Prompt: is set on a character's birthday/anniversary/some other annual Special Day in their verse
Now, with a prompt like that, I pretty much have to do a Supernatural fic - since I work so hard on the timeline and knowing what happens when on that show. Also, today happens to be raloria's birthday (Happy Birthday, raloria!), as well as my best friend's birthday (he doesn't read this LJ, but I still love him). So, I thought, well, a birthday it is then... and since more stuff happens on Sam's birthday, I chose it.
The other thing you have to know is that I was reading poetry right before I started writing this... and that will become VERY apparent when you read it. I basically wrote a Supernatural Poem-fic, but with a few stanzas that are jarringly out of rhythm and rhyme.
When they’re young, Dean’s birthdays sometimes get forgotten, but Sam’s don’t often do. Sometimes it’s just an acknowledgement, sometimes a little more, but Sam’s birthdays get acknowledge, right until he walks out the door.
Then it’s Stanford and Jessica, and that’s different too. Birthday’s spent with friends, drink, and song. Birthday’s spent with love and kisses and thoughts that this would go on – maybe not forever, but it would go on.
But no, that was wrong. And when Sam turns twenty-three, Jessica’s six months gone.
But Dean’s heart isn’t dying, and for the first time in half a year, Sam thinks, at least I have this, at least I still have this.
Sam’s twenty-fourth birthday gets forgotten, although he gets a hug – because it’s destiny and devil’s traps, and the worst birthday gift of all. The timer starts ticking, and when Sam turns twenty-five, he’s holding his brother’s body and is the only Winchester alive.
Twenty-six is spent with weakness and still healing wrists, and a broken brother who tells him, “you just need more iron,” because he doesn’t know about the other thing that’s thinned out in Sam’s veins.
Why celebrate twenty-seven when he’ll soon be dead? Dean buys an extra shot and doesn’t say a word. Sam drinks it down and smiles and doesn’t say a word.
For the part that counts, twenty-eight is spent with the devil on his back. The other part doesn’t care.
At twenty-nine, there’s birthday cake, bought by Bobby and Dean. There are drinks, laughter, and sarcasm about a movie they’ve never even seen. Then thirty is spent in Chicago, after pulling off a theft. He’s still got Dean. But, as for Bobby, only a ghost is left.
By the next year he’s got no one, well, except the wayward dog – okay, the wayward dog and a girl. So thirty-one is spent in a park, lying through his teeth – saying it’s the best birthday he could ask for, because Sam never asks for much, but if he did it’d be for his brother to smile and buy him an extra shot.
At thirty-two, he has his brother back and a new friend to add on top. Charlie teaches them how to play table-top games, while Sam tries not to cough. By this point, he knows he’s dying, but he’s done that before. And this time he won’t be stuck with the devil, so really who could ask for more.
At thirty-three, he’s survived, though Dean’s choice of saviour tore them apart. Still, he finds a cupcake in the kitchen and he smiles from his heart.
As a special post-script, here's a poem I wrote once about my best friend:
There's a way you look at me
Like that time I was standing in the kitchen
Of your childhood home
Looking at the birds at the bird feeder
I picked up your mother's binoculars
From the small table under the window
To get a better look
Then put them down and thumbed through
The Birds of Eastern Canada book
That she keeps next to the binoculars
And I said,
"I want to know what the red ones are"
You laughed in a breath
I turned to look at you, an eyebrow raised
You had that smile, that look,
And you said,
"Jeez, why don't you just move here."
There's a way you look at me
That lets me know how much you love me.
Alright, that's the end of weird poetry day. I promise to never let that happen again. :P