Merry Christmas! I know it's past Christmas for many of you, but my goal was to post this surprise Christmas fic today...and i'm just barely getting it up while it's still Christmas day where I am! :)
This story is the result of me getting sick. I've spent the past five days feverish and miserable and I needed an outlet for my suffering haha so this is where it went. It's so much more fun to put the poor Winchester boys through misery than it is to endure it oneself lol.
This is dedicated to my friend Laura, (who was the only person who knew this one was coming. :D She's been eagerly awaiting the end), to my friend Erin (who will be surprised by this as I never told her it was even coming lol), and to all of you wonderful readers out there who love sick Winchesters! :)
Unbeta'd...cuz I wanted it to be a Christmas surprise for my beta lol!
Merry Christmas and enjoy!
set current season time frame.
"I hate you."
"Yeah? Well I hate you more."
Sam laughed; immediately regretting it as the pounding of his head doubled. Pressing his left hand to his forehead, he asked, "You hate me more? Whose fault is this, again?"
"Yours," Dean said, face buried against his arms.
"How is this my fault?"
Dean's response was muffled and unintelligible but Sam knew what he'd said. So he punched him in the shoulder and said, "This is not my fault."
This time, Dean lifted his head and glared. "It is your fault. You coughed first."
"The air is very dry in here."
Dean snorted.
Sam sighed, not really feeling up to this argument, but unwilling to be the first to surrender. "You were the one who said you were coming down with the flu."
"It's not the flu."
"You said that. Right after you said, I think I'm dying. I'm coming down with the flu, Sammy."
"It's not the flu."
They stared at each other until Dean sneezed. And then he cursed. Sam couldn't help but laugh.
"I hate you," Dean repeated. "And it's not the flu."
Sam slid the thermometer across the table.
Dean sighed, but took the thermometer. Massaging his temples, Sam waited. The thermometer beeped and Dean turned it around so Sam could get a glance at it.
102.5.
"It's the flu," Sam said with certainty.
"I-"
"I know. You hate me. You hate me because I'm right. And it's still not my fault. Take some ibuprofen."
Dean groaned, pressing his hands to his forehead. "Don't say stuff like that."
If his stomach wasn't every bit as unsteady as his brother's stomach was, Sam would have pressed the issue further. The simple fact was that neither of them had dared try anything beyond the occasional cautious sip of flat soda in the past thirty some hours. Because, despite his brother's insistence to the contrary, it was definitely the flu.
And it was just as definitely Dean's fault.
Sam closed his eyes and rubbed his pounding head.
"You should..." Dean's voice trailed off, as he tapped Sam on the elbow with what Sam assumed was the thermometer.
"Checked earlier."
"Check again."
Sam forced his eyes open and took the thermometer. Waiting for it to beep, he considered the merits of trying to lay back down in bed for awhile. In a vicious cycle, all day he'd alternated between lying miserably in bed or sitting miserably at the table. Dean had been doing the same and it just so happened this time they'd wound up at the table together.
"What's it say?" Dean prompted as soon as the device beeped. He had a hand waiting expectantly for the thermometer.
Sam glanced at the thermometer. Huh. No wonder he felt like crap. Knowing he was going to be in even more trouble than he already was, he handed it to his brother and tried for humor. "I win."
Dean took the thermometer, squinted at it, then dropped it to the table. "Sam!"
"What?" Sam threw his hands up and slumped back in his chair. "Are you angry with me for having a fever?"
"Yes. Yes, I am. I mean...your fever is higher!"
"So it's my fault we're both sick and now you're angry because my fever is higher than yours is?"
Dean shook his head as he shifted back in his own chair and ran a hand over his face. He sighed heavily and said, "You should go to bed."
"And you shouldn't? Dude, we're talking not even a full degree difference between our fevers."
"How can you be so literal when you have a fever of 103? You're a modern medical mystery, Sam. Besides, that's not the point."
Sam raised his hands again. "Then what is the point?"
"The point is... that...this...uh, this sucks and..."
"And?" Sam prompted after a long moment of silence.
"And I'm worried." Dean's words were rushed and Sam knew he was uncomfortable with admitting it out loud.
Sam smiled a little. It wasn't like he hadn't already known his brother was worried. Hoping to calm his mind, Sam said, "It's just a cold, Dean."
"I thought you said it was the flu."
"You said it wasn't the flu."
"Well, what do I know?"
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Sam said, "Look, whether it's the flu or something else, it's miserable, yes, but it's not a big deal."
Dean reached forward and shoved the thermometer across the table. He may have been sick, but, as usual, he seemed to be personally affronted that Sam was also sick.
Eyes blazing, Dean said, "103 is not...not a big deal."
"Not not?" Sam smiled as Dean huffed and puffed and glared at him.
"Shut up." Dean massaged his head again. "Fine. I'm going to bed."
"You alright?"
"No, Sam, I'm not. Didn't you get the memo? I've got the flu. And I have a raging fever, my head is pounding, I think I pulled something with the last round of vomiting and..."
His voice trailed off and Sam waited a few seconds before asking, "And?" Dean's eyes were squeezed shut and Sam could have sworn he'd gone several shades paler. "Dean?"
Swallowing hard, Dean waved a hand, slowly pushing himself up from the table. "And...I...uh...gonna go pull somethin' else."
And then he was stumbling out of the room, moving faster than he'd moved in hours. Sam would have rushed after him, but he wasn't sure he could get get up that quickly without spewing all over the library floor. The thought of his brother being sick again was enough to send his stomach tilting dangerously. Closing his eyes, he braced a hand on the table and tried to block out the sound of Dean vomiting in the kitchen.
He knew he'd be useless at the moment to even attempt to be of any help to his brother so he simply lowered his head to rest on his arms on the table.
Dean wiped his mouth on his sleeve, keeping his head lowered over the sink. Both arms braced on the edge of the sink, Dean locked his knees and coughed. For a moment, he stood there, breaths ragged and wheezing as he fought not to cough and fought not to throw up. Again. It hadn't even been a full two full days and he felt like this cold was going to kill him.
"It's not the flu," he muttered to himself, fumbling with one hand to turn the sink on while keeping both eyes squeezed closed. He splashed some water on his face and whispered, "Maybe it's the flu."
Considering he'd spent the better part of the past twenty-four hours with his head over a toilet or a trash can, Dean figured it was time to admit it to himself.
Splashing some more water on his face, Dean eased himself upright knowing his legs were going to give out sooner rather than later. He crossed the room to the table and sat down because that was as far as he was going to make it for the next few minutes at least. Dean pressed his hands to his eyes and debated the merits of trying some ibuprofen like his brother had suggested. The thought still made his stomach turn, so he didn't bother reaching for the bottle.
Dean had been sick before Sam, even though he was never going to admit it. Driving home from their last case, Dean had felt the twinges of something, but he'd kept it under wraps until they'd gotten home and Sam had coughed. After that, he'd been content to blame his brother for bringing the plague down upon them both.
"Sammy?" Dean called out, muffling a cough in his sleeve although it didn't matter if he kept his germs to himself since they were both sick anyway.
Silence was his only answer.
Cursing under his breath, Dean coughed harshly and wondered if Sam was still in the library or if he'd wandered away. They'd been passing each other like ships in the night. In the hallway, between their bedrooms and the bathroom; in the kitchen, leaving flat ginger ale on the counter for each other. Sitting up in the library at all hours of the night when they were too miserable to lay in bed and too uncomfortable to attempt to sleep.
Dean pushed himself to his feet, wavering as he stood. He coughed hard enough he saw stars and the dizziness that had been plaguing him nearly knocked him off his feet. Steadying himself with a hand on the wall, Dean closed his eyes for a moment. Regaining his balance, Dean kept a hand to the wall as he slowly made his way back toward the library. It took him a long time to make it back down the hall and the library was empty when he arrived.
Wearily, he leaned against the wall as he was wracked by a cough that left him doubled over and wheezing.
Dean considered sitting down but knew he wouldn't be able to get up again if he did. Since he was tracking a feverish and missing younger brother, he kept going.
Sam had just settled under the blankets (all of them), and was finally warm. After lingering at the library table for a few moments listening to his brother being sick, Sam had forced himself to leave the room before his stomach joined the fun. He hadn't thrown up in almost six hours and had no desire to start again. So he'd headed toward his bedroom, making one stop at the laundry room for the laundry he'd put in the dryer for such an occasion.
Pulling the covers over his head, Sam slowly felt the shivering die down as the warmth sank into his skin from the two long sleeved shirts (one of which might have been his brother's but who was keeping track these days?), and his oldest hoodie (because Dean had stolen and was currently wearing Sam's newest, nicest hoodie), that he'd layered on fresh from the dryer. He tugged at the blanket when a fresh round of shivering started up because his left ear was exposed to the cold air of the room. Settled once more, everything except his nose covered, Sam tried to relax into the glorious warmth.
And then he had to push the blanket off his ear because he was burning up again. Having his ear uncovered led to momentary relief followed almost immediately by more shivering when the cold air hit his ear again. Sam huffed in irritation, pulling the corner of the blanket over his ear again. He was too hot. And too cold. And ready to scream except anything beyond breathing led to coughing.
Sam coughed hard into his little warm nest. Even thinking about breathing led to coughing. Everything led to coughing. His chest hurt and so did his throat to say nothing of his head.
All of which became a very secondary concern when he realized he was about to spontaneously combust.
Sitting up, Sam shoved the blankets aside. Dizzy and instantly shivering, he pulled one blanket up over his shoulders while he sat hunched on the bed. He couldn't stop coughing and he wasn't even bothering to cover his mouth anymore because the only other person he could get infect was the one who had started the mess in the first place. Sweat poured down his forehead and back and he pushed off the blanket and tore off the hoodie. And then he started pulling off the first of two shirts and instantly became tangled because Dean's shirt may or may not have been a touch on the too small side.
Coughing uncontrollably at the effort, Sam wouldn't have admitted it under oath, but he was beginning to panic as he struggled to get out of the shirts.
"What the hell are you..." Dean's voice trailed off, but Sam heard him walking closer. A second later, familiar hands were helping tug the shirt off. "You look ridiculous. I come in here and you're like a two-year old trapped in your own clothes."
Dean sounded amused and Sam couldn't find it in himself to care because the second shirt was off him and he could breathe (well, cough). He pressed a hand to his chest while trying to pull the blankets up over his shoulders again. Dean was there in front of him, looking haggard as he looked from Sam to the shirt in his hand. Dean's eyes narrowed.
"This is my shirt."
Sam groaned and flopped sideways on the bed, trying to bury himself under the covers again.
"Why do you have my shirt?"
Ignoring the pointless question, Sam curled up in a ball and shoved the blankets off.
A sheet settled over him, carefully separated from the three blankets he'd piled on the bed. Dean's ice cold fingers were on his forehead and Sam blindly batted at him.
"Go away."
Dean snorted. "Why were you wearing my shirt?"
"Because I was cold," Sam said, glaring up at his brother. "You stole my hoodie."
"Yeah. Because you don't like this one." Dean looked proud of himself as he smoothed a hand down the front of the too big hoodie.
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Never said that."
"Didn't have to. You should have listened to me when I told you not to buy it in the first place. I knew you weren't going to like it."
Rather than revisiting the argument because Sam knew Dean was right, he settled for saying, "I hate you."
"You hate that I'm right," Dean replied, predictably.
Sam let loose a few choice curse words, then dissolved into a coughing fit that left him breathless and boneless, sprawled on the bed and unable to even summon the strength to continue glaring at his brother.
Dean sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. Sam studied him despite the fact he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. They felt like overheated marbles that were too big and too hot for his head.
"You look like hell," Dean said, voice ragged and soft.
Sam wanted to deny it or, better yet, point out that Dean looked just as bad. He was too tired to bother, though. Sam closed his eyes and was completely unsurprised when gentle fingers brushed across his forehead. Dean might have been checking his fever again, but the touch lingered longer than necessary. Sam relaxed under the featherlight touch as Dean brushed his sweaty hair back from his face. Yet another thing he would never admit, Sam found his brother's presence more comforting than anything in the entire world.
He might be a grown man, but he'd never known the comforting touch of a mother's hand. All he'd ever known was this. They sat in silence for an indeterminate amount of time. Sam had almost managed to doze off when he felt Dean's hand move away.
Unable to get his eyes open, Sam reached out with a fumbling hand. "Dean?"
Dean caught his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. "Be right back, Sammy."
Sam sighed and waited.
Despite the fact they were both as sick as dogs, Dean smiled as he watched Sam relax.
They might know how to kill almost every monster out there. Might be grown men who knew how to reset bones and treat bullet wounds. Might know exactly what to say to inflict the most pain on each other when in the midst of an argument. And they might never once in their adult lives ever have uttered the words I love you aloud, but Dean would have been lying if he were to say they both didn't know the truth of the unspoken sentiment.
He made his way to the sink and got a washcloth wet. Turning the main light off, he flipped on the lamp as he returned to the bed.
Sam whispered his name again, hand seeking.
"Right here," Dean said, settling the washcloth against his burning skin.
The temptation to tease his brother for his clinginess was there, but the fact he was sick enough to be this clingy took any humor away from the situation.
The world narrowed, as it so often did, to nothing but the two of them.
They wound up in Sam's room for the better part of the next twenty-four hours.
"This sucks," Dean muttered just after two am.
They'd been lying side by side with the television on for hours; neither of them paying much attention to it. They hadn't been paying much attention to anything, honestly. The television was a background distraction at best, doing very little to keep their minds off their misery.
"What sucks? Besides the obvious?" Sam asked. It was the first thing he'd said in almost five hours other than occasionally whispering Dean's name.
Dean glanced at his brother. Sam was still pressed against his right side, buried in blankets. Rubbing his forehead, Dean closed his eyes and said, "It's Christmas."
"Today?"
"Yeah."
"You sure?" Sam mumbled sleepily, shifting and elbowing Dean in the ribs as he moved.
"Yes, I'm sure," Dean said, trying to slide an inch further away from his brother.
It would've been great if their fevers were running in tandem. But it seemed like whenever Sam was hot, Dean was freezing and vice versa. Right now, Dean was sweating and had shoved off all the blankets and was trying to keep his distance from his overheated brother. Sighing when it became apparent his options were either falling off the bed or putting up with a living, breathing heating blanket, Dean gave up and held still.
The nausea had died down a few hours ago, although he wasn't ready to try to push his luck and try to eat anything yet. Even so, he couldn't help but think about the offer of a home-cooked Christmas dinner they'd been given a few weeks ago. Sighing again, he squinted at the current infomercial and said, "We could've been at Jody's."
"You're the one one who got us sick in the first place," Sam said, shifting again and pushing some of the blankets over Dean's legs. "And I didn't want to go to Jody's for Christmas."
Dean raised an eyebrow, kicking the blankets off the bed. "You're kind of antisocial, you know that?"
Sam didn't respond.
Turning so he could get a better look at his brother, Dean frowned. "You like being over at Jody's."
"Yeah."
"But?" Dean prompted when Sam didn't elaborate.
"But we've never really done Christmas with other people."
Dean snorted. "We've barely done Christmas without other people."
This time Sam was the one sighing. "Well, we're not starting any new habits this year, are we?"
"Apparently not," Dean conceded, resting his forearm over his eyes.
"How're you doing?"
"Three guesses."
"Feverish. Nauseated. Exhausted," Sam listed, sounding half-asleep.
Dean snorted. "Getting warmer. Actually," he said, fumbling around until he smacked Sam on the face. "Sorry."
Sam just groaned and tried to bat his hand away.
"You're still warm enough. Don't get warmer." Dean wished his words would stop sliding together. "Still got a fever."
"I coulda told you that without you punching me in the face, jerk."
"Said I was sorry." Dean closed his eyes and coughed until had to sit up on the edge of the bed in order to catch his breath.
"You sound terrible," Sam said once Dean was finished with the current coughing fit. "You're wheezing."
Dean could hear Sam moving around behind him. He rubbed his chest and muttered, "You're hearing things."
"Dean." Sam sat down on the edge of the bed at Dean's right side. "I'm not hearing anything except you. Wheezing."
"I'll live. Miserably, but I'll live."
Sam snorted. And then he coughed. And then he groaned. "Hurts to cough."
"You don't hear me complaining," Dean said, patting his brother on the back.
"All you've been doing is complaining."
"Yes. Because I'm feverish, nauseated and exhausted. Try to keep up, Sammy."
"Maybe it's time you go to a-"
"Not going to a doctor," Dean cut him off.
"You can hardly talk without shortness of breath-"
"What's a doctor going to do?" Dean shook his head, glancing at his brother in the wash of
blue light from the television. "When I tried to drag you to the doctor, you told me this was probably viral and would pass on its own."
Sam glared at him. "I'm not having trouble breathing."
"Neither am I." Dean coughed, then fought to catch his breath despite his own insistence that he wasn't having issues. Once the fit had resolved, he met Sam's concerned gaze and smiled. "I'm fine."
Sam didn't argue with him.
He leaned forward and threw up all over the floor.
"Why don't you want to go to Jody's for Christmas?"
"I never said I didn't."
"That's exactly what you said."
Sam groaned, pressing his head against his arms. "Do we have to do this right now?"
Dean started to answer, broke off in a coughing fit, then spent a few minutes gasping and wheezing and sounding like he was going to die.
Sam spent those few minutes trying to convince his stomach he had nothing left to upchuck. After he'd thrown up all over his bedroom floor (and very nearly his own feet), Dean had towed him to the nearest bathroom. And here they'd been ever since.
Door closed behind them, Dean had the hot water in the shower turned on full blast leaving the room a steamy, warm haven. He was reclining against the tub, tucked under a quilt and propped up with what could well have been every single pillow they owned.
He looked like a king.
Sam, on the other hand, was still hugging the toilet.
"So," Dean said, once he'd regained his breath. His voice was chewed up and hoarse, but he sounded annoyingly perky. "Why?"
"Dean, it's not that I don't want to see Jody and the girls-"
"And eat her food," Dean said and Sam could hear the longing in his brother's voice before he sighed, and added, "If I was interested in eating anything."
Sam thought it would be great if they could get off the topic of food.
Dean coughed, shifting and nudging Sam in the leg with his foot. He cleared his throat, then asked, "Why didn't you want to go?"
Pushing himself upright, Sam flushed the toilet and flopped down on the floor, resting his arm over his eyes. Dean had been kind enough to bring a second quilt. Sam shifted until he felt as comfortable as he was likely to get. He knew Dean was still waiting on his answer and he still wasn't sure how to answer it.
"It's not like we had big plans," Dean said, thumping his fist against Sam's left knee. "Sorry, by the way, I didn't get you a present."
"The joy of your company is all I've ever wanted."
His comment surprised a laugh out of Dean and Sam smiled.
For a few minutes, they fell silent, then Sam said softly, "I didn't want to ruin their Christmas."
Sam heard Dean turn the water off. Dean thumped him on the knee again and asked, "Why would you ruin their Christmas? I mean, yeah, you're a little bit like the Grinch, but-"
"Because I don't know how to...how to do the whole Christmas with family thing, Dean. Ok?"
"And you think I do?"
"Well...no…"
"We've eaten dinner with them," Dean said, sounding reasonable and logical and right. "What's the difference? Dinner with the family for Christmas is the same isn't it? Whether it's just random dinner or Christmas dinner, right?"
"I don't know." He really didn't. Sam lowered his arm and rubbed his eyes, then let his hand rest on his stomach as he glanced over at his brother.
Dean met his gaze with a small smile. His eyes were bloodshot, underscored in shadows and Sam could hear him wheezing, although he did sound a little better than earlier. He looked as exhausted as Sam felt.
"How about this?" Dean asked, leaning forward. He lifted Sam's head gently and tucked a pillow underneath, then pulled the edges of the second quilt around Sam. "How about New Years? We could start there. Let's go see the girls for New Years and see how we do with the whole holiday and family dinner thing."
Sam tugged the edges of the quilt closer, feeling dangerously close to falling asleep.
Dean settled back against his stack of pillows, still smiling. "Next year we can try for Christmas, ok?"
It didn't sound like a terrible plan, Sam had to admit. He nodded, fighting to keep his eyes open.
"You think you can get a little sleep?"
Sam nodded again. "Think so. You?"
Dean slouched down against his pillows a bit more and said, "For awhile anyway."
"Good."
Silence fell for a few minutes, then Dean said, "I remember this one time we were both sick at Christmas. You were like three I think. Dad said we were a couple of sick puppies."
Sam snorted, trying to imagine their father saying something like that.
Dean squeezed his knee and grinned. "Here we still are. After all these years. Together. And sick puppies again. What would Dad think if he could see us now?"
"I don't really care," Sam said, blinking heavily, but holding his brother's gaze. "All I care about is the fact we are still here. Together. After all these years."
"I'd call you sappy," Dean said, smiling, "but I can't argue with you. Sick or not, I'm glad you're here to-"
"To make you sick?"
Dean laughed again and smacked Sam on the leg. "Thought I made you sick."
"You do make me sick."
"Merry Christmas, Sammy."
"Merry Christmas." Sam smiled, then asked, "Did you really not get me a present?"
"Lighthouse at the End of the World. First edition."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"No, I got you the collector's edition of Twilight." Dean scoffed, then said, "Yes, really. And I had to look long and hard for that first edition so I expect it to be your favorite book ever."
"Thanks," Sam said, touched by the thoughtful gesture. They had never gone all out on gifts for birthdays or Christmas, but it wasn't unusual for them to hunt out unique and meaningful gifts when they had the chance. "Seriously. Thank you. You know how long I've been looking for-"
"Like fifteen years. Yes. I know."
"Well, thank you."
"Welcome." Dean folded his arms across his chest, smiling as he closed his eyes. "What'd you get me?"
Sam smiled and thumped his foot against Dean's hip. "Who says I got you anything?"
Dean just smiled wider, knowing better.
"Got you a new shotgun."
Dean's eyes popped open. "Really?"
Sam grinned.
"Thanks, Sam." Dean returned the grin. "Not the worst Christmas ever."
"Dude, we're literally lying on the bathroom floor and we haven't eaten anything in almost a day. How is this not the worst Christmas?"
"Like you said, we're here together. There've been a few Christmases when we haven't," Dean said very quietly, holding his gaze. "Yeah it sucks we're sick, but at least we're both alive. Everything else is just...details."
Sam nodded because Dean was right. Memories of those few Christmases apart flashed through his mind. There hadn't been many, but each Christmas spent apart was painful in its own way; a pain that to this day made his chest hurt as he recalled the times they hadn't been together.
"I know," Dean interrupted his thoughts, "you hate me because I'm right."
"You are right and I don't hate you." Sam leaned up on one elbow even though it made him dizzy. He looked Dean straight in the eye and said, "You know I could never hate you, right?"
"Dunno. You were pretty pissed with me about Gadreel. And then there was that time I didn't buy you the right deodorant. You might hate me."
His tone was teasing, but in Dean's eyes, Sam could see the uncertainty. His brother was a complicated man, but, at the same time, he was very simple.
Dean had one priority in life and it was Sam.
He was as tough as they came although his heart remained as tender as that of a child. Dean could convince anyone out there that nothing could hurt him. For many years, Sam hadn't understood the power he held over his brother. How he alone could tear his brother's heart wide open and hurt him more profoundly than any other wound ever could. Even now that things were going better between them than they had gone in many years, Dean still needed reassurance. Still sought reassurance.
So Sam rolled onto his side, pulled the blanket up over his shoulder and said with conviction, "I don't, and could never, hate you. You're my brother, man. Even when you piss me off, I still love you."
Oops! Sam couldn't believe he'd just said it out loud. Just because it was true didn't mean they said stuff like that to each other's face. Didn't mean they said stuff like that with words. He stared Dean, wondering how he was going to take the admission.
Dean's eyes lit up and Sam knew he was going to get teased, but he didn't care. Because Dean's eyes were lit with not just amusement, but with relief. He smiled and said, "Tell me how you really feel, Sam."
"Shut up." Sam glared at him because it was the expected thing to do.
"You're such a girl."
"I'm going to remember you said that next time you take an hour in the shower and use up all the hot water."
Dean grinned and Sam couldn't help but smile. Dean had been right; everything else was just details. The truth was Sam knew the only thing he ever wanted or needed for Christmas was his brother alive and well.
For better or worse, in sickness and health.
Sam snorted, knowing Dean would mock him forever if he knew what Sam was thinking. Giving his brother some reassurance was fine, but Sam was not going to open the door wide open to be teased for the rest of his life. So he closed his eyes, deciding maybe they could still have a nice Christmas despite being sick.
He had almost drifted off to sleep when he heard Dean say softly, "I don't hate you, either, Sammy. Never could."
Sam smiled because he heard what Dean said aloud and, more importantly, what he hadn't said aloud.
I love you, too.
What did you think? Hope you enjoyed this little Christmas one-shot. :)
Also! As a quick update, I blew through NaNoWriMo and broke every record I'd ever set. I wound up with well over 100,000 words to a completely original novel featuring Tommy and Arla Pender! I'm working on revisions now and I am SO excited about how it is coming together! I have several SPN projects that I'm working on right now as well and plan to get back to more regular posting in the new year ahead!
Really hope everyone enjoyed this! Again, Merry Christmas, and many blessings to each of you! Happy New Year ahead! God bless! See you in 2018!