(no subject)

[longsufferingly]

timmesque asked me to drabble at her about Dean's birthdays. Gen, weechesters, no warnings.


When Dean turned seven, Sammy was sick, shivering with fever, tossing and turning, and for the first time in a long time, Dean asked God for something, said for his birthday to please make his little brother better.

Sam didn't die, and that's all Dean's ever wanted, so it was a good birthday.

*

When Dean turned nine, his dad gave him a hunting knife.

He's never been sure if it was just a coincidence.

*

When Dean turned eleven, Sam bought him a venus flytrap. He'd saved up for weeks, done his research, trying to find something Dean could keep alive on the road. Dean used to keep it on his lap as they drove, sticking his pinky into its leaves, feeling them try to shut around them, almost like it was licking his fingertip.

*

When Dean was thirteen, they were living in a motel. Sam made him a cake in a cup in the microwave, one candle sinking in to the soggy mass.

Dean's never had anything better.