam. Sam, look at me.”
There was a stain at the tip that looked like bleach. Another one nearby looked like blood. But that wasn't a stain. That was fresh.
“Sam?”
Sam kept staring. “Blood.”
“What?”
“You...have blood on your hat.”
The figure (had to be Bobby) huffed. Sam was tilted away from the wall he was sitting again, and Bobby looped an arm around Sam's back and lifted him to his feet. It was only then that Sam could look at the floor again.
Look at Dean.
Or what used to be Dean.
Dean.
“It's too late!” Bobby shouted. “Sam!”
Sam was on his knees, and he wasn't sure how he'd gotten there. He could hardly see beyond all the red on the floor, the red that was still puddling and fresh against the wood.
The red was better than the empty eyes that stared at the ceiling.
“I...I can't...”
Sam couldn't say any more, but Bobby understood. Without another word, he moved to Dean's feet and picked them up. Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulders (oh God his chest), and they moved towards the door.
~
June 26th
Bobby had warned Sam that the sulfur was going to be too much for any human to breathe. Sam, in return, had said he didn't care, that he could put up with anything that Dean could. Bobby knew by the way that Sam set his mouth that he was getting that stubborn Winchester streak that he wouldn't back down from, and Bobby couldn't come up with a strong enough way to say damn fool, so he settled for giving him a very unimpressed look.
That's why Sam was choking and Bobby was wearing a gas mask. (At least Sam had decided that chaining himself with Bobby to the ground was a good idea. If metal could strain in this, there's no way a human could stand solo.) That's why Bobby could see the shadow forming on the ground through the smoke, could see the smoke swirling toward the shadow. He couldn't hear anything, but then, no one could, not with all the winds of Hell whistling all over the place.
Bobby felt one of the extra masks pull from his hand, saw Sam pulling it over his head, and all he could do was shake his head.
By the time Sam had finished putting it into place, it was mostly over. Bobby could move easily enough to unchain the both of them, and Sam seemed to have no problems running forward. Bobby didn't stop him; there was no danger now. He just took off his mask – as he suspected, Sam put his on in the very moment that he didn't need it – and unlocked the trunk next to him.
“How is he?” he called.
Sam's voice was still muffled. “Almost there.”
As Bobby grabbed the blanket and clothes that he'd stashed in the trunk, he heard a shout. It wasn't muffled.
“Hey, hey! It's okay...it's okay.” This was muffled.
Bobby rushed over and tossed the blanket to Sam, who promptly threw it over the guy on the floor. He seemed to be twitching quite a bit.
It was only when Bobby got a good look at his face that he realized why the man was cringing away; his eyes were fixated on the gas mask that Sam still had on.
“Dean?” he said. “Can you hear me?”
Dean coughed, then tore his eyes away from the mask. His eyes widened, then lost tension, as they focused on Bobby's face.
Bobby nodded. “There you go. You know where you are?”
Dean shook his head. Well, that was fair. If he hadn't been here the whole time, Bobby wouldn't have known his basement from Adam.
Bobby leaned over to Sam. “Take off the mask.”
Sam nodded, then pulled it off his head. Dean's eyes flicked over to the brown hair that emerged, then the nose that peeked out, and finally, the eyes that watched him back.
He opened his mouth. Bobby felt himself leaning forward, and it was a good thing he did because the boy's voice was hardly louder than a breath.
“S-sam?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, Dean, it's me.”
Bobby's hand flew out and whacked Sam upside the head. “What were you thinking, leaving that on?”
Dean snorted. Sam raised an eyebrow. “You think that was funny?”
Of course, Dean nodded in return. As if Sam even needed to ask.
Additional Notes: The canon's a bit wonky on dates for this. All we know for certain is that Dean's birthday was January 24th, 1979 (interestingly, exactly thirty years before my little sister's wedding) and that Sam's birthday was May 2nd, 1983. I gave Bobby my mom's birthday (although a different year, which we don't go into) because I thought that'd be perfect for a character who's a lovable self-insert.
What isn't so clear is what date Dean made his deal upon. The Official Companion for Season 2 apparently (and I haven't gotten to double-check this) states that he made it on May 2nd, which is obviously Sam's birthday. However, a receipt featured in episode 3x15 ("Time Is On My Side") states that Sam and Dean stayed in a motel on June 11, 2008, which makes it a year, a month, and some change after the supposed date upon which Dean made his deal.
There's been a lot of discussion on this issue and no satisfactory answer, so for the sake of the story, I decided that Dean would have made his deal on Sam's birthday. Yeah, it's probably a little too neat, but I thought the progression was interesting and worth trying.
Beyond that, I keep wanting to over-explain this fic. I know I shouldn't, but I do briefly want to discuss the fact that Sam and Bobby don't outright mention their birthdays on their respective days. I kept trying to fit in references to it ("Sam carries Dean's body out of the house, and lo! There's a calendar!" or "Great to see you back from Hell, Dean; let's go have some cake."), but it occurred to me that their birthdays just weren't the main issue on their respective days. And Bobby doesn't strike me as the celebrating kind anyway. It still bothers me a little that the story doesn't really stand without the title or the summary, but I guess not every story's meant to.
Okay, I'm really shutting up now.
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Length: One-shot, about 1100 words.
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Sam, and Bobby.
Spoilers: Through 3x16.
Summary: A look at three birthdays in a half-year and their variations.
Notes: Another birthday fic written in summer 2008; this time, I wrote it for my mom. Additional notes are after the story due to their spoilery nature.
January 24th
When Sam asked days ago what Dean wanted to do for his birthday, he wasn't sure at first. (Sam vetoed his preloaded answer of “strip club” before he even got to the question, which was totally not cool.) If he had gotten to answer, he probably would have asked to spend a day in a bar and spend a night with as many ladies as he could find.
Original? No. Fun? Hell yeah!
But Dean took too long stewing, and before he knew, they were off hunting succubi. Which wasn't as fun as it sounded, of course. And from there, they picked up the trail of a werewolf – which meant that Sam had not been in the mood for anything but brooding for days – and by the time they'd killed that, it was the twenty-fourth, and Dean hadn't made any plans.
That meant, on that night, they were doing what they usually did: sitting on their beds in some shit-hole motel (and yes, Dean's bedspread even had suspicious stains), drinking the shittiest beer the gas station down the block had, and watching the shittiest episode of CSI that their shitty TV could pick up. There wasn't a bar within a hundred miles, and not only did Dean have the fugliest shiner that he'd ever seen (stupid werewolf), his left arm was still wrapped up from the good twist a succubus gave it.
This is not how I wanted to spend my last birthday.
Dean scowled the minute the thought crossed his mind. There was no reason that he wouldn't make it to thirty (no reason besides the contract for his soul), no reason that he wouldn't be putting singles in a g-string at this time in twelve months.
“Damn it,” he whispered. His stupid puffy eyes were beginning to water. Stupid werewolf.
May 2nd
“Sam? Sam!”
The voice sounded like Bobby's. Was Bobby around? Sam couldn't remember.
He felt a tug on his sleeve. “Come on, boy. We gotta get out before the cops show.”
Sam blinked, and the world that had been blurry and unfocused washed away as water dripped out of his eyes. He touched his cheek. Yeah, it was moist.
A figure moved into his line of vision. All he could see was the brim of the hat the figure wore.
“Sam. Sam, look at me.”
There was a stain at the tip that looked like bleach. Another one nearby looked like blood. But that wasn't a stain. That was fresh.
“Sam?”
Sam kept staring. “Blood.”
“What?”
“You...have blood on your hat.”
The figure (had to be Bobby) huffed. Sam was tilted away from the wall he was sitting again, and Bobby looped an arm around Sam's back and lifted him to his feet. It was only then that Sam could look at the floor again.
Look at Dean.
Or what used to be Dean.
Dean.
“It's too late!” Bobby shouted. “Sam!”
Sam was on his knees, and he wasn't sure how he'd gotten there. He could hardly see beyond all the red on the floor, the red that was still puddling and fresh against the wood.
The red was better than the empty eyes that stared at the ceiling.
“I...I can't...”
Sam couldn't say any more, but Bobby understood. Without another word, he moved to Dean's feet and picked them up. Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulders (oh God his chest), and they moved towards the door.
June 26th
Bobby had warned Sam that the sulfur was going to be too much for any human to breathe. Sam, in return, had said he didn't care, that he could put up with anything that Dean could. Bobby knew by the way that Sam set his mouth that he was getting that stubborn Winchester streak that he wouldn't back down from, and Bobby couldn't come up with a strong enough way to say damn fool, so he settled for giving him a very unimpressed look.
That's why Sam was choking and Bobby was wearing a gas mask. (At least Sam had decided that chaining himself with Bobby to the ground was a good idea. If metal could strain in this, there's no way a human could stand solo.) That's why Bobby could see the shadow forming on the ground through the smoke, could see the smoke swirling toward the shadow. He couldn't hear anything, but then, no one could, not with all the winds of Hell whistling all over the place.
Bobby felt one of the extra masks pull from his hand, saw Sam pulling it over his head, and all he could do was shake his head.
By the time Sam had finished putting it into place, it was mostly over. Bobby could move easily enough to unchain the both of them, and Sam seemed to have no problems running forward. Bobby didn't stop him; there was no danger now. He just took off his mask – as he suspected, Sam put his on in the very moment that he didn't need it – and unlocked the trunk next to him.
“How is he?” he called.
Sam's voice was still muffled. “Almost there.”
As Bobby grabbed the blanket and clothes that he'd stashed in the trunk, he heard a shout. It wasn't muffled.
“Hey, hey! It's okay...it's okay.” This was muffled.
Bobby rushed over and tossed the blanket to Sam, who promptly threw it over the guy on the floor. He seemed to be twitching quite a bit.
It was only when Bobby got a good look at his face that he realized why the man was cringing away; his eyes were fixated on the gas mask that Sam still had on.
“Dean?” he said. “Can you hear me?”
Dean coughed, then tore his eyes away from the mask. His eyes widened, then lost tension, as they focused on Bobby's face.
Bobby nodded. “There you go. You know where you are?”
Dean shook his head. Well, that was fair. If he hadn't been here the whole time, Bobby wouldn't have known his basement from Adam.
Bobby leaned over to Sam. “Take off the mask.”
Sam nodded, then pulled it off his head. Dean's eyes flicked over to the brown hair that emerged, then the nose that peeked out, and finally, the eyes that watched him back.
He opened his mouth. Bobby felt himself leaning forward, and it was a good thing he did because the boy's voice was hardly louder than a breath.
“S-sam?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, Dean, it's me.”
Bobby's hand flew out and whacked Sam upside the head. “What were you thinking, leaving that on?”
Dean snorted. Sam raised an eyebrow. “You think that was funny?”
Of course, Dean nodded in return. As if Sam even needed to ask.
Additional Notes: The canon's a bit wonky on dates for this. All we know for certain is that Dean's birthday was January 24th, 1979 (interestingly, exactly thirty years before my little sister's wedding) and that Sam's birthday was May 2nd, 1983. I gave Bobby my mom's birthday (although a different year, which we don't go into) because I thought that'd be perfect for a character who's a lovable self-insert.
What isn't so clear is what date Dean made his deal upon. The Official Companion for Season 2 apparently (and I haven't gotten to double-check this) states that he made it on May 2nd, which is obviously Sam's birthday. However, a receipt featured in episode 3x15 ("Time Is On My Side") states that Sam and Dean stayed in a motel on June 11, 2008, which makes it a year, a month, and some change after the supposed date upon which Dean made his deal.
There's been a lot of discussion on this issue and no satisfactory answer, so for the sake of the story, I decided that Dean would have made his deal on Sam's birthday. Yeah, it's probably a little too neat, but I thought the progression was interesting and worth trying.
Beyond that, I keep wanting to over-explain this fic. I know I shouldn't, but I do briefly want to discuss the fact that Sam and Bobby don't outright mention their birthdays on their respective days. I kept trying to fit in references to it ("Sam carries Dean's body out of the house, and lo! There's a calendar!" or "Great to see you back from Hell, Dean; let's go have some cake."), but it occurred to me that their birthdays just weren't the main issue on their respective days. And Bobby doesn't strike me as the celebrating kind anyway. It still bothers me a little that the story doesn't really stand without the title or the summary, but I guess not every story's meant to.
Okay, I'm really shutting up now.