CHRISTMAS WITH FRIENDS
Sam was happy; he was humming unidentifiable tunes while he was putting decorations all over the bunker. Seeing Sam happy, made Dean happy. After all they had been through, despite all the losses and the pain, Sam wanted to celebrate Christmas. Dean had sneered when Sam told him.
- Did you go to the mall and become infected with the spirit of Christmas?
- Come on, Dean! We haven't got a proper wonderful Christmas time since that case with the pagan gods.
Sam, then, gave him the puppy eyes. Dean couldn't resist them so he agreed to it.
- On one condition, no angels on our tree, no angels anywhere.
Sam laughed, his loud, clear laugh, which resonated across the halls and rooms of the MOL bunker.
...
On Christmas morning, Dean woke up to the sound of muffled music and a soft voice singing in the distance. He got up of bed, put his grandpa slippers and dressing gown and walked out of his room and towards the music. It was cold in the bunker, but it was a warm cold, like being in front of a fireplace in a huge wooden house, like eating freshly baked pie and bantering with your brother.
Sam was playing an old record on the gramophone. An ancient collection of Christmas carols which sounded like coming from under the sea. But Sam was singing to them. His sweet, soft voice made the bunker alive. His back to Dean, he couldn't see his brother's eyes getting teary. Dean was remembering the year before Sammy was born, the holidays John, Mary and himself spent together. He was remembering John singing White Christmas to him, with a voice very similar to Sam's.
- If you only knew, Sammy... – Dean interrupted him.
Sam turned to him, confusion and a bit of embarrassment in his face.
- You and Dad are so very much alike, you can't even imagine.
Sam looked at the ground and said:
- I wish he was here. I wish we could have a Christmas with friends.
Dean sighed.
- But we can't. This is why your idea wasn't such a good idea.
- We have each other, Dean, that's enough.
The older Winchester smiled broadly.
- Winchesters never give up, don't we? You've always been a stubborn bitch.
- Jerk. – Was Sam's reply.
Something shifted then and there. Like a magical spell, those words erased the sadness, the nostalgia, the loneliness. Sam was right; the two of them together was enough.
- Can you stop playing that prehistoric music? My ears are bleeding.
- Says the one who is dressed like one of the Golden Girls.
Dean looked at his brother with fake fury.
- I'm going to salt and burn all your presents.
Sam shrugged.
- Santa has left us snow.
- Wha..? It's snowing? – Suddenly, the older Winchester sounded like a five year old.
- It is.
- Why are we frigging inside then? – said an exasperated Dean.
Sam shrugged again. Dean ran to his room to get properly prepared for the snow.
- Don't forget your ugly sweater! – shouted Sam while Dean was giving him the finger.
Then, Sam went to the kitchen and made two cups of hot chocolate. Walked to the library and checked the well wrapped presents. He had managed to get online the complete discography of AC/DC in vinyl so Dean could play it on the phonogram whenever he wished. He didn't care about what Dean had gotten for him. He had his brother back, it's all he wanted.
While returning to the kitchen, he remembered a moment, a long ago, when he was only a child. He had told Dean he wished there were a magical place where they could live forever; Dean had answered his usual "one day". Now Sam was realising the magical place was the place they had made his home: the Men Of Letters bunker, and that mythical "one day" was that Christmas day. He felt happy, relaxed, at ease. He couldn't ask for anything more. No matter what the future brought them, they were Sam and Dean Winchester, nothing, no one could defeat them.
He sat at the table sipping on his cup while waiting for Dean to join him. In his head, the lyrics of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
"Here we are as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more."