Five years since the reset, and the entire world's already forgotten about it or explained it away. Not Dean.
Most days he can shrug off the shadows, toss the rod another time and leave it all behind while the river - just made of water, blood is a thing of the past - laps gently at the dock.
Most days, but not today.
Today is the one day a year when Sam goes quiet. He hides behind a book or the wheel of his second-hand pansy-ass hybrid car, and Dean can see the memories in his eyes.
Sam never celebrates, but that's not so new. Sam's birthday has always been on the Winchester calendar of Days That Suck. Hell, Dean thinks,they could celebrate both of their births and deaths today if they really wanted to.
As if the both of them sharing a death date isn't enough bad memories to last any one person a lifetime, Sam had to go and make it worse. Dean remembers trying to talk him out of it, telling him to wait just one more hour - it seems stupid now but at the time it felt important, even if Dean couldn't say why - but Sam wouldn't listen.
Five years since his brother let the Devil in, and the whole world has already forgotten about it, or explained it away. But not Dean.
The small blond mass of fur in Dean's lap wriggles impatiently, and when Dean picks her up to eye level, she responds to his silent query with a bored yawn.
"I know, and I'm sorry, I am. But you can't go out there. I want you to look clean when Sam gets here, you got that?" Dean wrinkles his nose at the large brown eyes, gazing at him inscrutably. "What?"
She whines a little, blowing a puff of puppy breath right into Dean's face. He's about to tell her that puppy breath isn't all that it's cracked up to be when he hears the whine of the hybrid in the driveway.
"Showtime," He tells her, ruffling her fur. He sets her down strategically in the hall. Sam will have to pass her to make his customary don't-talk-to-me dash up the stairs. Dean's betting he won't get too far. Not this year. "Look cute," he adds, "'cause you ain't sleepin' in my room."
1/2
Most days he can shrug off the shadows, toss the rod another time and leave it all behind while the river - just made of water, blood is a thing of the past - laps gently at the dock.
Most days, but not today.
Today is the one day a year when Sam goes quiet. He hides behind a book or the wheel of his second-hand pansy-ass hybrid car, and Dean can see the memories in his eyes.
Sam never celebrates, but that's not so new. Sam's birthday has always been on the Winchester calendar of Days That Suck. Hell, Dean thinks,they could celebrate both of their births and deaths today if they really wanted to.
As if the both of them sharing a death date isn't enough bad memories to last any one person a lifetime, Sam had to go and make it worse. Dean remembers trying to talk him out of it, telling him to wait just one more hour - it seems stupid now but at the time it felt important, even if Dean couldn't say why - but Sam wouldn't listen.
Five years since his brother let the Devil in, and the whole world has already forgotten about it, or explained it away. But not Dean.
The small blond mass of fur in Dean's lap wriggles impatiently, and when Dean picks her up to eye level, she responds to his silent query with a bored yawn.
"I know, and I'm sorry, I am. But you can't go out there. I want you to look clean when Sam gets here, you got that?" Dean wrinkles his nose at the large brown eyes, gazing at him inscrutably. "What?"
She whines a little, blowing a puff of puppy breath right into Dean's face. He's about to tell her that puppy breath isn't all that it's cracked up to be when he hears the whine of the hybrid in the driveway.
"Showtime," He tells her, ruffling her fur. He sets her down strategically in the hall. Sam will have to pass her to make his customary don't-talk-to-me dash up the stairs. Dean's betting he won't get too far. Not this year. "Look cute," he adds, "'cause you ain't sleepin' in my room."