Sam Winchester had a birthday in a cemetery once. He walked onto hallowed ground 14 years old, and crawled out of a six foot grave 15.
As fire ate at the remains in the rotting box, his big brother slung an arm around him and grinned.
The flames danced in Dean’s eyes and his smile was stretched too thin, and they both knew--other kids aren’t like this.
No one else celebrated their birthday over burning corpses, or dug up graves the night before an algebra test, or worried about the smell of smoke and death soaking into every stitch of clothing they owned.
Smoke and death aren’t just in my clothes. They’re in my blood–marinating my bones.
He didn’t say it out loud, but Dean heard it anyway. Tightened his hand on Sam’s shoulder, pulled him in against his side before letting go.
Dean’s face said I’m sorry and this is our life and please don’t be angry again.
John’s voice broke the silence like a gunshot.
“Let’s get this filled in, then you boys can head on back.”
As Sam threw dirt onto the remnants of the fire, he made his birthday wish.
Let me make it out of this. Let me not always reek of smoke and death and death and death. Let me go.
The flames went out and Sam looked up but couldn’t find Dean’s eyes in the dark. His breath caught in his throat and irrational panic gripped him.
Sam choked out, “Thought I lost you for a second.”
Dean’s laugh bounced off the surrounding headstones. Sam still couldn’t pinpoint where he was.
His brother's voice came from all around.
“Never, Sammy. Always gonna be right here.”
