A/N: The cover is a commission for Paper birds made by Kamidiox. You can find more of her lovely artwork at the story's AO3 page (my username is sparklingice). I hope all of you have a nice holiday.

Making love in darkness and silence is a revelation. It's pain and a caress of sorry, didn't see your nose, a breath withheld, knobby knees squeezing too hard through a shared shudder of pleasure. It's all that and more, but beyond the physical, it's a revelation.

"I want to…" Sam starts, then falters.

The thought burst into a tingle in the back of his mind when Dean's hand slipped down the sweat on his back to trace the dip of his spine. The touch made him feel safe - and the ache of how long he had to go without it because they are here, in Sioux Falls, gave him reckless ideas. He doesn't want to go without anymore. He wants to stop hiding in the dark, wants to have more than a desperate quickie sneaked into two weeks of forced abstinence. It hurts to see Dean hesitate before a simple shoulder pat - and knowing how he is in their little nook in Palo Alto makes it even worse. Behind closed doors, Dean is a tactile guy, thumbs in hip-grooves, lips on mouth, the too-cold brand of bare feet against Sam's calves. Having him this close, but forbidden to touch, is like Tantalus' punishment. Sam has been starving for days now and he doesn't want to restrain himself anymore.

He wants to tell their parents.

"You can." Dean mumbles, answering an entirely different request altogether, and tries turning over under Sam with the least amount of bedcreaking possible.

Sam panics and pins his shoulders back down to the mattress. "When we get back home, okay?" He whispers and swallows the reply in a kiss.

Bobby and Jody are downstairs, entertaining the neighbours who came over with their spoiled kids and noisy laughs, and Jody's youngest colleague has been invited too to spin Dean's head around. She's attractive and blonde, a mother's-dream cutie, and Sam is jealous enough to think Dean would have been itching to sleep with her if he wasn't up here instead, smearing his hushed moans on Sam's lips like a balm. They have to be careful, this is already... they haven't had sex before when their parents were under the same roof, and for quite a few good reasons. They would die from mortification if someone walked in on their "nap" right now.

And yet, the frustrated thought buzzes on in Sam's mind, so what if they do? Who cares?

Dean has a cluster of freckles on the right side of his stomach, next to his belly button, that are Sam's to count and kiss and run his hands over. He loves how firm the muscles under them are, loves that they are the perfect point for him to mouth at when he is on his knees and wants to tease a little. But he hates how every gaze in a twenty feet area is instantly drawn to them when Dean's shirt rides up, hungry moths to a flame. Of course, Miss Blonde And Perfect had to spill a glass of wine on Dean's button-down during dinner and help him change it alone in the bathroom. Sam knows, he knows, damnit, that she put her hands where they don't belong, felt up the skin around those lovely freckles. Come to think of it, it's a miracle Sam's plate didn't smolder into ash when Dean came back with a new shirt and an apologetic smile.

"Did she kiss you? Or did you tell her you are mine?" He growls into Dean's ear, bearing down a touch harder on him, covering his entire body as much as his bigger build allows.

He came once already, but that fleeting satisfaction didn't matter, the need for reassurance is still thrumming in his veins. He knows he shouldn't be indulging some of Dean's cravings, but just this once, he bites down on his shoulder and gives him a mark. It's not surprising when a split second later Dean whimpers, presses Sam's head to his neck with a vice-tight grip and breaths in a rapid crescendo that tapers off into soundless twitches of pleasure until his body goes boneless.

The subsequent smack upside Sam's head is even less of a shocker. "Can that shit. It's not sexy."

Sam rolls his eyes, even though his expression is near invisible in the pitch black room. "I could tell how much of a turn-off it was."

Annoyed, Dean pushes him off and sits up, rubs the evidence of their tryst off his torso with the blanket. His chest is heaving - what a shame that his flush isn't visible without light. "You know I don't give a fuck about the chicks Jody introduces to me."

"I want to tell her about us. She'd stop setting you up then." Sam curls a possessive palm over Dean's flank, can't help it, can't suppress the insecure coil in his chest.

It's not about trust. No, it's the intense, unreasonable anxiety in his gut that brews whenever someone threatens to intrude on their bubble. Fear of abandonment, that's the trigger of his jealousy, which makes sense, he thinks. His childhood didn't exactly induce a healthy image of attachment figures, not until Jody and Bobby. There's hardly any way for him to be level-headed about the only person he regards as a constant. He would gladly live in a world of their own where no one could hurt Dean or steal him away just to inevitably break his heart. If that's what it took, he would say goodbye to this reality. Sometimes, he thinks they are already detached from it in a way, and imagines Dean likes it.

That doesn't mean he is going to appreciate Sam going all caveman on him.

"Did I smack you too hard? Yeah, she'd stop setting me up 'cause she'd disown me and chop off my dick." Dean brushes Sam's hand away and tugs his clothes back on in a hurry. He stops at his belt, his dress shirt still unbuttoned and billowing around him as he makes an authoritative gesture in Sam's direction. "Just cool it, okay? I ain't gonna dump you - you're a giant girl anyway, it's not like I'm missing out on anything."

"You'd better not." Sam mutters and grabs a pillow to smother his face in it as Dean tiptoes through the door. That didn't quite go the way he intended.

He catches up to Dean a few hours later in the bathroom after the guests finally went their merry way and their parents retreated to their bedroom. He walks in on him, actually - spots him posing half-naked in front of the full-length mirror with a hand on his stomach. Well, Christmas dinners could be daunting indeed.

"Twins?" Sam smirks as he pulls the door shut. Just in case. He might wanna steal a kiss when Dean stops being mad at him for the joke.

Dean jumps and glares at him, clutching the nightshirt in his other hand to his torso. "Shut up. I'm an Adonis."

Sam just raises an eyebrow and goes to brush his teeth. He could be worried, he guesses, if he gave a single crap about weight and Dean didn't have such superhuman metabolism. The amount of fast food and snacks he eats is bordering on scary, but swear to God there's no more than half an inch of fat on his body. He's the picture of health, even though he still doesn't eat fruit when it's not in a pie.

Spitting and rinsing, Sam makes the mistake of dropping his gaze from the vanity mirror. A second later there's cold water dribbling down the back of his neck into his shirt.

"Ow, shit!" He hisses, shuddering and rubbing at the damp skin to chase away the clammy feeling. "Dean!" He whines.

He should have expected this when Dean washed his hands at the other sink. It was a golden opportunity for retaliation, Sam should have known. Goddamnit. Dean has a habit of not drying his palms but wetting his face with the residual water instead. He claims it cools his skin and wakes him up. That's fine and dandy, but more often than not his wet hands end up under Sam's shirt or pants and they are cold as hell. Unfortunately, whenever Sam voices how much this pet peeve annoys him, Dean counters with "do I complain when you shake your dripping hair into my face?" and that's, sad as it is, a good point.

Dean hasn't yet finished laughing. "That looked cute, princess."

Sam peels the soaked hem of his shirt away from his skin as another shiver runs up his spine. "I hate you and your stupid… everything."

The bastard just keeps chuckling under his breath. "Come downstairs when you're done primping." He says, although it was him who spent half an hour in here, and flees the room before Sam has a chance to show him how much he appreciates the order. Smart thinking.

By the time Sam makes it to the living room, the much-dreaded Christmas Eve blues and Dean's annual insomnia seem to have set in. Dean looks agitated, shuffling his socked feet next to the tree and fiddling with a glass ornament Sam remembers painting with Jody when he was, like, thirteen or something. It's as ugly as it gets, but it holds Dean's attention as though it was coated in fairy dust. The lights are still glowing, bathing the brightly coloured presents stocked up underneath them in warmth. The smell of pine stirs Sam's maudlin nostalgia and reminds him that the first time Dean kissed him like he meant it happened by that couch just a few feet away from the tree. God, five years have gone by in the blink of an eye. They flew away so fast. How strange it is that nothing tangible changed, yet everything is different... Better, but so much more complicated.

Sam spares an exasperated sigh for their parents - leaving the lights on for the night is a serious fire hazard - when showcasing a newfound telepathic ability, Dean's head snaps up. "The lights. Did you -"

"Yes." Sam cuts him off with a huff. Yes, he isn't an idiot and didn't forget to pull out the plugs of the lights back home. He made sure to check it four times.

"Good." Dean relaxes back into his brooding. He's wearing his worn grey robe that's fraying at the hems, his security blanket that Sam has to see far more often than he would like to. "I'll be pissed if they burn down our place."

If he didn't announce this at least a dozen times when Sam was stringing them up, he is the freaking Pope. "What's your problem with my decorations?"

Dean lets go of the ornament and turns his back on Sam to stare out the window. There's nothing to see out there, only a pile of tires and some trashed bumpers scattered around the yard, glistening in the gloomy cold. They don't even have a white Christmas this year, not a drop of snow has fallen. Sam has no doubt the lone reason why Dean faces that way is because he doesn't want to show his expression. He only asked for company, not a shoulder to cry on after all.

"They are stupid. We aren't even there to see them." Dean mutters quietly. "And you know I hate Christmas anyway."

The age-old argument that explains nothing concrete, but works as a trump card all the same. Sam decides to leave it alone because anything he would say to that would just push Dean into a downward spiral. They have done this routine, step by step, almost every year since Kansas. For as long as he remembers, Dean had a deeply rooted aversion to Christmas, caused by something he didn't remember before and now refuses to discuss. He's about as open as a clam. Pressuring him would be futile, so staying up with him until they pass out is the way to go.

"Hey, Die Hard is on." Sam yawns as he presses on the remote while throwing himself in the couch and Bruce Willis' biceps pops up on the TV screen. As expected, Dean's interest perks up immediately and he abandons the window in favour of watching John McClane shoot one random bad guy after the other. He can be simple as that.

Nevertheless, it takes half an hour of action movie clichés until Sam has him where he wants him, tucked under his arm with his head lolling onto Sam's shoulder. Dean always riles himself up about this holiday too much to sleep through the night, but Sam figured out a few years ago that he can dose off if he's forced to settle down long enough. Cuddling on the couch is a very effective way to achieve that.

As far as Christmases go, this isn't exactly a good one. Something is strained between them and their parents, chafing, rubbing everyone the wrong way, and Sam has a hunch it's the massive knot of secrets they are keeping from them. After all, who believes it's normal for a pair of brothers in their mid-twenties - adoptive or not - to live the way they do? Always together, crowding each other's space, no marriage prospect in sight. Stagnating. They need to tell Jody and Bobby that they are very much growing, building their tiny family of two, before it ruins the bonds they formed with them. The Talk is inevitable. It's a miracle in itself that they managed to put it off this long.

Lost in thought, Sam only realises he stopped stroking Dean's neck to rub at the base of his ring finger instead when Dean makes a growly noise of dissatisfaction in return.

"So demanding." Sam huffs and resumes his caress. He misses the band around his finger, its weight, the sound of it clicking against door handles and glasses, its gleam in the sunshine. Too bad he had to leave it on his nightstand in Palo Alto, too bad he left a piece of his heart there.

How much better would it be if he didn't have to hide?

Acting on impulse, he nudges Dean's head and kisses the shell of his ear. "You have freckles on your earlobe." He snickers. It's fun to remind Dean of that once in a while.

Dean covers his ears, the ridge of his jaw tightening. "Stop."

Oh, Sam barely even started. Nonetheless, Dean probably knows what else he has up his sleeve.

"I'll stop if you tell me what's wrong." Because something obviously is. Even for Christmas, Dean seems too easy to upset.

The scowl directed at him for that almost makes him cower and shrink back. Almost. "It's about today."

Duh. "I figured. Did something happen?" Abruptly, an awful idea occurs to him, so he rushes to add "I don't actually think you are fat."

Dean leans away to make a face at him. "What? Geez, I know." He shakes his head, draping one hand over his eyes. "I forgot, okay? I just… This was the first time I forgot how… Everything, you know? Kansas and Adam and… shit, I can't do this." When Sam remains silent and confused, he bites his lip and goes on. "I didn't think about it all day. Not until I saw that glass ball over there."

Oh. "Not thinking about it doesn't mean you forgot." Sam tells him gently. "It's a good thing, Dean. Your past doesn't have to be on your mind 24/7."

He knows Dean feels guilty about it, it's written on his face, etched into the distance in his eyes. But Sam can't tell him how not to feel, can he? He can't invalidate whatever kind of emotions Dean's struggling with. His job is to show support and acceptance. At least, he thinks it is. "I'm happy for you."

Dean chews on the cuticle of his thumb. "I remember not remembering. It's like… when something is on the tip of your tongue but you can't reach it, so you just ignore it and move on. I don't want to feel like that again."

The picture of Dean falling apart from the onslaught of feelings and memories rushing back is still so vivid in Sam's mind that he barely keeps himself from flinching. Don't get him wrong, he loves how far they progressed and where they are today, but he wouldn't mind going back to the months before Dean's breakdown. Remembering again has been such a painful process that if he could, he would wipe the memory of that anguish from Dean's brain altogether. And they aren't back to a healthy mindset yet. Since Dean got off his meds, the remains of his depression gradually transformed into rumination and a fear of relapsing. Sam's new goal is to ease this anxious tension somehow. But not remembering, pushing all these aside at the snap of God's fingers? He would gladly choose that option if he could.

"You could start writing a journal." He suggests, squeezing Dean's knee.

"Like "Dad", huh?" Dean's tone is dark and bitter enough to make him cringe.

Shit, he forgot John Winchester had one of those to jot down his delusions. It gets overwhelming at times to keep track of Dean's triggers. "I'm sorry."

Dean sighs and wraps a heavy arm around Sam's middle, a tactile truce. "No, it was a good idea, Sammy. Maybe I could do one of those video thingies."

"A video diary? I'd pay to see that." Sam snickers, attempts to divert the mood with some humour. He gets pinched on his thigh for it.

"You wouldn't be able to afford me, dude." Dean leans in and whispers into his cheek, come-hither flirty. "But you can have a snack with me." He pushes Sam away, standing up. "We've still got some tiramisu. I checked."

Sam grins. Crisis averted for now. "Of course you did."

The leftover tiramisu turns out to taste ten times better at two in morning straight from the plastic container when Sam can paw at Dean as much as he likes in the meantime. He hums and makes an excited gesture with his spoon.

"Did you know…" He swallows. "...that the word 'yule' has an Old Norse root?"

Dean stops stuffing his face long enough to level a stare at him. "Fascinating."

"Yeah, right? I read about it yesterday. Jol was a heathen feast that Christianity merged with its own traditions." It's apparent that Dean couldn't care less about these little facts Sam likes to collect, but the amused quirk of his lips shows how much he delights in seeing Sam get carried away. He likes passion, and Sam is only too happy to provide him with it.

But he doesn't have to give up on the last spoonful of dessert just because he loves that goofy face.

"Hey!" Dean exclaims when he realises Sam is licking up the last drops. "I wanted that!"

Sam does his best not to smile. "You were too slow, old man."

Dean groans. "Chivalry is dead."

"After your stunt in the bathroom? You're lucky you got any."

"Oh, I got plenty." Dean's pout morphs into a suggestive leer and Sam can't fight down the traitorous blush that spreads over his skin. If only they were in California, he'd give Dean seconds right about now, throwing him on the bed and…

Well, they had better change the topic before Sam's mind conjures up even filthier images than it already has.

"Uhm… I got you something you should open in private."

Dean's eyes zone in on Sam's striped sleep pants. He licks his lips. "Is it big?"

Sam makes a pained sound. "No."

The reaction he receives is the epitome of disappointment. It's near comically exaggerated. "Might as well open it now, then."

When Sam hands him the small package he retrieved from his coat pocket, Dean pokes him in the stomach. "Don't say it."

Of course. No chick flick moments or whatever. Never mind that they had more than their fair share of sappy scenarios that Dean himself initiated... Oh well. Sam is nothing if not acquiescent when there's something Dean explicitly asks for. He has to be creative, is all.

Careful to avoid the "C-word", he tugs on Dean's shirt until Dean relents and leans into his embrace, then he nuzzles his hairline. "Happy anniversary."

It's even cheesier than the simple "Merry Christmas" Dean more or less forbid him to say, but it doesn't seem to irritate him. He lets Sam pepper kisses all over the side of his face while he's tearing away the gift-wrap, stunned by what he finds inside. "Oh."

Sam doesn't dare look at him, tries to gauge his reaction from the shift of muscles under his hands instead. Is he weirded out? Did he expect more?

"So that you'll have something to put on the bedside table." He explains lamely.

It's a small framed picture of the two them that Eileen snapped in secret when Sam coaxed Dean into a short trip in August. They went hiking in Yosemite Valley, and in the middle of a deserted trail, he enveloped Dean in his long arms to lay a wet kiss on his cheek. He didn't know Eileen even noticed, but he's immensely glad she did. They don't have a single other picture where it's unmistakable that they are a couple, and the apartment was starting to feel empty and impersonal without them. Sam is fed up with all these security measures - he wants to be free to preserve the sight of his love forever. He should have the right to show Dean off as much as he likes.

He is going to tell their parents, consequences be damned.

"We look so…" Dean mumbles, trailing off.

In the photo, he is smiling with his eyes closed and such a rare radiant joy gleaming on his face, that Sam is once again mesmerized by it. His heart soars. He just hopes Dean likes it too. "Normal?"

Dean turns, eyes reluctantly rising from the silver frame to meet Sam's gaze. There's something soft in them, something grateful and doting. "Happy."

Sam blushes and tangles his hands in the belt of Dean's robe, flustered. He can't shake off this nervous gesture, however he tries. "I've got a New Year's resolution for us."

The right side of Dean's mouth curves up into a fond smirk. "Already? We didn't even finish last year's."

"Let's have more moments like that."

"Okay." Dean hums. His free hand finds Sam's wrist. Behind him, the lights twinkle around the old glass ornament, sharing a tiny piece of fairy magic. The memory of their second first kiss hangs in the air like the sweet smell of fudge. Sam's smile makes his cheeks hurt. "And less tiramisu."

"Yeah, that too."

Merry Christmas, dear readers!