ohsam | Fic: They Say It's Your Birthday (Reply)

Originally posted by

safiyabat at Fic: They Say It's Your Birthday

Title: They Say It's Your Birthday
Author:

safiyabat
Rating: PG
Genre/pairing: Gen
Characters: Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Jim Murphy. Dean has a non-speaking role.
Word count: 1,472 words
Summary: Someone remembers Sam's fourteenth birthday. Written for the Sam's Birthday Fic Fest.
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Blood, mild gore, depression, negative presentation of John Winchester
Disclaimer: I own nothing. No, really.

A/N: Thanks to my awesome beta, SweetSamOfMine! You can also read this fic on AO3 if you prefer.

Sam gripped the wheel and tried to jam his foot harder on the gas pedal. His father hissed in the passenger seat, one arm hanging at an absurd angle and the other wrapped up in more bandages than Sam knew that they even had. Dean, laid out across the back seat, didn’t make a sound at all. If a cop pulled them over they were dead, no ifs, ands or buts. A thirteen year old driving the car would be the least of the problems they faced.

If we get pulled over at least Dean will get an ambulance, that little part of Sam’s brain pointed out, the part that he had to admit wasn’t so little anymore. His brother needed a hospital, not a rectory. Dad was only semi-conscious and not in any position to stop Sam from blowing right past the church and on to the 24 Hour Walk-In Clinic. The only impediment, of course, was Social Services. They’d see the blood on Dean, see the blood on Sam when he dropped Dean off (it wasn’t like Dad could help him get Dean out of the car, and it wasn’t like he could get Dean out by himself for crying out loud; he’d barely gotten him into the car) and that would be the end of it. He’d get separated from his brother, probably forever.

Would that really be such a bad thing? that same traitorous voice pressed. All you’re doing is holding him back, holding them both back. You know they’d be better off without you.

He glimpsed the cross from the church, illuminated against the faded brick wall by a floodlight hidden in the bushes. Well, at least they had that going for them. They hadn’t warned Pastor Jim that they were en route, but the priest wouldn’t take exception to their sudden appearance when he saw Dean’s state. Maybe he’d even be able to talk Dad into letting Dean go to a hospital. Sam turned into the driveway and pulled up behind the rectory, wincing as motion-sensitive lights flooded the backyard.

John’s arms left him unable to do much for himself right now. That included unbuckling his seat belt. Sam took care of that for him before racing around the Impala to open the heavy door, but John wouldn’t accept his help in exiting the vehicle. His pride wouldn’t allow him to rely on second-best quite so far. Sam repressed a snarl of rage and tears of humiliation both as his father staggered up to the kitchen door and started kicking it.

Lights flew on. Sam shut the door, wincing as his torso twisted.

Jim appeared at the back door, wearing gray sweats and a confused expression. “Winchester?” he murmured blearily, shoving a handgun into the kangaroo pouch pocket of his sweatshirt. “What’s going on?”

“Need your help,” Dad grunted, swaying on his feet. “Dean’s hurt. Concussion, bad one. ‘M hurt too. Sammy can’t lift Dean by himself –“

John’s words had the effect of a full cup of coffee on the priest, and he was out the door and moving toward the Impala before John had finished speaking. Sam got the door open for him, and between the two of them they managed to wrangle Dean’s still, limp form out of the back seat. “Let’s get him into your room, Sam,” Jim directed. “I want to move him as little as possible.”

John grunted, but didn’t object, and the trio maneuvered the patient up two flights of stairs into the little attic room with the twin beds that the Winchester boys shared when they stayed in Blue Earth. Sam hovered over his brother, anxious to know what the prognosis was, but his father nudged him with the toe of his boot. “Jim’ll get Dean just fine, boy,” he pointed out. “Or did you forget that Dean ain’t the only one hurt here?”

Sam swallowed. The last thing in the world that he wanted was to be alone in the bathroom with his father. “I’ll get the med kit, sir.”

“’Bout time you thought of that.” John staggered out of the little room and down the stairs, setting a course for the main bathroom.

Sam made his way back outside and got the medical kit. Thinking better of it, he grabbed their bags too, despite the fresh surge of dampness he felt on his chest and abdomen at the extra weight. He’d just get sent back out; might as well get it taken care of now.

The first order of business was to set his father’s shoulder. John didn’t think he had the mass for it, told him he was too much of a runt to handle this kind of work, but the hateful words gave Sam the impetus to put enough force behind the necessary blow. His father yelled. Sam tried not to feel any kind of satisfaction from that. After that, stitching his father up seemed to be kind of anticlimactic. The old man had lost a lot of blood; he should probably get a transfusion, but if he wouldn’t go to a hospital when Dean was bleeding from his ears he wasn’t going to go for blood loss in himself. Probably top it off with Jack, Sam thought spitefully as his father staggered away.

Once Sam was alone in the room he had the chance to attend to his own injuries. He peeled off his shirts and stood on the toilet to get a good view of the full claw marks, still bleeding and angry red. He sighed. There wasn’t anything to do but sterilize the needle and get to sewing, he guessed.

The gashes probably could have been sealed with fewer stitches, but Sam was just young enough to still have some vanity left. He didn’t want to scar. He knew how his father would respond to that sentiment, of course. It was selfish of him to think about scars, about how other people would see him, about the idea that anyone would want to look at him anyway. Not that anyone would. It was a waste of dental floss anyway. That’s what Dad would say, and he’d be right.

Sam had just finished tying off the last of the stitches when Pastor Jim appeared in the doorway, right side hidden. “Sam!” he exclaimed. “That’s not exactly the kind of birthday present I wanted you to get.”

Sam blinked. “It’s my birthday?”

“Was, anyway,” Jim confirmed. “I’m not sure if it’s gone midnight yet. Happy fourteenth, kiddo. Did you – did you stitch yourself, Sam?”

It had been his birthday and no one had remembered. Even Sam had forgotten. “Uh, yeah. I mean, Dad couldn’t and Dean couldn’t – how is he?” Damn it, that should have been his first thought, not about how pathetic he was that he’d forgotten his own birthday. He was the worst brother in the world.

“He’ll live. I’d feel better if he went to a hospital, but he’ll live. He’s going to be a joy to be around for a little while though.” The priest gave a tiny little smile, almost conspiratorial. “I got you a little something, I was looking for you to give it to you. Come on, let’s go get you cleaned up and into something more comfortable.”

Sam startled. “Let me just clean up in here, sir.”

“Sam, I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about it. It’s your birthday and you’re hurt. Come on.” He took the boy by the hand and led him down into the living room, where John had sprawled out on one of the armchairs.

His father looked up at Sam and saw the stitches and the gift bag. “The hell is this?” he slurred. Sam noticed the bottle of whiskey hanging loosely from his bandaged arm. “Didya get a little boo-boo, Princess?”

Sam flushed red and looked away. He hadn’t wanted his father to see. “I should just go to bed,” he muttered.

“John, should you be drinking after losing so much blood?” Jim gently pried the bottle away from his friend’s loose grip. “Wish your son a happy birthday and go to bed.”

“He doesn’t need birthdays,” his father sneered. “He needs to learn to have our backs in a fight.” He staggered to his feet. “Worst hunter I’ve ever seen.” He stumbled off to bed.

Jim stared after him. “It’s the blood loss and the whiskey, Sam,” he tried.

“Sir.” Sam forced a smile. “As long as Dean’s okay.”

Jim’s gift turned out to be a copy of Virgil. “Completely useless for hunting,” he admitted with a conspiratorial wink. “But it’s in Latin, so your dad won’t object.”

Sam found himself grinning in spite of himself. “Thanks, Pastor Jim. You’re the best.” He threw his arms around his mentor. “Thank you.”

Jim accepted the embrace. “Happy birthday, Sam.”