A/N: Many thanks to iamstealthyone for beta. This fic was written for the spnchristmas livejournal community, combining two prompts: An "It's a Wonderful Life" takeoff where Sam sees what the world would be like if he didn't exist, and Mary, John, and/or Jess's spirit comes as a Christmas angel.

O Holy Night (1/4)

Long lay the world in sin and error pining
Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth

O Holy Night by Placide Cappeau

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring...

Well. Except Sam.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the muted rumble of the furnace, incessant ticking of the bedside clock, and Dean's gentle snores. Sounds he'd normally find comforting now grated on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He was so damn tired--his body sluggish and achy, his eyes gritty--but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't sleep.

He and Dean had driven for over 20 hours, straight through the night, to make it to South Dakota for Christmas Eve dinner. Bobby's five-alarm chili wasn't exactly turkey with all the trimmings, but then the man always had marched to his own drummer.

And anyway, it wasn't like they'd come for the food. Though they didn't talk about it, Sam knew he and Dean had felt the same urge to spend Christmas someplace familiar. Bobby's house wasn't home, but these days it was the closest he and his brother had.

Dad was gone. His body salted and burned, his clothes given to Goodwill--except for one flannel shirt that Sam had tucked in the bottom of his duffel. He'd pull it out sometimes, eyes burning, and inhale the faint scent of gun oil and aftershave, the worn material soft under his fingertips. Only when Dean was off getting food or hitting a bar, though. His brother was having a difficult enough time dealing. He didn't need the burden of Sam's sorrow added to his own.

If he turned his head, Sam could just see the outline of Dean's body in the adjacent bed, his face a pale moon in the darkness. He didn't need light to see the shadows under his brother's eyes or the tight set to his mouth--every mark of Dean's grief was written indelibly in his mind.

With a sigh, Sam peeled back the blankets and slid out of bed, wincing when his bare feet hit the cold floorboards. He scooped up his jeans and hoodie, stilling when Dean shifted and mumbled something unintelligible. After a moment Dean's breathing settled into a regular rhythm, and Sam grabbed his shoes and backed carefully out of the room.

Navigating by the faint glow spilling from the Christmas tree, he nearly tripped over Bobby's Rottweiler, Cheney, who was sprawled just outside the bedroom door. The puppy thumped his tail, whining softly, and Sam shushed him with a quick scratch behind the ears.

Bobby must have turned the thermostat down for the night. Sam shivered, gooseflesh stippling his bare arms and chest, as he hastily dressed in the living room, then grabbed outerwear from the hall closet. He donned coat and gloves, and snugged a hat down over his ears, before easing quietly out the back door.

Bobby's backyard was little more than scrubby grass and weeds with a dilapidated wooden picnic table and a rusted-out gas grill. The table wobbled and creaked as Sam parked his ass on top and propped his feet on the bench. The air was crisp but not unbearably cold, the sky clear.

He tipped his head back, his breath a ghostly plume. This far out in the boonies, the stars were spectacular, thousands of bright pinpricks glittering in the velvet darkness. Sam felt as if the world around him had been wrapped in a blanket of stillness--the house was dark, no cars passed on the road, not even the soft rustling and scurrying of small animals broke the silence.

Peace on earth, he thought, blindsided when the wave of grief he'd held stubbornly at bay crashed over him, forcing him to acknowledge the hole inside him that had grown deeper with each loss.

Mom.

Jessica.

Pastor Jim.

Dad.

Dean.

He was going to lose his brother; Dean was halfway gone already. Sam had tried pleading, nagging, guilting--hell, he'd even offered himself up as a punching bag.

He'd failed.

Dean had always viewed life black and white, no matter how determinedly Sam pointed out shades of gray. He wouldn't see the love behind Dad's sacrifice, couldn't understand that Sam could miss his father while still being so damn thankful he had his brother.

I was dead. And I should've stayed dead.

Sam folded his legs, pressing his forehead to his knees. He knew the truth, and the burden of it was becoming more than he could bear. Dean wasn't the one who should have died.

"It should have been me," he muttered into the cradle of his arms. "It should have been me."

"You're wrong."

He jerked his head up, nearly tumbling off the bench at the sight of the figure seated beside him. Honey-blonde hair, blue eyes--she looked exactly as she had in the kitchen of the home he'd never known. "Mom?"

"Sam."

Her smile, warm with affection, twisted something deep in his chest until he could barely breathe. "I thought...I mean, Missouri said..."

With a wry twist of her lips, she shook her head. "Sweetie, you should've figured out by now that Missouri Moseley doesn't know everything. She's just damn bossy about the things she does."

Sam stared at her. "I... Why are you here?"

She tipped her head, regarding him gravely. "I'm here for you, Sam. To show you the real truth."

"I don't understand."

His mother stretched out a pale, slender hand and traced a track of fading wetness on his cheek. "You believe that you should have been the one to die in the fire."

Sam flinched, skin tingling from the phantom brush of her fingertips. "Yes."

"You're wrong."

"How can you say that? You'd still be alive if it wasn't for me. You, Dad, Dean--you'd be a family. Dean would've had a home, not a string of motel rooms. He'd've made friends, gone to college, got married, or--hell, he could've become a fireman. Dad wouldn't have turned into a drill sergeant. And Jess..." His throat locked down and he looked away, blinking hard.

"Sammy." She made his name sound like bear hugs and butterfly kisses, and he wanted so badly to know what it would have been like to crawl in her lap and feel safe. "Nothing is exactly as it seems. There's so much you don't know."

He set his jaw. "I know enough. I know that I'm some kind of supernatural freak. That...that I see visions of people dying. And that the demon that killed you, killed Jess, has plans for me. Can you honestly tell me this world wouldn't be better without me in it?"

"I can do better than that. I'll show you."

For some reason her gentleness sparked his temper. "How? Are you going to go all Clarence on me? 'Cause this isn't Bedford Falls and I doubt you're hoping for a pair of wings."

"Samuel."

He'd heard that tone before, directed at a poltergeist intent on using him as a punching bag. Sam ducked his head. "Sorry."

"Close your eyes."

"Why?"

She huffed, the sound half amusement, half exasperation. "You must have driven your father crazy. Just do it."

He did, and a moment later felt her fingers lace with his. "What--"

The bottom dropped out and he was free falling. He couldn't feel the nip of cold air on his face or the picnic table under his ass, only an odd stretching, as if he were taffy being pulled out of shape. Then there was a sharp tug, and he flowed back into his body like liquid poured into a mold.

"We're here."

Sam opened his eyes, his lips parting in shock. The starry sky, picnic bench, and Bobby's backyard were gone. He was standing in a dingy hallway, worn carpet beneath his feet, walls peeling paint. Many of the overhead lights needed bulbs replaced, the resulting dimness contributing to the overall sense of gloom. Before him was a scarred wooden door bearing the number 26.

"Where's here?" he asked.

She answered with an enigmatic look and a firm tug on their still-joined hands. Before Sam could protest they were stepping through the door and into the apartment beyond.

"Shit!" Sam shuddered, running a hand down his chest while staring over his shoulder at the door. The sensation, while not painful, had been far from pleasant. "We just... How...?"

"Your body's still back at Bobby's, sweetheart. For all intents and purposes, we're not really here."

Sam gazed around him. To his left was a small living room. The television was on--Scooby Doo and Shaggy were running from a menacing-looking ghost--but the couch and chairs were empty. Turning his head, Sam gasped.

Behind him a small boy sat at a table, eyes glued to the TV, short legs kicking and swinging as he munched on a Pop Tart and sipped from a can of Coke.

"Dean."

He walked closer on wobbly legs, mesmerized by the living, breathing little boy he'd only glimpsed in photographs. Sam frowned. The child before him didn't exactly match up to those pictures. Dean's hair was tangled, his face smudged and sticky. The Batman pajamas he wore had a hole in one knee.

Before Sam could question his mother, a key rattled in the lock of the door. Dean abandoned the pastry, scrambling down from his chair and charging the man who entered. "Daddy!"

Sam's breath caught and his eyes burned. "Dad."

John was dressed in grease-stained coveralls, his jaw heavily stubbled. Sam caught the faint smell of alcohol as his father walked past him.

"Dean." He touched the shaggy head, then gently disentangled the arms wrapped around his waist. "It's after nine, kiddo. Why aren't you in school?"

Dean pulled away, evading his father's gaze. "She couldn't take me today."

"Why couldn't she--" John's gaze landed on the table and his expression turned thunderous. Snatching the half-eaten Pop Tart and soda can he brandished them at his son. "Damn it, Dean! What the hell is this?"

Dean's eyes filled with tears and he bit his trembling lower lip. "I was hungry."

"Then have some cereal or toast."

"There isn't any."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course there is." John stalked into the kitchen, Dean trailing behind him.

Moving close enough to peer through the doorway, Sam saw the counters and sink were stacked with dirty dishes and pans. He watched his father open and close cupboards. After several moments John leaned against the counter, his shoulders slumped.

"See? I told you." Dean sniffed, rubbing his runny nose on his sleeve. "The Lucky Charms and Cheerios are all gone, the bread's got green stuff all over it, and the milk smells yucky."

"Yeah. I see." John crouched until he and Dean were eye to eye. "Dean. What did you mean when you said Mommy couldn't take you to school?"

With a shrug of his small shoulders, Dean tucked his chin to his chest.

John's back stiffened and his fists clenched, then relaxed. "Where is she?"

"In the bedroom." When his father stood, Dean hastened to add, "She said not to bother her. I think she's sick."

John clenched his jaw. "Go get dressed, son."

"But, Daddy! I'll be late, and when you're late all the kids stare at you and Mrs. Stewart makes you stay in for recess."

"Now, Dean."

"Yes, sir." Dean sent his father a worried look and shuffled out of the kitchen.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. After a few minutes he opened them and strode out of the kitchen. Sam looked at his mother, who gestured for him to follow.

Down the hallway from the kitchen were two doorways. As Sam passed the first, he saw Dean sitting on a rumpled bed. The little boy was sniffling, his cheeks wet with tears as he pulled on a pair of socks. Heart twisting, Sam moved on to the second.

The shades were tightly drawn, the room deep in shadow. John stood at the foot of a large bed. Despite the warmth of the apartment, the sleeper was buried under several layers of blankets, only a few blonde tresses visible. Pressing his lips together, he walked quickly to the windows and snapped up the shades, flooding the room with sunlight.

"John? What are you doing?" The voice was dull, lifeless.

Sam stole a quick look at his mother, who'd come to stand beside him. She gazed at her counterpart in the bed, sorrow in her eyes.

His father peeled back the covers. "Get up, Mary."

She scooted back against the headboard, blinking in confusion. "What's wrong?"

"Dean was supposed to be at school over an hour ago and you're still sleeping, that's what's wrong," he snapped.

Clutching the sheet to her chest, she tucked tangled hair behind her ear. "I'm not feeling well." She flinched when he touched his palm to her forehead.

"Bullshit." He sat on the edge of the mattress. "You're hiding. All you do anymore is sleep."

"How would you know? It's not like you're around to notice."

His jaw dropped, then he scowled at her. "You think I like working the late shift? Putting in overtime is the only way I'll ever make enough money to get us out of this dump."

She laughed, but it was a cold, humorless sound. "Overtime? Never heard it called that before."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I just didn't realize there was a big demand for mechanics at the corner bar."

John went rigid. "So I stopped for a few drinks after work. At least I do my job." He stood, waving his arms. "This place is a pigsty, the laundry hasn't been done in over a week... Dean was drinking a damn Coke because there's no milk in the house and his mother couldn't be bothered to make him breakfast.

Mary's eyes glistened. "I told you, I'm sick."

"God, stop! I'm tired of your excuses! You either walk around like a ghost, or you're holed up in here sleeping. It feels like we buried you along with--"

"Daddy?"

John whirled at the small voice, the fury melting from his face. "Dean." He swallowed. "Are you ready to go?"

Dean folded his arms and stuck out his chin, though his voice trembled. "You shouldn't yell at Mommy when she's sick."

"It's all right, sweetie." Dean's wide eyes shifted to his mother's face. "Get your backpack together and wait for Daddy in your room."

When Dean hesitated, John frowned. "You heard your mother."

As soon as Dean had darted back down the hallway, Mary's face crumpled and she pressed a hand to her mouth. John sucked in a deep breath and blew it out. After a moment of her stifled sobs, his face softened and he returned to the bed to gather her in his arms.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry." She fisted his shirt, burrowing her face the crook of his neck. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

John stroked a hand through her hair, his voice rough. "I miss him too. Not a day goes by that I don't. But he's gone, Mary. Dean and I, we're still here."

"I just need some time, that's all. Just a little more time."

As his father tried to comfort her, his face twisted with a mixture of anger and grief, Sam saw a small figure hovering just outside the room.

Cool fingers slipped into Sam's hand. "We have to go," his mother said, drawing him away.

He pulled back, unable to tear his eyes from the three despondent figures. "Wait. It gets better, right? She--you--pull out of it, eventually?"

"I'm afraid not."

Sam snapped his eyes to her face, his throat tightening at the sorrow there.

"The trauma of not being able to save you, of watching you die... I slipped into a deep depression. Your father tried, but..."

Across the room, he watched John ease his wife to the mattress, tucking the blankets around her. "What happened?" Sam whispered.

"One night, when your father was at work and Dean was sleeping, I took a bottle of pills. By the time he came home...it was too late."

Horrified, Sam opened his mouth to protest. No. You wouldn't... But before the words could leave his lips, he felt a sharp tug, and everything around him dropped away.

Continued in part 2