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A Supernatural story by Jennie @DeanIsntFine

This story takes place between Season 9's "First Born" and "Sharp Teeth" -- on Dean's 35th birthday.

January 24th dawned soot-gray, with sleet spitting from the sky, tick-tacking on the steel and glass of the Impala.

Dean was curled into a comma on Baby’s back seat, clutching a thin blanket around his shoulders.

He’d spent a fitful night in the car alternately shivering and sweating, the fresh brand on his right arm burning and itching as, presumably, his body rebelled against it. 

Long, dark hours, trying to convince himself he wasn’t feeling something -- a change -- coming over him already.

He grunted, shifted on the seat, and squinted at the face of his wristwatch in the morning murk. 7:30. 

“Happy birthday to me,” Dean muttered.

***

On a long and lonesome highway

East of Omaha

You can listen to the engine

moanin' out its one-note song ...

Dean arrowed the Impala due north as the morning sky brightened.

Somewhere southeast of Omaha, the clouds had cracked, and a thin, hazy sunlight painted the road ahead an inky black, while the bare trees and icy landscape around him rolled on in endless shades of gray.

Normally, Dean would have had the radio blaring, drowning out the drone of the tires on the pavement, muffling whatever thoughts were shouting in his mind. Today -- of all days -- he seemed to crave the quiet, his brain and body vibrating with the one-note moan coming from under Baby’s hood.

Guess that’s what happens when you turn 35, Dean thought ruefully.

He was headed to Wisconsin -- Grantsburg, specifically -- to check out an odd report of an unconscious John Doe. From the description on the police wire, it sounded a lot like Garth.

The longest of long shots, Dean knew. Thinner than thin. They hadn’t heard a peep from Garth in months. Not since he’d bailed on Kevin…

He buried that thought as soon as it clawed to the surface. No. Kevin’s on me, and only me. 

No more birthdays for Kevin.

When it was quiet, like now, Dean heard the kid’s last words to him -- whispering, muttering on a loop in his mind: “I always trust you. And I always end up screwed.”

He didn’t know how quickly he’d be proved right.

Dean recalled the horror, the helplessness, of walking in on Gadreel -- a psycho angel using Sam as his puppet -- burning Kevin to a shell, the sooty smoke hanging in the air, the charred black holes where his eyes had been. Bile rose in Dean’s throat now as he remembered the sizzle, the stink.

Gadreel had used Sam to slaughter Kevin. Because Dean had let him in.

Dean swallowed hard, tightened his hands around the wheel, and tried to stay focused on the black ribbon of road ahead. The mark on his arm throbbed with the thrum of the engine.

He remembered the pain he’d felt in the pit of his stomach later, on the dock, after Sam had booted the angel -- with an assist from Crowley.  His brother had raged at him about Gadreel, bitter with betrayal. And Dean had chosen to walk away.

“I'm poison, Sam,” he’d said. And he believed it in his heart. “People get close to me, they get killed... or worse.”

“Just go,” Sam had said.

And Dean had never felt more alone.

***

Your thoughts will soon be wandering,
the way they always do

When you’re ridin’ 16 hours
and there’s nothin’ much to do

And you don't feel much like ridin’,
you just wish the trip was through ...

High noon, or as high as it would get in the Midwest in late January. Outside the Impala’s windows, the stark gray scenery hadn’t changed much, nor had the weak, watery sunlight done much to warm it.

With the radio still silent, Dean’s thoughts wandered, like they always did on a long drive.

Coming up on two weeks since Dean had left Sam and Cas on that dock, he still felt the pain of separation from his brother like a lost limb.

As the days had passed, even with the hurt, he felt sure he’d done the right thing by leaving. You knew you were poison when even the King of Hell took notice of your bleak batting average.

Now, as the miles rolled on, and Wisconsin didn’t seem to be getting any closer, it was Crowley’s voice that echoed in Dean’s head: “How many times am I gonna have to say this? People in your general vicinity don't have much in the way of a life span.”

He didn’t have to say it. Dean knew it was true.

For the rest of the world, a birthday might be a good time to look back, take stock, tote up one’s accomplishments.

For Dean, today felt more like a stroll through a graveyard.

Without music for distraction, and without Sam, Dean’s brain churned up name after name, face after face, a litany of those he had lost -- many of whom he felt directly responsible for. Friends. Family.

With his right hand on the wheel, his left rubbing absently at the mark as it burned and throbbed, he felt anger rising along with the self-pity. He welcomed it.

He might have made a mess of everything. But now he was going to make things right.

Abbadon. Gadreel. Both were going down.

A feeling of pure power surged with the rage, and he had to fight to keep his right hand steady on the wheel.

Both would die, and die bloody, he seethed.

And after that, it didn’t matter what happened to him.

***

Well, you walk into a restaurant,
strung out from the road

And you feel the eyes upon you
as you're shakin' off the cold

You pretend it doesn't bother you
but you just want to explode ...

Afternoon, and for the last 50 miles or so, all Dean could hear was his stomach, protesting.

The black rage he’d felt had faded to gray, and he was hungry. And yes, still feeling sorry for himself. It was his birthday, dammit. And he wanted pie.

When he hit the next tiny town, he pulled off the road into the parking lot of a diner -- a pretty busy one, considering the odd, between-meals hour.

As he walked in, shaking off the biting cold, bowlegs a bit wobbly from all the time in the car, the bell over the door dinged -- and he felt about a dozen pairs of eyes turning to study him.

Reflexively, he took a quick mental inventory of the weapons he was carrying, and considered which he could reach most quickly. The mark on his right arm flared with heat as his body tensed for a fight.

Then a sweet-looking waitress, brown hair in a bob, called to him from behind the counter. She couldn’t have been more than 16.

“What can I getcha, mister?” she asked, pulling a pencil from behind one ear, as chewing gum popped in her mouth.

Dean looked around warily and saw that everyone in the diner had gone back to their food, their conversations.

Now it was his face that flared. With shame.

He took a stool at the counter as the waitress stood poised with her pencil and pad. “Coffee, black,” he managed. “And a big slice of pie. Thanks.”

She scribbled his order, blew a big pink bubble, and trotted away. She came back quickly with a pot of java, pouring a healthy portion into a spotless gray mug.

Dean wrapped his cold hands around it, and nodded his thanks. When the waitress headed back to the kitchen, his left hand moved again, automatically, to rub at the mark.

The Mark of Cain.

His composure cracked for a moment, and a naked, childlike fear slipped in. He cleared his throat, eyes darting side to side. He swore he could already feel the mark changing him. Tainting him.

Still on edge, he flinched as a high-pitched squeal sounded to his left.

He tensed, looked over -- and saw a pair of young parents seated at a table with their son, about 4, clapping and smiling as the waitress brought out a towering bowl of ice cream. “Happy birthday, little man!” she gushed.

Dean’s lips twisted into a sour grin as he looked back at the steaming mug of coffee.

Nice family, he thought. Cute kid.

He wondered what the couple would do if they knew their precious boy sat just steps away from a killer.

Dean took his first sip of the bitter black liquid in front of him, and it scalded all the way down.

He thought back to Cain sitting in his kitchen, shucking corn, sipping beer. Serene, smug, as Dean had fought his way through half a dozen demons sent by Abbadon to keep him and Crowley from getting to the First Blade.

The Father of Murder’s words still rang like funeral bells in Dean’s mind: “I felt connected to you right from the beginning. Kindred spirits, if you will. You and I are very much alike.”

Kindred spirits.

Cain had said the mark could be transferred to someone who was worthy.

Someone like him. A killer.

Dean forced a smile as the waitress returned with his pie. But his mouth suddenly tasted of ashes, and as he stared down at the pie’s garish cherry filling, any trace of hunger left him. The red splash on the plate brought to mind only gore.

“You have to know, with the mark comes a great burden,” Cain had warned him. Or, he’d tried.

The red brand on Dean’s arm again flared with heat and pain, and his blood suddenly felt like it was boiling.

He pushed himself up from the counter, staggering slightly. He dropped a twenty by his untouched pie and turned to leave.

The birthday boy’s mother, startled, cast a wary glance in Dean’s direction, and put one arm protectively around her son.

Dean ducked his head and hurried out.

***

Most times you can’t hear ’em talk,
other times you can

You always seem outnumbered,
you don't dare make a stand … 

The sun painted Dean’s face in splashes of bright light and wells of dark shadow as it set off to his left. His eyes burned and watered in its glare.

About 20 miles past the diner, he’d started feeling more like himself again. As the interminable day crept by, though, he still felt… haunted.

He had tried to listen to some music. Bob Seger. But nothing felt right without Sam by his side, so he’d gone back to the silence. To the drone of Baby’s engine. 

To the voices in his head.

He remembered too well that night at the waterfront with Crowley, when he’d sent the King of Hell off to find the First Blade. 

Dean couldn’t shake the simmering anger. 

“I saw you, Crowley,” he’d said, his rage barely bottled. Already emboldened by the mark. 

Crowley had known, had played him. He wasn’t at all surprised to find Cain. The whole farce had been nothing but an audition. And the star of the show hadn’t even known he was up for the role.  

“He would never have given me the Blade,” that smarmy dick had said of Cain. “Who can say no to you? I needed you to play along.”

Play along. Play along with the King of Hell. Dean had felt used, dirty, stupid. 

He grimaced now, tightening his hands on the wheel. The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, and he blinked his eyes furiously to clear them.  

“Tara died. Thanks to you,” he’d fumed at Crowley then. His father’s friend. A hunter. Tortured and killed by an Abbadon loyalist.

“Omelets. Broken eggs. Et cetera,” Crowley had said.

And then Dean had finally had enough of that pompous jackass. The punch he’d thrown had sent a tingle all the way up his arm. 

He shuddered now at the memory, the rush he’d felt. The sick satisfaction of inflicting pain.

“After I kill Abaddon... you're next!” he’d promised.  

Crowley had remained maddeningly nonchalant. “You don't mean that. We're having too much fun.” 

And off he’d gone, into the depths, to fetch his new friend the Blade.

Dean rubbed at his eyes now as the gray of dusk drew in, the road ahead swimming in and out of focus. He could feel the fever and chills returning. 

The First Blade. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. His arm, his hand… they ached for it. 

And he hadn’t even laid eyes on it yet.  

***

Out there in the spotlight,

you're a million miles away

Every ounce of energy

you try to give away

As the sweat pours out your body

like the music that you play … 

9 p.m. Dean didn’t want music. He wanted noise.

Noise to drown out the voices. 

He found a tape with some old-school Metallica and popped it into Baby’s cassette deck, cranking the volume as high as it would go. 

He was sweating, feverish. Even with the heater turned all the way down. Even in Wisconsin on the long, dark night of January 24th. 

Itch and burn, itch and burn, the mark on his arm pulsed. Foul thoughts crawled through Dean’s mind. The faces. The voices. They churned in the blackness.

The worse he felt, the faster he drove. Pedal to the floor, the needle buried. The engine screamed with the effort.

He had next to nothing left in the tank. But -- ears ringing, eyes glazed, sweat pouring from his brow -- he barreled on.

***

Later in the evening

as you lie awake in bed

With the echoes from the amplifiers

ringin' in your head

You smoke the day's last cigarette,

rememberin' what she said ...

The crappy clock on the bedside table read 11:59 p.m. 

The fever seemed to have broken, for now, but sheer exhaustion had turned Dean’s limbs to jelly, and he’d finally had to stop for the night.

The motel just outside Grantsburg was a dive, worse than a dive. As Dean lay atop the scratchy, stained coverlet, all he could hear -- over the ringing in his ears -- was the drone of trucks on the highway. 

The stink of cigarettes hung heavy in the air, stinging his eyes, burning his throat. He felt like he was choking on every single cancer stick that had ever been smoked in this dump. 

Sam would never have agreed to stay here, Dean thought as he looked around at the sad little space.

At least the heavy, gray curtains did their job. When Dean switched off the light, aside from the faint glow of the clock, the room fell into black. 

 As Dean closed his eyes, the last voice he heard in his head was Tara’s. 

“If your daddy could see you now…”

In the darkness, Dean’s shame flared fresh, and the mark burned. 

There was one last thought before sleep took him: 

At least there wouldn’t be many more birthdays.

Here I am

On the road again … 

There I go

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