Some birthdays just aren't that special.
Thirty seven's just further away from the acceptable ballpark of thirty, and feels more like a begrudging step closer to forty than anything else.
Sam blinks back to cognisance, a little before six, and can't really justify why his first movement is to look around the room. His eyes dart across corners of the finally familiar room, and realizing it, he sighs. Force of habit - and many years of being a hunter.
And today marks another too many.
There's no one around, of course, and Sam Winchester wakes up alone on his birthday. He drags his feet to the bathroom, glancing briefly at the mirror before he refocuses on getting the toothpaste on the brush, and shoving it into his mouth to start off the morning.
Thinking about all kinds of things, and yet nothing at all, he lands on the edge of the bed with the toothbrush clutched in a hand.
"Shush."
He frowns. He's prone to staring at the grey interior of his bedroom while he sorts his head out, but there's an unusuality today. Something's off about the walls, and it's the fact that they're whispering.
"Dean, I'm telling you he's up."
That's obviously Castiel's matter-of-fact tone, somehow equally endeared as annoyed, when directed at his brother - just as it is, now.
Of its own volition, a smile grows on his face.
"Shh!"
That one is urgently hissed, but it can't have been Dean - muffled though it comes to Sam's ears. No walls could be thick enough to completely disguise Dean's age-attained gruffness, and make it sound like he's twenty two - oh.
So, Dean, Cas and Jack were there.
Sam decides to give up any restraint he'd effected on the smile, and trods to the sink softer this time, gently closing the door before he spits.
Once through, he runs his hands familiarly through his hair, tucking it behind his ears as he engages in a slightly longer look at his own reflection. Nothing's changed, obviously, and that's what distracts him - no new creases near his eyes, folds in his temple, or random specks of grey which would basically serve the purpose of 'scaring the everloving shit outta him', as Dean has been known to eloquently put it, on more than one occasion.
But no, nothing's any different than the last time he looked - in the mirror or inside himself, for that matter, in spite of all the promises that a birthday beholds - and of course, he isn't suddenly old or grey or any more tired than he was when he got into bed last night. And maybe that's something he's got to be happy for.
That, and the fact that his family is waiting outside the door to his bedroom, quite possibly counting down seconds until he walks out.
All in all, he's not completely taken by surprise when Jack springs at him with an excited "Happy Birthday!", and a precariously balanced cake, and Dean pulls him into a hug, muttering "Happy birthday, Sammy," under his breath, and grabbing the back of his neck to keep him there for a generous fifteen seconds - but he thinks he does a good enough job of making it seem like it, and with a heartfelt broad smile and mildly-there tears pleading his case, he has it easy.
He has it good.
*
It's true; some birthdays aren't that special.
But when you fight each day like it may be your last, they have a way of becoming remarkable.
"Sam." Cas delves in, and pulls him out of his thoughts, hand lightly resting on his shoulder as Sam sits on a stool facing the kitchen where Dean and Jack are puttering around making honest-to-Chuck fake (veggie) bacon.
"Yeah, Cas?"
"I'd say it's more on the lines of," He smiles, soft and sincere. "When you've made it this far, every one of them's exceptional."
"Are you calling me old?" Sam laughs, and it comes out easier than it has in a few weeks. "Because I'm not even in the top two, in this kitchen."
"I'm calling you brave." Cas returns, without hesitation. "And I'm calling you a hero." Sam's breath hitches. Cas's hand feels reassuring, his eyes kind. "Happy birthday, Sam. I pray you get all the joy that your heart can contain."
And right as Dean returns to the table with a full plate which he plants in front of his brother, with Jack in tow with two more - Sam jerks back a nod at the angel, touched, and overwhelmed.
'May you live long' would never have suit them, or the choices they made, every day of their lives.
And, at this point, 'God bless you' sounds more like irony than about everything else.
