He can feel how alive he is. Muscles all working right. Lungs filling with air as he pulls in a long breath.
Hold it.
One
Two
Three Four Five SixSevenEight
He blows. The little flame on the candle snuffs out and a plume of smoke rises into the air.
Dean is there, waiving it away so they don’t set off the alarm.
Sam feels more like that smoke than he probably should. Not his body. Physically he’s fine. Better than fine. He’s more fit than most people ever hope to be. He can run for miles. He can swim and fight and dig and carry.
But inside his own skull, he feels taught, frail and wobbly like an old man. He’s seen so much, had too many people whispering away in his head to feel completely alone, and he’s bone weary. He thinks that maybe one stiff breeze could blow him away, tear apart what’s left of him and scatter it, like dry leaves blowing along the ground.
But it’s May. There are flowers and bees and allergies everywhere. Things are coming into bloom and everything is so alive it hurts to look at them.
He doesn’t realize he’s been staring morosely at his cupcake for several minutes until Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam’s nose.
He blinks and drags his eyes up from the swirled blue frosting. Dean looks as worn as he feels. There are lines at the corners of his eyes and his face sags just a little in a way it didn’t used to.
“Come on man, let’s get this party started. I’m going to eat that cupcake if you don’t hurry up.”
Sam knows he won’t. Instead, he asks, “How old am I?” His voice is quiet, solemn.
“Really?” Dean asks. He’s staring at Sam, puzzling him out.
“Seriously. How old am I?”
“You’re the brainiac of this duo. You do the math.”
Sam looks Dean in the eye. Really studies him until Dean starts to squirm because Sam can see that awareness lurking behind his eyes. Dean knows. Dean knows because he’s asked the same question before.
“I don’t know anymore.”
Dean sinks down on the bed next to him, his arm brushing up against Sam’s. Sam likes the warmth that rolls off him. Not enough to be hot. Just enough to be comforting. It’s real and alive and grounding.
Maybe Sam could soak up some of Dean’s endless supply of energy and make himself feel a little less hollowed out.
“Let’s see,” Dean says. “You were born in 1983. So 2013 would have been thirty. Makes you thirty-three.”
“But I’m not. I don’t even remember thirty-three.” And he doesn’t. Thirty-three he’s pretty sure was spent freezing in a dark room full of silence, but beyond that he doesn’t know. It all goes fuzzy after the first few except for a couple here and there that really stand out. Ones where Lucifer remembered his birthday, too.
“Sam…” Dean falls quiet, but doesn’t pull away. “Do you really want to know,” he finally asks.
“I…” Maybe. Maybe he wants to know. Maybe it would be easier knowing. He’s never tried to do the math before. He knows it’s well over a century. He’s over a hundred years old. “I don’t know.”
“Sammy, what if your body and soul don’t have the same birthday?”
“I know,” He says. He slumps down, frustrated. “That’s the problem.”
“No,” Dean said knocking into Sam gently. “Let me finish. What if they don’t have to be the same? Do you know why today? Why not in September or December?”
“Cause I was born in May.”
“Right. For better or worse, that’s the day you came into the world. It’s the day I got my pain in the ass little brother. And you know what, that’s an important day. It’s not about how old you are, Sam. It’s about the fact that you’re still here. You’ve been through shit, but you’re still here to celebrate. So here’s to surviving another year.”
Sam laid his head on Dean’s arm, cheek pressing into the warmth. “Yeah. Another year survived.”
Dean slung his arm over Sam’s shoulders. “Now are you going to eat that cupcake or what?”
Filled: Old Soul, New Body
Hold it.
One
Two
Three Four Five SixSevenEight
He blows. The little flame on the candle snuffs out and a plume of smoke rises into the air.
Dean is there, waiving it away so they don’t set off the alarm.
Sam feels more like that smoke than he probably should. Not his body. Physically he’s fine. Better than fine. He’s more fit than most people ever hope to be. He can run for miles. He can swim and fight and dig and carry.
But inside his own skull, he feels taught, frail and wobbly like an old man. He’s seen so much, had too many people whispering away in his head to feel completely alone, and he’s bone weary. He thinks that maybe one stiff breeze could blow him away, tear apart what’s left of him and scatter it, like dry leaves blowing along the ground.
But it’s May. There are flowers and bees and allergies everywhere. Things are coming into bloom and everything is so alive it hurts to look at them.
He doesn’t realize he’s been staring morosely at his cupcake for several minutes until Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam’s nose.
He blinks and drags his eyes up from the swirled blue frosting. Dean looks as worn as he feels. There are lines at the corners of his eyes and his face sags just a little in a way it didn’t used to.
“Come on man, let’s get this party started. I’m going to eat that cupcake if you don’t hurry up.”
Sam knows he won’t. Instead, he asks, “How old am I?” His voice is quiet, solemn.
“Really?” Dean asks. He’s staring at Sam, puzzling him out.
“Seriously. How old am I?”
“You’re the brainiac of this duo. You do the math.”
Sam looks Dean in the eye. Really studies him until Dean starts to squirm because Sam can see that awareness lurking behind his eyes. Dean knows. Dean knows because he’s asked the same question before.
“I don’t know anymore.”
Dean sinks down on the bed next to him, his arm brushing up against Sam’s. Sam likes the warmth that rolls off him. Not enough to be hot. Just enough to be comforting. It’s real and alive and grounding.
Maybe Sam could soak up some of Dean’s endless supply of energy and make himself feel a little less hollowed out.
“Let’s see,” Dean says. “You were born in 1983. So 2013 would have been thirty. Makes you thirty-three.”
“But I’m not. I don’t even remember thirty-three.” And he doesn’t. Thirty-three he’s pretty sure was spent freezing in a dark room full of silence, but beyond that he doesn’t know. It all goes fuzzy after the first few except for a couple here and there that really stand out. Ones where Lucifer remembered his birthday, too.
“Sam…” Dean falls quiet, but doesn’t pull away. “Do you really want to know,” he finally asks.
“I…” Maybe. Maybe he wants to know. Maybe it would be easier knowing. He’s never tried to do the math before. He knows it’s well over a century. He’s over a hundred years old. “I don’t know.”
“Sammy, what if your body and soul don’t have the same birthday?”
“I know,” He says. He slumps down, frustrated. “That’s the problem.”
“No,” Dean said knocking into Sam gently. “Let me finish. What if they don’t have to be the same? Do you know why today? Why not in September or December?”
“Cause I was born in May.”
“Right. For better or worse, that’s the day you came into the world. It’s the day I got my pain in the ass little brother. And you know what, that’s an important day. It’s not about how old you are, Sam. It’s about the fact that you’re still here. You’ve been through shit, but you’re still here to celebrate. So here’s to surviving another year.”
Sam laid his head on Dean’s arm, cheek pressing into the warmth. “Yeah. Another year survived.”
Dean slung his arm over Sam’s shoulders. “Now are you going to eat that cupcake or what?”