Title: Last Christmas

Author: Sierra

Rated: PG

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, or any of the characters from that show. Nor am I making an monetary profit from this story.

Summary: A follow-up to Enough (you don't have to read that in order to understand though)After a fight with Dean, Sam recalls another Christmas that he didn't spend with his brother . . . and realizes his mistake.

"Goddamnit, Sam!"

Sam flinched at his brother's tone, the way his deep voice cracked when his name was spoken, the obvious pain that Dean was no longer trying to hide; hesitantly, he turned to look at the older man, who now stood before him in front of a motel bed, his face red, green eyes wide with anger and frustration.

"What?"

"All I'm asking here," Dean tried again, desperately, "is for you to just . . . sit down for awhile. God, Sammy, this is my last---I mean, we're not gonna be able to---" he cut himself off, slapping a hand to his forehead and running his fingers through his short hair. "I've only got six months left now. I just want . . . to spend Christmas with my brother."

A cold December wind swept through the cracked window, rustling the tattered, checkered curtains of the tiny room and sending a chill down Sam's spine; he crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to warm himself, and maintain a strong front. Six months was still plenty of time to find something, anything, someway of saving his brother . . . but only if he used those months wisely. I can't waste anytime.

It wasn't until he saw the hurt flash in Dean's eyes and the tiny step back he took that Sam realized he had spoken aloud.

"So spending time with your brother is a waste now, huh?" Dean nodded sharply, forcing a quick smirk onto his face, trying to conceal the devastation clearly written there.

"That's not what I meant."

"Sam, I'm dying."

"No, you're not!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Listen, I know you're trying . . . " he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, obviously unsure how to go on; seeing his brother in such distress, Sam had to fight the urge to rush forward and comfort him. The past month, Dean had been getting weaker, tiring easily and even finding it difficult to fight off a simple cold---that hadn't been spoken about in the deal, but it was there nonetheless. His brother was slipping away from him.

"But if you can't find anything," Dean said, quietly, "then I'm gonna die . . . soon. I want to see you, Sammy. I don't want to spend my last year---my last Christmas---sitting around all alone while you're out somewhere." Slowly, he sat down on the mattress, placing his calloused hands on his weathered jeans and pleading with his little brother through only his soulful eyes.

"Dean, I . . . "

"Sam, please." Dean looked down at his nervous hands for a moment, then back up at his shocked brother. Dean never begged. Hell, Dean never asked for anything.

"I'm sorry," Sam spat out, short because he could barely speak. "But I just can't . . . I have to find a way." Swiftly, he turned on his heel and walked out before Dean could speak, not that he seemed to be able to find the words anyway.

Outside, the cold bit into Sam's skin as snow fell onto the dark parking lot and quickly melted away; a typical winter day in New York, absolutely miserable and freezing cold. Grumbling to himself, he stalked over to the Impala and yanked open the driver's side door, he had received a lead from Bobby concerning the deal Dean had made---a contact nearby might have valuable information for them, and Sam wanted to meet with her as soon as possible.

Hands shaking, he stuck the key into the ignition and listened as the engine turned over and the car started purring in a deep baritone that always brought a big, goofy grin to Dean's face; he took a moment, gently pressing down the gas pedal, knowing the Impala was likely to stall without warming up properly. He'd often teased his brother about the flukes of a classic car . . . stalling, lack of an A/C or heater, and not to mention the gas mileage. But Dean would have none of that, he'd just smile and turn the music up louder, then focus his attention back on the strip of hardtop before them.

But now Dean was sitting inside that room all alone, on Christmas, his only wish to see his brother, to sit down with him and throw back a beer while watching a movie. Cursing himself, Sam leaned forward and rested his head on the leather-bound steering wheel, he had to find a way . . . he just had to. Life without Dean was an unbearable thought. Something he couldn't even imagine.

Yet, somewhere deep within his mind, the memories of another time and place remained . . . a time when he never spoke to Dean, a place where he never saw him. He'd been only eighteen when he stepped foot on the Stanford campus and took in the view with big eyes, completely breathless at the beauty and serenity of his surroundings. Oh, he'd missed Dean, of course . . . even missed his father, but as time went on and he made more friends---and fell in love with Jess---it got easier.

He could live without Dean.

But he sure as hell didn't want to.

Sam pulled out of the empty parking lot and made his way onto the two lane road that spanned the tiny town of Norwich, forcing his mind back onto the work at hand---but it wasn't long before Dean's face drifted in front of his eyes again, and his voice echoed in his ears.

"Jesus," he muttered, disgusted with himself. "What the hell are you thining?"

Not even looking, he grabbed his cell phone and hit dial over Dean's name on his contacts list, waiting impatiently as the phone rang once . . . twice . . . three times; it stopped ringing and briefly Sam could hear breathing on the other end, then the connection went dead.

He hung up on me! Annoyed, Sam went to dial again---

And suddenly, without warning, images flashed through his mind of another Christmas, one that took place a lifetime ago . . .

Christmas, 2002.

Jessica's soft lips caressed Sam's as she kissed him lovingly under the mistletoe that hung in the doorway of the community center; her long fingers ran through his wavy hair and tugged playfully at it, his hands traced the curve of her hips to her tiny waist, and higher . . .

"Whoa, whoa! Guys . . . get a room already!"

Jessica laughed, her eyes sparkling as she pulled away from Sam. "It's Christmas, Natalie," she insisted, "I'm allowed to have a little fun!"

"And," Sam added, "it'd be wrong to deprive me of my Christmas wish."

"Oh my god," Natalie said, "you guys are pathetic."

As she walked off, Sam leaned in and kissed Jessica's forehead tenderly, then slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a tiny box wrapped in candy cane paper with a white bow placed on the top.

"For me?" Jessica assumed.

"For you," Sam whispered back.

He watched anxiously as she unwrapped the gift, then beamed when she burst into a wide smile that lit up her gorgeous face; he helped her hook the necklace, brushing his lips behind her ear and causing her to shiver. "Is it time to get out of here yet?" he murmured.

"I think so." She winked mischievously. "I've got a present for you back home."

"Oh really?" Sam's eyebrows shot up, his imagination alone driving him over the edge with anticipation.

"Y'all ready to bounce?" his friend, Chris, shouted from nearly all the way across the room.

"Um, yeah," Sam replied, "we're ready to 'bounce'." He rolled his eyes---a Stanford student who thought he was ghetto, go figure---wrapping an arm around Jessica as she grabbed her scarf and earmuffs. "Let's go."

To everyone's surprise, it was snowing outside. Sam shook his head. California, for God's sake! Isn't it supposed to be sunny and seventy degrees all year round? he demanded, silently, though the snow didn't really bother him at all. To be perfectly honest, he found it adorable how Jessica squealed with delight (California girls didn't see snow too often, he guessed) and how the snowflakes coated her long lashes.

"You're beautiful," he nearly gasped, stooping over and kissing her passionately, the pit of his stomach aching for her and his throat nearly growing dry as she returned the kiss with just as much energy.

"Where'd that come from?" she asked, breathlessly.

"What'd you say we just break into one these cars here and get naked right here 'n now?" Sam asked, maintaining a straight face, his voice perfectly serious.

"Sam!" Jessica giggled, then started laughing till her cheeks turned a rosy color; Sam joined her, his own cheeks turning red, but more from embarassment than anything else. Everyone knew he never made jokes like that . . .

His phone rang in his pocket at that moment, and---knitting his eyebrows in confusion---he lifted it to look at the lit-up screen. Who would be calling him? All his friends were standing around him and---his thoughts were cut short as the name flashed before him: DEAN. His big brother. The one he'd idolized his whole life. His hero. Whom he hadn't spoken to in over a year.

His smile disappeared as worst case scenarios flooded his mind: Why was Dean calling? Had a hunt gone wrong? Was Dad hurt . . . or worse? Did he need help? Was Dad calling from his brother's cell because Dean was hurt, his stomach torn to shit from a werewolf's claws, or his back broken from being thrown into a wall by another poltergeist? Was Dean . . . dead?

He hadn't realized he had stopped on the cold sidewalk till Jessica turned to look at him, a concerned expression written all over her face.

"Sam? What's wrong, hun?"

The phone continued to ring as Sam just stared at it, his hand trembling, too damn scared to even answer---too afraid at what kind of horrors awaited him on the other line. He'd left that life behind. Hell, even if everything was okay he wasn't sure he wanted to talk to Dean . . . he'd severed all ties, hadn't spoken to anyone from that life since he left in a fit of rage, and that was the way he wanted it.

Wasn't it?

The phone had fallen silent.

"Who was that?" Jessica asked, touching his sleeve, now there was not only concern on her face: But anger. At whomever dared to upset her boyfriend so much.

Sam shook his head. "Um, nothing . . . just, uh, wrong number, I guess." He placed a quick kiss on her lips, hastily muttering "Let's go" and beginning walking again. The sickness in his stomach was only getting worse though, as if there was something wrong and he'd just ignored it . . . there was something, he was sure of it.

And then he heard it.

That familiar rumble of a high-powered engine.

Freezing in place, Sam stared wide-eyed as a sleek, black '67 Impala raced by in the same direction he'd been walking, the license plate KAZ-2Y5 glaring at him and making him feel all of two inches tall. He was here. The realization hit Sam like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath right out of him as he watched the car disappear from his side; tears sprang unexpectedly to his eyes, he desperately wanted to call out to Dean, but couldn't find the strength to lift the phone.

He'd just ignored his own brother.

While he watched.

"Sam?" Jessica's voice floated into his consciousness. "Sweetie, what happened? What's wrong?"

"Oh god." Sam's voice broke and he turned away, walking in the opposite direction as Jessica called after him, he was too far gone to even hear her words . . .

The memory ended just as abruptly as it had begun. Sam found himself seated in the Impala on the side of the road, panting as the memory---or vision---subsided, but the pain of that day remained; he thrown up in a dark alleyway, the thought of hurting Dean like that too much for him to bear. He hadn't seen him in what seemed like forever, but not a day had passed that he didn't think of him, pray he was safe, and wish they could meet again . . . but when he had the chance, he'd blown it. When he came home late that night, he'd told Jessica the truth and she enveloped him in her comforting arms, assuring him that it was all right, and in the morning he could just call Dean and explain.

But he never did.

Only three short years later . . . Jessica was dead. And he had wasted so much time. Time that could've been spent with her, holding her, loving her, telling her she was everything to him; instead, he'd been studying, working, at class. Of course it as all important, things that needed to be done, but he still coudn't help and wonder if there were times he'd said 'no' to her when he should've said 'yes'.

I can't let that happen again.

Without another thought, he whipped the Impala around and back onto the road, racing back to the motel with no regard to speed limits, and rolling through each stop sign. In almost no time, he was parked outside their room again and hurrying inside, finding Dean sprawled out in a recliner, a beer in one hand and the TV remote in the other, his head hanging back and a soft snore coming from his parted lips.

Smiling softly, Sam reached over and gently laid a hand on Dean's shoulder, shaking him till his eyelids fluttered and two green slits peered up at him.

"Sam?" his voice was heavy with sleep. "You okay?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, Dean. I'm fine."

Dean sat up, arching his back till something cracked and wincing when it did so, he set the items in his hands down on the floor and looked up at his brother, worry etched all over his face. "Why're you back so early? What happened?" he demanded, rising from his seat.

"Dean, it's okay," Sam assured him, chuckling. "Really. I just, uh, thought maybe we could knock back a few . . . relax for awhile."

Dean's brow furrowed in confusion. "But I thought---"

"Forget it," Sam interrupted him, "I changed my mind. I want to be here." He shrugged, his smile wavering. "After all, it's Christmas, right?"

Dean's face slowly softened into a small smile, understanding dawning on him. "Yeah, dude," he said, quietly, "it's Christmas." He gestured to the corner of the room. "There's some cold ones in the fridge . . . and they're playing It's a Wonderful Life on FOX!"

Sam laughed as he walked over and bent over the small fridge. "I can't believe you like that movie."

"What can I say, man? Guilty pleasure."

"Yeah, whatever."

Sam plopped down on the bed, stretching his legs out and resting against the headboard as Dean settled back into the chair, glancing back at him. "Merry Christmas, Sammy."

Sam raised his beer in salute. "Merry Christmas, Dean."

I promise . . . it won't be your last.

END