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The motel room smells like damp carpet, old cigarettes, and takeout that’s been sitting out too long in a crumpled paper bag. The scent clings to the faded bedspreads and peels up from the floor. Rain taps against the windowpane in an uneven rhythm—like fingers drumming on glass, impatient and restless. Somewhere beneath the floorboards, the plumbing groans, a low gurgle that blends with the hum of the mini-fridge, which buzzes like it’s struggling to stay alive.
The curtains are drawn tight, cheap polyester warped from years of sun, but the pale gray morning light leaks in through the edges, casting a dull halo around the fabric. It bathes the room in a washed-out glow that makes the peeling wallpaper look yellower, the scuffed linoleum more tired. The bulb in the ceiling fixture buzzes faintly, not quite turned off, not quite working.
The air is thick with that particular stillness only found in early morning motel rooms—when the world outside hasn’t quite woken up, and inside, time feels stretched and suspended. The beds are unmade, sheets tangled in restless knots, and someone’s sock lies forgotten in the corner, damp from stepping in something unidentifiable.
Sam stirs beneath the thin blanket, cocooned in a tangle of limbs and frayed sheets. His back aches from the lumpy mattress, and the pillow under his head is more damp than soft. For a long moment, he doesn’t open his eyes. He just listens to the rain, to the hum of the ancient motel fridge, to the rustle of someone moving quietly across the room.
Then the scent of burnt coffee and paper-bag grease reaches him, and his eyes blink open.
Dean is crouched by the rickety table, attempting to light a candle that’s been jammed into the center of a crushed Hostess cupcake. The flame sputters, flickers, dies. He curses under his breath and tries again.
Millie lounges beside him, one foot tucked under her, hair pulled into a messy knot, holding a steaming cup of gas station coffee. She watches the ritual with mild amusement and sleep-heavy eyes.
“Do we have to sing?” she asks.
“Yes,” Dean says. “It’s tradition.”
“No, it’s your tradition,” Millie mutters. “You’re the only person I know who celebrates birthdays with processed sugar and flammable wax.”
“Me?” Dean shoots her an incredulous look, “Everyone does this. You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”
Sam pushes himself up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What… what are you guys doing?”
Dean looks over, eyes lighting up with exaggerated excitement. “There he is! Sleeping Beauty awakens.”
Millie raises her cup in a half-salute. “Happy birthday, Sam-Sam.”
Sam blinks as Dean finally manages to coax a tiny flame to life. It flickers triumphantly atop the crooked cupcake.
“Make a wish,” he says, carefully turning with the offering held out in both hands.
Sam stares at it. At the absurdity. At the wax melting into the chocolate frosting. At his brother’s ridiculous grin. At his sister’s quiet smirk behind the rim of her coffee cup.
And then he huffs a soft laugh, almost surprised it escaped.
He leans forward and blows out the candle.
The flame dies with a faint hiss, smoke curling up into the still air like a ghost disappearing. For a beat, no one says anything. The quiet is thick but not uncomfortable. It settles around them like an old quilt—faded, frayed, but warm in its own strange way.
Dean sets the cupcake on the nightstand with exaggerated care, like he’s just handed over a priceless treasure. “Boom. Nailed it.”
Millie snorts. “Ten out of ten presentation. Extra points for ambiance.” She gestures vaguely at the sagging ceiling, the flickering light bulb, the symphony of the leaky faucet, and the humming fridge.
“Don’t forget the rain,” Dean adds. “Real moody. Very birthday chic.”
Sam’s lips curve, just barely. His shoulders relax. He leans back against the peeling headboard and draws the blanket up a little, chilled despite the room’s stuffy heat. He can feel the weight of sleep still clinging to him, but the heaviness in his chest—the other kind—is quieter now.
Millie rises and tosses him a grease-stained paper bag. “Breakfast burritos. The lady at the counter said one of them might have jalapeños. It was hard to tell through the bulletproof glass.”
Dean plops down on the edge of Sam’s bed and tears into his own burrito like a man possessed. “Best birthday breakfast you’ve had since… ever, right?”
Sam watches them, taking in the banter, the way Dean talks with his mouth full, the way Millie pretends to be annoyed and fails to hide her grin. Something small and fragile flutters in his chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or love. Or something between the two.
“It’s weird,” he murmurs, picking at the wrapper of his burrito.
Dean pauses mid-chew. “What is?”
“Not hunting. Just… sitting here. With you guys.”
Millie lowers her coffee, her expression softening. “Yeah. It is weird.”
“But good,” Sam adds quickly. “Really good.”
Dean nods, swallowing a mouthful. “Well, don’t get used to it. We’ll probably be waist-deep in wendigo guts by tomorrow.”
“Charming image,” Millie says, wrinkling her nose.
“What? It’s not like we weren’t covered in gut a little while ago.”
Sam smiles again—fuller this time. He takes a bite of the burrito, which is lukewarm and slightly mushy, and somehow still the best thing he’s eaten in weeks.
“We should do something fun,” Millie suggests, changing he subject.
Dean perks up immediately, mouth still half-full of burrito. “I’m listening.”
Millie reaches over to the nightstand where yesterday’s local events paper and the faded motel brochure are crumpled in a loose stack. She flips them open, fingers skimming headlines and cheap ads with a practiced air.
“Okay,” she mutters, scanning. “We’ve got… a flea market, a ‘haunted’ corn maze—too soon—karaoke at a bar that probably doesn’t check IDs, and…” She pauses, her finger tapping the paper. “Bowling alley. Twenty minutes away. Cosmic bowling after noon.”
Dean leans over her shoulder. “Yes. Bowling. With neon lights and bad music.”
Millie glances at Sam. “What do you think, birthday boy?”
Sam hesitates, fingers tightening slightly around his burrito. That small fluttering warmth in his chest starts to dull. He lowers his eyes. “I dunno.”
Dean’s brow furrows. “C’mon, man. Bowling. You love bowling.”
“It’s not that,” Sam says quickly. Then, quieter, “It just feels… weird. Doing something normal when—when Dad’s still out there.”
The room goes still. Even the dripping faucet and the humming fridge seem to hush.
Sam shifts, suddenly uncomfortable under their gaze. He’s not trying to ruin the morning. He knows they’re trying—really trying—to give him a break. But he can’t stop thinking about it. About how many birthdays came and went in motel rooms just like this one. About how many times he’d waited by the phone, praying for a call that never came.
He’s older now. He knows better. But that ache’s still there, deep down. Gnawing.
Millie is the first to break the silence. She leans forward, resting her coffee cup on her knee. Her voice is gentler now, edged with something that sounds a little too much like understanding. “Sam… we don’t know where he is.”
“I know,” Sam says, but his words are flat. Bitter. “But we should be looking.”
“We are looking,” Dean says, firm but not unkind. “Every lead, every whisper. We’re not just sitting on our asses.”
“I know.” Sam’s throat tightens. “I know. It’s just…”
He trails off, unable to finish. The burrito sits in his lap, forgotten.
Millie reaches over and gently tugs it from his hands. “Look. If you really don’t wanna go, we won’t. But this—” she gestures between them “—it matters too. You matter. And if we don’t grab onto the good moments when we can? We’ll lose what’s left of ourselves.”
Dean clears his throat. “Millie’s right. For once.”
She throws a napkin at him without looking.
Sam lets out a breath. He glances at the paper still spread on the table, at the circled ad for Bowlarama Lanes: Home of the $5 Gutbuster Nachos and the Friday Night Glow Bowl. It’s so stupid. So small.
But maybe that’s the point.
“Okay,” he says finally, voice soft. “Let’s go bowling.”
Dean grins. “Atta boy.”
Millie raises her cup in a toast. “To glowing balls and terrible music.”
Dean snorts. “You’re not allowed to say ‘glowing balls’ ever again.”
—
Three hours later, the Winchesters stand in the fluorescent chaos of Bowlarama Lanes, where the carpet looks like someone spilled a bag of Skittles across an interdimensional portal and called it interior design.
Black lights pulse from the ceiling, casting a faint purple glow over every lint-specked sleeve and scuffed sneaker. Neon signs buzz faintly, advertising half-off jalapeño poppers and league sign-ups. In the background, Bon Jovi blares from overhead speakers, muffled by the clatter of pins and the shriek of excited teenagers.
Dean adjusts his rented bowling shoes like they’re tactical gear, squinting down the lane with the grave intensity of a man preparing for battle. “Alright. House rules: no bumpers, no mercy.”
Millie flexes her wrist dramatically. “Try to keep up, grandpa.”
Sam just chuckles under his breath, cradling his soda like it’s a peace offering. He’s lighter now—still tired, still haunted, but the kind of tired that comes after laughter, not crying. It’s a rare feeling. He holds onto it.
Dean goes first. He hurls the ball with the kind of reckless force that suggests he thinks speed equals accuracy. It crashes into the gutter with an unceremonious thunk.
“Nice,” Millie deadpans, marking a zero on the scoresheet. “Real power move.”
Dean glares at her. “Warm-up round.”
Millie steps up next and, to Sam’s surprise, bowls a perfect curve. The ball glides like she’s done this professionally in a past life, knocking over eight pins in a clean strike to the right.
Dean’s jaw drops. “You’re cheating.”
Millie turns, raising her arms in a mock victory pose. “Explain to me how someone cheats at bowling, exactly.”
“You probably did some kind of Jedi mind trick,” Dean grumbles.
“It’s called having wrists that don’t creak like ancient door hinges.”
Sam’s laughing before he even realizes it—really laughing. Loud and honest. His fingers shake slightly as he picks up his own ball, still warm from the overhead return.
His first roll? A clean strike. Dean groans. Millie lets out an impressed whistle.
Dean gestures wildly at the scoreboard. “It’s rigged. The whole system’s rigged.”
Sam shakes his head, grinning. “You’re just mad you’re losing.”
Millie smirks. “Yeah, you said no mercy.”
They go on like that for an hour—Dean getting progressively more competitive, Millie calling him out every chance she gets, Sam quietly racking up points like a dark horse champion. Somewhere between their second and third game, Millie buys a basket of those suspiciously orange nachos and shoves them into Dean’s hands when he threatens to quit.
Eventually, they collapse into the sticky plastic seats near their lane. Sam is grinning, cheeks flushed, hair a little damp with sweat. His arms ache pleasantly. The kind of ache that doesn’t come from fighting monsters.
The air smells like shoe disinfectant, popcorn grease, and teenage rebellion. Sam soaks it in.
Dean fans himself with the scoreboard printout. “Okay, fine. You win. Happy birthday. Hope you’re proud.”
Sam shrugs modestly, sipping his soda. “I mean… I am.”
Millie bumps his shoulder. “Champion of cosmic bowling and the only Winchester who can walk in a straight line. The bar’s low, but you’ve cleared it.”
Dean flips her off without heat. “At least I didn’t pull a muscle trying to look cool.”
“You pulled something?” Millie cackles.
“Shut up.”
Their laughter echoes down the lane, mixing with the sounds of falling pins and synth-heavy ‘80s ballads. It’s ridiculous. It’s loud. It’s perfect. A blinking neon sign above the snack bar flickers the word “Fun,” one letter short of burning out entirely. It fits. For a moment, Sam lets the worry go. No visions. No demons. No cursed towns or half-finished coordinates. Just this. Time with his fucked-up family.
They stay until the lights come on and the cosmic effect fades, until the neon turns harsh and the music cuts off mid-chorus. Millie stretches and groans about being “too old for this crap,” and Dean insists they stop for milkshakes on the way back because “it’s tradition now, dammit.”
Sam trails behind them as they leave, shoulders relaxed, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.
The rain has stopped. The air outside smells like wet asphalt and the promise of spring. For the first time in what feels like forever, Sam doesn’t dread tomorrow.
He’s not fixed. Not really. But he’s okay.
And right now, that’s enough.