Short little fic for Dean's birthday, as well as a tag to 10x10, The Hunter Games. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, though I love to play with the characters.

Dean felt sick.

Not at all a normal kind of sick; he didn't feel in any way that he was actually going to vomit. He had no fever, chills, or aches; no sore throat, diarrhea, or cold sweats. What he did have was a massive headache, however, and the constant feeling that his guts had been scraped out of his insides like a jack-o-lantern and were being proudly displayed on the outside for all to see. He had a fake smile carved on his face, guarding the outside world from the true turmoil he was feeling. Inside, he was breaking down. He could still feel the angel blade in his hand, could still hear Metatron's screams ringing in his ears, vibrating throughout his entire being. He'd wanted to kill him, and now the angel wasn't willing to help them anymore.

"The river ends at the source," he'd said. Dean, lounging back on his bed with his knees pulled up to his chest, massaged his temples. All of this thinking and pondering couldn't be good for him, especially when he was already feeling like crap. He was emotionally spent, and the blisters formed on his knuckles were starting to annoy him. He ran his fingers over the blemished skin, reminded once again of the pleasure he'd gotten when he'd punched Metatron in the face. The glistening blood that ran down his face had been satisfying to Dean, a thought that made bile rise in his throat. Sam's words were bouncing around in Dean's head, all that talk about how he had to fight the part of him that wanted to give into the Mark. But Dean had been trying that, and he was tired of it. All he wanted was for the thing to be gone.

Dean groaned softly, digging the heels of his hands into his eye sockets as if trying to ball them out. He felt as if he was hungover, minus the puking and everlasting taste of whiskey in his mouth. A soft knock beckoned on his bedroom door, and Dean unfurled himself from his semi-pathetic position he was sitting in. He grabbed the first thing that his hand grabbed from his bedside table and pretended to be studying it as he voiced, "Come in."

Sam entered slowly and Dean could see the frown on his brother's face even though he wasn't directly looking at him. "Uh, Dean?" Sam asked tenderly.

Dean grunted in response, still staring at the thing in his hands even though his mind was too jumbled to put a name to what it was.

"Howard McGhee? Really?"

Dean looked up at Sam, confused, until he realized that he was holding one of the old Men of Letters' jazz records that he'd found in the archives, among a bunch of other similar titles. He placed the vintage "bebop" album back on the table gingerly, before grinning up at Sam. "These guys didn't have any taste in music whatsoever."

Sam smiled, though the action looked a little forced. "Yeah..." He trailed off, his gaze flicking up to Dean's face. "Hey, I just wanted to see what was up. How you're doing."

"I'd be good if you'd stop asking me that. I'm fine," he said, making a show of rolling his eyes at the way his baby brother was so concerned. In all honesty, it felt good to know that he had someone watching after him, but he didn't feel worthy to recieve his brother's affection. He hated the way that Sam felt he had to dote on him as if he were some fragile thing on the verge of shattering, even though he was probably disgusted with Dean, horrified with how he'd acted.

Sam huffed in the way that only Sam could. "Dude, you were just looking at a trumpet jazz album from the 40's. You hate jazz, come on."

"I'm broadening my horizons. Sometimes there's more genres of music than heavy metal."

That only deepened the creases in Sam's face. Maybe it hadn't been the right thing to say. "Dean..."

Dean shook his head. "Listen, Sam, whatever your game is here, I don't wanna hear it, all right? I'm perfectly happy brooding in my room, never to see the light of day while devouring the unborn." The weak joke got a grin out of Sam, albeit a small one. Dean crossed his arms, smiling, but darkened his tone a bit. "I know you want me to talk about what happened, about what you said, but I'm not going to, okay?"

"Dean, I—"

"Sam, no," Dean cut him off with a firm face, heart clenching a bit at the look of defeat on his brother's face. He wondered for a fleeting moment if that wasn't what Sam wanted to talk about.

"Fine." Sam threw up his hands in a sort of surrender. "You don't want to talk? Well, neither do I. Glad you're content with hanging out in isolation." With that, the younger Winchester stormed out of Dean's room, shutting the door on his way out.

Dean sighed. Well, that went well. He considered getting up to fetch his headphones, but ultimately decided against it. Even a good Zep tune wouldn't make him feel better at this point. This kind of hurt he was feeling was too deep, too sorrowful for him to continue to "Ramble On". He ran a hand over his face; he really was sick, and he hated admitting defeat to himself. He felt like he was collapsing in on himself, the pure anguish and pain of what the Mark was doing to him just overwhelming. He wanted to fight it, yes, but he didn't know how to. Something else took over him when he had a blade in his hands, its surface bringing comfort and relief to the longing in him. The Mark itched incessantly, thirsting for something that Dean was afraid to provide it with. Something that he knew he shouldn't. The whole plan involving the First Blade secretly made Dean nervous; If he got his hands on that thing again, he was afraid what would happen to him. He'd be too far gone at that point. His only hope was that Crowley would keep it away from him until they needed it to get rid of the Mark. Except that was probably never going to happen now that Metatron was sworn to not help them ever again.

Dean checked his watch, surprised to see that it was nearly lunch time now. He wanted to fix himself something, preferably a greasy burger, but he didn't want to run into Sam or Cas, especially the latter. Cas was bound to either try and "talk" as Sam had, or complain about how caring for an estranged teenage girl was one of the toughest things he'd ever faced. Dean was in the mood for neither conversations.

Eventually, his stomach won the war. He sneaked out of his room, listening for any signs of life in the Bunker. Detecting none, he slowly made his way to the kitchen, eager to cook himself up a nice snack. To his surprise, he was able to get to the room without seeing his brother or Cas. He started up the stove, intent on frying a quarter-pound of beef and piling up the onions. He could already taste the delicacies of his favorite meal, but somehow his heart wasn't fully in it.

As he waited for the stove to warm up, he spotted a sticky note taped to the fridge that definitely wasn't there before. Curious, Dean went over to read it.

Went out for a while, Cas said he's trying to dig up more things about the Mark. Hope you can hold up fort while we aren't here.

If you're interested, there's something for you in the fridge. Sorry if I pissed you off earlier, it's really not my place to pry; you can listen to jazz all you want.

Happy birthday, jerk.

-Sam

Dean smiled fondly—trust Sammy to use a freaking semicolon in a note—then frowned. It wasn't his birthday, was it? He really hadn't been focusing on what day it was. He had a right to not keep track of it, all things considered. He opened up the refrigerator and saw the most beautiful apple pie in the world. Dean let out a breathless chuckle. Finally, Sam remembered the pie. He could see the perfect golden-brown flakey crust, and knew that the apples that rested inside were surely the sweetest ones to be grown ever.

His first reaction to the birthday dessert faded quickly, and he ended up closing the fridge. His stomach was churning uncomfortably at the sight of it, and he didn't like it. Somehow, he had lost his appetite.

Images of Metatron and flashes of red were strewn across his vision. It was his birthday—his thirty-sixth, if he wasn't mistaken—but he didn't feel any older. Sure, he felt a whole new level of his usual weight on his shoulders, but physically he didn't feel as if he'd aged. He just felt tired.

Dean looked longingly towards the fridge again, but decided against it. He didn't deserve it. He'd majorly messed up, and now Sam wanted to celebrate something as insignificant as his birthday. Dean couldn't believed this. He headed back to the stove, which was now heated to the proper temperature, but found that he wasn't as hungry as he'd been before; all his appetite had been lost. Feeling his headache slowly growing in intensity, Dean sauntered back to his room. Maybe he could grab an hour or two of rest before the other inhabitants of the Bunker returned. Sure, any sleep he got would be strewn with nightmares, but he could hardly care.

Yep, thirty-six was already shaping up to be a fantastic year.

Happy Birthday Dean! Thank you for reading.

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