Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters.
Author's Note: This originally started off as like ten different stories. I don't know how they all got combined into one, but here it is. This is my Christmas present for you guys. A nice, super long one-shot. Enjoy!
Author's Note 2: I wasn't sure where I wanted to go with this at first, which is kind of obvious, but I think it turned out all right. It's very chick-flick-y, so be warned!! You might need a tissue in a couple of parts.
Author's Note 3: The song this is titled after is played in the end of A Very Supernatural Christmas. I kind of made it into a big deal in this story, even though it really doesn't have any importance at all in the series... oh well... Enjoy!!
Author's Note 4: If it's a little rushed in parts, I'm sorry. I was trying to finish it today and it's my first one-shot.
Summary: It's Christmas time again, but it's not a happy time for Sam Winchester. His brother is dead, in hell, because of him. He has no family, no life, no anything outside of hunting. He needs a Christmas miracle.
Supernatural
"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas"
It was Christmas time again. Snow was falling on the ground and everywhere he turned he saw Christmas trees, inflatable Santas, Christmas lights, and heard Christmas carols. People were chattering happily as they passed by the parked black Impala, not giving it a second glance, nor the shaggy haired man inside it who looked as though he were on the verge of a breakdown.
The man inside the black Impala was not listening to Christmas music. He was listening to some song he had never heard before on a radio station he knew his brother would never approve of. He was not looking forward to the coming morning, where he would wake up to another morning without his brother in the other bed, one hand tucked under the pillow and curled around the Bowie knife he had hidden there. The man in the Impala wasn't dressed in any Christmas colors whatsoever. Instead, he wore all black. He seemed to blend into the car. The only color that marked him a human over a bench seat was the gold pendant hanging from his throat. The same pendant he had given his brother nineteen years ago for Christmas.
The song on the radio changed to a more familiar tune. It was Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. The man hated that song, for it had been one of his brother's favorites, back before his brother had…
The man quickly shut off the radio and stuck the key into the engine. He had no idea why he had come here, to Lawrence of all places, on Christmas. It was as though he were trying to slip back into the zombie he had been for the first six months of his brother's absence. It had taken him six months, six long months, to finally get past the guilt, shoulder the grief, and accept the fact that his brother was never coming back. It took him six months of trying and he still wasn't completely passed it. He slipped up, like all human beings did, and ended up making his pain worse. This was making his pain worse. Coming to his family's final resting place at Christmas, the place where all the hell he had been through had started, was the worst slip he could make.
The man pulled out of his parking spot at the mall he was at. He had driven around until he had found somewhere that didn't remind him of his brother. The mall seemed like that place. It was full of overly cheerful people shopping for meaningless things. It was full of light and cheery music, something that his brother really hated. It was full of normal.
The man turned on to the interstate, paying close attention to the road. No matter how many times he drove the Impala, he always felt as though he were doing something wrong. This was his brother's car, not his. It had his brother's name written all over it. It was the one thing, outside of the pendant, that he couldn't give up.
His cell buzzed somewhere underneath his feet. He didn't answer it; he never did while he was driving. He didn't want to wreck the Impala, lose the last major tie to his brother. So he took every precaution he could not to.
His phone buzzed again. It seemed to be getting louder. He looked for a place to turn off, so he could see who was calling. He had a feeling it was Bobby; the old man was always persistent on talking to him, even though he had made it perfectly clear that he wanted to be left alone. Not that he blamed the old man, he was a Winchester after all and they always needed a close eye on them.
He found an abandoned road and turned on to it. Lights were lit every so often so one could actually see the road, but it didn't help with the snow that was quickly turning into a blizzard. He stopped the Impala underneath a tree, not bothering to take note of his surroundings. If he had, he would never have bent down to answer his phone. He would have hightailed himself the hell out of there. He would have, because there was a woman with strange white eyes, standing underneath a nearby tree.
He was right; it was Bobby. The man had even resorted to texting. He snorted; when did Bobby learn how to text?
Out of habit, he flipped through his messages. Apparently, Bobby had learned to text five months ago, the same month that the man driving the Impala had gotten sick of Bobby's constant hovering and left. The man driving the Impala had close to two hundred text messages saved on his cell phone.
Damn the cell phone creators and their ever growing need for more space to store their text messages, the man thought darkly. Why the hell did I ever get a new cell phone? Oh right. Because…
He tried his hardest not to think of the day where he had destroyed everything that had reminded him of his brother. He slipped though. The image of him smashing his old cell phone into bits because his brother had given it to him the day after they had escaped from Green River Detention center was too vivid.
Footsteps crunching across the snow yanked the man out of his downward spiral into depression. He glanced up and was surprised to see a tall woman with light brown, highlighted hair and bright green eyes standing at the front of the car. She wore a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, but nothing else, which the man found odd considering it was snowing and the middle of December in Kansas.
The man in the Impala rolled down his window, his instincts on high alert. He may have been depressed, but he was still a hunter. And a damn good one, at that, if his last hunt was anything to go by. It had been three poltergeists, which he had taken on by himself. An unheard of feat and he had come out of it nearly unscathed. A broken wrist was nothing important to him. Not when his brother was going through hell for him, literally.
"Can you help me?" she asked. Her voice was smooth and silky, which would have been alluring to any other man, but the man in the Impala had long since given up any interest in anything except finding a way to get his brother back.
"What's the matter?" he asked, wincing as the effort shook his weakened vocal chords. He hadn't spoken in so long, that he had almost forgotten how his voice sounded.
"My car broke down and I need to borrow a cell phone," she said, taking a step back. The man shifted uneasily. There was something about this woman that didn't bode well with him. Maybe it was the fact that she seemed completely oblivious to the fact that it was freezing outside, or maybe it was because of the fact that she was staring at him intently, as though he were something to eat. It gave him the shivers.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said. A voice in his head told him to lie. The same voice in his head that had coached him through the poltergeist attack, the one that sounded exactly like his brother. "I don't have a cell phone."
The woman's eyes flashed. The man's blood chilled as he caught sight of the white, unnatural eyes. Demon. And not just any demon either; it was the one he had been hunting for. It was Lilith, the demonic bitch who had killed his brother.
The man instantly began reaching for the glove compartment, where he had a gun stashed in case of an emergency like this, which ironically, happened a lot since he had gotten the gun from an old antique dealer in Boston three months before. It just happened to be the gun that he and his brother had lost close to a year ago to Bella Talbot; a damn good thief who had stolen it for god knew what reason.
His hand never reached the glove compartment. The second he had shifted in his seat, the man had found himself flying through the now open door of the driver's side and into the tree. He felt the breath leave his lungs as he struggled against the hold he now faced.
"Sammy Winchester, it's so nice to meet you again," Lilith said, smirking and striding towards him. She stopped a few inches away and smirked as Sam struggled to get free of the hold.
"Lilith," he growled, trying to make the one word as insulting as he could. She merely smiled at him.
"How's that dear old brother of yours?" she asked, her smile widening as she saw the flash of pain that crossed Sam's face. "Oh that's right, he's in hell. Because of you."
Sam closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. It was no good to let his emotions rule his hunt, so the voice in his head told him. It would only get him killed. A second voice joined the first, one that sounded a lot like John Winchester.
"You really are a bitch, aren't you?" he asked, his voice breathless as he fought back against the guilt and grief that were welling up inside him, threatening to take control. There was no way he was going to give this demon the satisfaction of knowing that she had hurt him in any way.
"My, my, you don't kiss your babies with that mouth, do you? Right, you don't. Because I killed them too," Lilith said, her smile growing into a grotesque smirk. That blow stung less than the one about Dean, but it still was enough to rattle his defenses. Sam had tried to get on with his life as of a month ago, like his brother wanted him to. He had gone to New York, to visit Sarah, who had recently gotten divorced and had two daughters. Lilith had tracked him down and murdered Sarah and the two girls, named Karen and Jasmine, right in front of Sam, the same way she had pinned him against the wall and had the hellhounds take his brother.
"Go. To. Hell," he growled, fighting against the hold even harder now. He was going to get out of this, make it back to the Impala, and shoot her. All the past months would finally be worth it. All the hell he had gone through, it would finally be worth it. The evil bitch in front of him would be dead and he would finally have fulfilled his promise to his brother about avenging his death.
"I'll tell your brother you said hi," she said sweetly. Sam saw red and suddenly, he was free from the demonic hold. He was not prepared for the blinding headache that accompanied his sudden freedom.
Lilith, who was in shock, took only a moment to get over it before she took advantage of Sam's freedom and flung him across the clearing and into something hard, rocky, and solid. Sam slammed up against it, smacking his head extremely hard. He saw stars, but forced himself to get up, to keep fighting. It was what his brother would have wanted, it was what his father would have wanted, hell, it was what he wanted. He wanted to see this bitch dead, but only after he made her go through all the pain he had gone through over the past year.
"My, my, you certainly are a fighter," she commented, walking closer to him. Sam swayed on the spot, trying to steady himself. Lilith wasn't having that, though. With a smile and a flick of her hand, she sent him crashing back to the ground.
"What do you want?" he asked, coughing as he rolled over and tried to avoid the boot crashing down on top of him. He would have made it; but his leg got trapped in a hole. The result was a loud crunch as the booted foot connected with his ribcage and broke two of the ribs instantly, cracking another and badly bruising a fourth. Sam couldn't contain the yelp as Lilith dragged him into a sitting position and punched him across the face. Blood spurted everywhere as her fist connected with his nose.
"I want to see you dead," she hissed as Sam kicked out and felt his foot connect with her face. She fell back and Sam stumbled to his feet, grabbing the knife he had hidden in his jeans. It was the knife his brother had stolen from Ruby a year ago.
"Good luck with that," he said, stumbling forward and trying to stab her through the chest, to end this once and for all. Lilith seemed to have other ideas, though. With a flick of her wrist, he was sent flying into another tree. He felt the splinters dig into his back as the world spun around him and he slid to the ground.
"Why don't you just give up?" she demanded. She was pissed off now, something Sam found intense pleasure in, even if he was beaten to hell.
He slowly stood back up, gripping the knife tightly in his good hand and propping himself up against a tree with his bad one. He smirked at her, feeling his facial muscles scream at the effort. He had a huge bruise across one cheek and his nose was more than likely broken and his lip was swollen and puffy.
"I'm a Winchester. I don't understand the meaning of the words, give up," he said. His words were extremely slurred, barely distinguishable, but he knew that she got the gist of it, if the awful scowl on her face was anything to go by.
"You're going to die," she taunted. "I'm going to kill you, nice and slow. You're going to be screaming for me to end it, and then I will."
"I don't see you trying," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He was losing the battle to stay standing, hell he was just losing the battle. She still looked like a model while he knew he looked like he had been through a meat grinder.
Her scowl turned into a smirk as she lunged at him. Sam easily sidestepped it; he had been expecting it, and took a swipe at her with his knife. He struck her across the shoulder, making her gasp in pain and send him flying through the air again. He landed hard on his back, knocking the breath out of him. He wasn't given the chance to recover this time. She was on him in a second, punching him as hard as she could everywhere she could reach.
Sam was still, somehow, holding the knife. As she drew back for a moment to start in on him again, Sam surged up and shoved the knife through her chest. She let out a terrified scream as the electricity pulsed through her body and killed her. She fell off of Sam and into the snow, blood dripping slowly from the wound and staining the freshly fallen snow. Her eyes were wide open, glazed over and empty in death.
Sam would have been in shock or delirious if he had been conscious. The second the knife had entered the demon, Sam had passed out from the pain and cold.
Bobby closed his cell phone angrily as the man beside him hung up his landline. He looked triumphant as he typed something into the computer in front of him. Bobby still couldn't believe that the man was actually standing there, that he wasn't a demon, a shape-shifter, or a doppelganger, that it was actually truly him. He had been dead for close to a year now, and then suddenly, an hour ago, he had been pounding on Bobby's door. He was alive, somehow, and looking for his brother, who had disappeared off the face of the map close to seven months ago.
"He's in Lawrence," the man said, looking surprised and awed by the news. He accepted the beer that Bobby offered him. "He's alive and he's in Lawrence."
"If we hurry, we could probably be there by morning," Bobby said, popping open his. "That would certainly surprise the hell out of him, to say the least."
The man flinched at the word hell, which didn't surprise Bobby one bit. He had spent close to a year in hell, and though had no obvious recollection of it, still was extremely sensitive on the subject.
"No," the man said, shaking his head and taking another swig of his beer. "I'm not going to screw up his life again. He could have a family for all we know. Which we would, if you had been able to keep a better eye on him."
It was an accusation. The man had barely been out of hell for two hours and he was already getting pissed because Bobby hadn't been able to keep an eye on his brother. Well, that was Dean Winchester for you.
"I've heard things, Dean. He's been hunting since the second he left here six months ago," Bobby snapped. He sighed; he hadn't meant to get pissed off at Dean. After all, it had been close to a year since had seen him and it was Christmas Eve. The guy had been hell, for god's sake. But, Dean was too much like his daddy in one respect; couldn't spend more than an hour with him without wanting to shoot him full of buckshot. Bobby had always marveled at how well Sam had been able to live with the Winchester. Then again, Sam was in some ways worse. Always too damn intelligent for his own good. It scared Bobby just how smart that Winchester was.
"I-I'm not ready to face him," Dean said, looking away from Bobby. "It's been a year and god, do I want to see him, make sure he's okay, but at the same time… it's been a year. I was dead, Bobby. In hell. I don't think I'm going to be able to handle him not being able to trust me, to think I'm something else entirely. To think I'm not the same guy he grew up with, who he's trusted for the past four fucking years."
"Are you that same guy?" Bobby questioned quietly. Dean threw him a dark look and set down his beer, sighing as he did so. He carded one hand through his hair, mussing it up into the spikes it usually was. Bobby had been floored when he had seen Dean with tame hair standing outside his front door, looking like death warmed over.
"I- what's the fastest car you have running?" Dean demanded, staring at the computer screen in shock, anger, and horror.
"The Chevy out back, dark green," Bobby said, glancing at the computer screen as well. Oh shit, he thought, staring in horror at what Dean had been giving the same look to. Demonic omens were suddenly cropping up in Lawrence, right where Sam's cell phone signal had been picked up nearly five minutes before.
"Call him, Bobby," Dean said hoarsely, staring at the computer screen. "Call him again. I need to know he's okay."
It took Bobby a couple of seconds to register what Dean had said and a couple more to go through with the request. In the meantime, Dean had gotten busy shoving holy water, rock salt, guns, and Bobby's exorcism book into a beat up green duffel, where Bobby wasn't about to ask where it had come from.
"Damn it, I didn't get an answer," Bobby said, slamming his cell phone shut for the third time that evening. He hadn't been expecting one; hell, he hadn't heard from Sam in close to seven months. It wouldn't have appeased Dean any to hear that, though, so Bobby kept his mouth shut.
"Son of a bitch," Dean growled, grabbing the keys from Bobby's hands. "Let's go. The sooner we get to Lawrence, the faster we find Sam."
Bobby barely reacted in time to catch the green duffel bag when it was tossed his way as Dean stormed out the door. Bobby was quick behind him.
Dean barely registered the fact that he was out of hell and speeding down the snow-slicked interstate towards Lawrence, Kansas, of all places to find his brother. All he knew was that Sam was in trouble and that he had to get there. He didn't even see the Christmas-y landscape as he blew by it, pushing the ancient car to speeds it shouldn't have been able to go. Sam needed help.
In the passenger's seat, Bobby was redialing Sam's cell number for the billionth time since they had left South Dakota. They had just crossed the border into Kansas, making a normal nine hour drive in five. Bobby was trying to pinpoint Sam's location, but it wasn't working out too well. A snowstorm had moved into the area, knocking out the GPS satellite on Sam's phone. Dean had cussed until he was blue in the face, pressing down on the accelerator as he did so.
Dean knew where he was the second they hit Lawrence's city limits. He hadn't been in hell long enough to forget the streets of his childhood home. He highly doubted that even if he had been in hell for centuries and been burned into a demon that he would have forgotten the hospital where Sammy was born, his first preschool, the place where he had gotten his first kiss at the tender age of five by the hot chick in his kindergarten class, which had been on Christmas day close to twenty five years ago. Wow, had time passed.
Dean travelled perilously through the streets of Kansas, nearly running over a couple of pedestrians as he did so. His mind seemed to be on autopilot as he ran through the places where Sam could be. Only one place seemed to stick out, and that was the cemetery where Mary Winchester had her headstone, and ironically, so did Dean. Apparently, Sam had buried him there instead of in a random clearing on the outskirts of the last town the two of them had been in.
He saw the Impala, parked underneath the tree at the edge of the parking lot, as he pulled into the cemetery's parking lot. Dean wasn't expecting the overwhelming joy and elation he felt when he saw the black beast next to him. She hadn't changed one bit; except for the whole driver's side door being missing. That was not good. Dean spotted it a couple feet away from the car, completely bent out of shape. Damn it. So not good.
Dean had barely thrown the car into park before he was throwing open the door and skidding across the icy parking lot to the graveyard in front of him. He spotted flecks of blood on the tree in front of the Impala and knew that that was not a good sign.
"SAM!" he shouted, trying to ignore the irony of this situation. Two years ago, with the exact same man who was behind him now, he had done this same thing. He hoped the outcome wouldn't as grim.
"Dean, look," Bobby said. The older man's voice caught as Dean followed the man's finger to where a woman lay dead in the snow. There was a pool of blood around her, with a knife sticking out of her that looked vaguely familiar.
"Is that-?"
"It's Ruby's knife," Bobby confirmed. "Sam has held onto that thing since you- since that night."
Dean shifted, trying to ignore the huge awkward moment Bobby had just instilled. He walked over to the woman and knelt down beside her. He studied her for a moment, wondering how she ended up with Ruby's knife in her, and then yanked said knife out with a sickening squelch.
"Dean," Bobby whispered, horrified. He was looking at something to Dean's left, something nearly completely hidden by Mary Winchester's headstone. When Dean inched closer, he blanched. It was a person. Not just any person, either, it was Sam. Dean was sure of it. Though how he could be when the person was completely covered in blood and snow, Dean would never know.
"Sam!" Dean called his brother's name as he placed a hand on Sam's chest. He was rewarded with a small grunt of pain and the weak, unsteady pulse of Sam's heartbeat. "Oh god, Sammy."
He fought to keep back the tears that were threatening to spill over. This was what he had left Sam to. Pain and suffering and injury because there was no one here to watch out for him. Sure, there was Bobby, but Dean had known all along that Sam was eventually going to up and leave their friend. It was just the Winchester way. And now, Sam looked like he was dead because he had faced a demon, and apparently killed it, by himself.
"Here," Bobby murmured, handing Dean a couple of blankets. "He's in shock and it's cold."
Dean accepted the blankets, piling them carefully around Sam, keeping watch for injuries. He noted three broken ribs, a broken nose a concussion, an already broken wrist, and maybe a second one, along with a dislocated shoulder and possible internal injuries.
"Damn it, Sammy," he whispered, running a finger along Sam's cheek and rememorizing his baby brother's features. "Why could you have gone back to Stanford, lived a life away from all of this?"
He heard a small moan coming from Sam and heard Bobby walk back towards the car.
"That's it, Sammy," he whispered. He was rewarded with an eye flutter, which was followed quickly by a gasp of pained surprise, and Sam bolting up quickly and moving away from Dean. The look the youngest Winchester was giving him broke Dean's heart. It was full of suspicion, anger, fear, and most of all, hurt and betrayal.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, struggling to get to his feet. Dean reached over to try and help his brother, but Sam shook him off.
"It's me, Sammy," Dean said, keeping his voice as calming as possible. Sam was reaching into his coat pocket for something, which Dean could guess was a gun or a silver knife… either one wasn't good for Dean.
"You're not him," Sam said bitterly. Dean saw the pain in Sam's eyes as the youngest Winchester pulled himself into a standing position. "You can't be."
Dean held up his hands in surrender.
"If I'm not him, then would I know that your first kiss was from a smoking junior girl named Tara Knight when you were a freshman? A dorky freshman at that?" he asked, attempting humor. It fell flat as Sam glared at him, trying to figure out if it was really him.
"Shape-shifter," he muttered, shaking his head. Dean could tell by the closing of his brother's eyes that he was in serious pain, but was refusing to admit it. "It has to be."
"It's me, Sammy," Dean whispered. "I'm not a shape-shifter. Give me that silver knife you're holding and I'll prove it to you."
He had already done this once with Bobby. It had worked on him, so why not on his brother? Oh, Dean thought as Sam shook his head violently. Because his brother was too damned smart for his own good.
"You could be a doppelganger," he said. "They're immune to silver."
"Then say a damned Latin chant that will kill off doppelgangers," Dean suggested. "That always worked in the past."
Sam's eyes widened. It might have been because of the concussion, but Dean could have sworn he saw hope and understanding flash through his brother's eyes.
"Demon."
"Christo. Here's holy water." Dean proceeded to drink some before offering the flask to Sam. "Happy?"
"D-Dean?"
How could it be that a twenty-five year old could sound so much like a five year old who had just been kicked? How could he look five? He was a grown man for god's sake. He should not be allowed to look that pathetic. But with the blood dripping down his face from his broken nose and huge scratch on his head, and the way both arms were curled protectively over his chest and the way Sam was swaying in the wind, he somehow managed to look five years old.
"It's really me, Sammy," Dean whispered, standing up slowly and taking the final step over to Sam. He wasn't expecting the bear hug that Sam pulled him into. The kid was injured for god's sake, he couldn't seriously be giving Dean a bear hug.
"I've missed you so much," Sam whispered, burying his face into Dean's shoulder. Dean hugged Sam even tighter, noting that his brother didn't even flinch despite his injuries.
"I've missed you, too, Sammy," he whispered, fighting back the tears that were once again threatening to fall. He lost the battle when he felt the tears from Sam start staining his own shirt.
Dean felt Sam suddenly go lax in his arms.
"Bobby!" he yelled.
Sam was warm and dry, something he hadn't been the last time he had been conscious. The pain was still there, but it was less intense than before. There were sounds of people talking nearby, something that also hadn't been there before.
"I wonder how he hung on for so long," one person was saying. The voice was gruff and sounded like Bobby. Huh, Sam thought. When did Bobby find me?
The next voice made even less sense than the second. He must have been dreaming. There was no way that was his brother.
"He's Sam," Dean said simply.
Sam slowly opened his eyes. He found himself in a sparsely furnished motel room with two beds. The bed next to the door was empty, though it looked like it had been slept in recently. Or at the very least, sat on. Sam could have cried at the sight of it. And he might have, if it hadn't been for the person sitting on the foot of his bed, very alive and very there.
"D-Dean," he whispered, remembering bits and pieces from the cemetery. Lilith attacking him… Sam managing to kill Lilith… Dean showing up out of the blue… Being placed in the backseat of the Impala and feeling the engine rumble to life… Santana blaring from the stereo… Dean commenting on the tasteless Christmas decorations of the motel… someone moving him from the Impala to the motel room…
"Sammy," Dean whispered back, his rugged, bruised face breaking into a huge smile. Sam hadn't noticed before the bruises and cuts that littered Dean's face. "You finally with us for good this time?"
Sam barely remembered someone waking him up every hour and asking him questions and telling him where he was. He had had a concussion, if he remembered correctly.
"I think so," he whispered hoarsely, trying not to stare at Dean as he was handed a paper cup of water. He barely glanced up at Bobby as he took the water and started to struggle into a sitting position. He stopped when Dean reached over and placed a hand on his chest.
"Lie still," was the command Dean issued. Sam was all too happy to comply. He still couldn't believe that Dean was alive and out of hell. It was impossible. This had to be a dream. A vision because he was in a coma, even. But Sam didn't care; even if it meant he was about to die, he never wanted to wake up. This was perfect.
"What the hell happened?" Bobby asked, taking up residency in the chair beside Sam's bed and reminding Sam that this was not a dream. There was no way Bobby would be here if it was.
"I, uh, I was just kind of driving around and then stopped. This girl came out of nowhere and needed help. Turned out it was Lilith," Sam said, stopping for a moment to catch his breath and put an arm around his chest. He winced as pain flared up in it. He had sprained it. So much for having one good arm. Dean stared at him, his face full of pain and shock. "She threw me into a tree, got pissed at me, tried her hardest to kill me."
"Damn near succeeded," Dean muttered so quietly that Sam wasn't sure if he had heard him correctly or if Dean was really talking at all.
"How did you find me?" Sam asked, yawning. It hurt; he winced. He didn't feel the need to hide the pain anymore. Dean was here. Everything would be okay now.
"Bobby tracked the GPS in your phone and I just kind of guessed wildly where you would be," Dean said, shrugging. "We almost got there too late. What the hell were you thinking, Sammy? Taking on Lilith of all demons without backup?"
"It wasn't my fault! She appeared out of nowhere! What the hell was I supposed to do? Drive away and pretend like nothing was wrong?" Sam demanded.
Bobby could have laughed at the site in front of him. The two brothers might have been oblivious to it, but to Bobby, it was the most beautiful site in the world. The fact that Dean was sitting there, berating Sam for doing something so stupid, and Sam was being, well, Sam, right back at Dean like they always had done in the past made Bobby want to laugh. He had forgotten how much he had missed it, the brotherly banter those two had suddenly fallen into. He had lost track of what they were saying, but it sounded like they were razzing each other already. God, he had missed this.
Dean had missed Sam, much more than he would ever willingly admit. He had missed Sam more than he had ever missed his father when the eldest Winchester had died selling his soul for Dean. Sam was his entire life, his one sole purpose, the one reason why he kept fighting in hell, fighting to get out and to stay human. Sam was the only reason why Dean had gotten out. Not Dean himself, not Bobby, not John, not Mary, just Sam. To see the smile that was now gracing his brother's face, the real Sammy smile, not the fake one he had seen in photos where the guy looked like someone was stepping on his toes. The one he gave only Dean. This was why Dean had kept fighting, even when it was becoming too much to handle.
"Jerk," Sam threw out, just like the days before the deal, before the war, back when they were just brothers.
And in reply, to prove that everything was going to be okay one way or another, that Sam was going to get better, and that Dean would always be there for him again, Dean said simply, "Bitch. Happy Christmas, Sammy."
Sam smiled at the comment his brother had just made about winning the bet when they were still kids about Bobby sleeping in his trucker hat. Sam had bet against it, thinking that the man had to take it off sometime, only for Dean to sneak in and take a picture of Bobby sleeping, with his trucker hat on.
"Jerk," he said without really thinking. He froze for a moment, thinking it was the wrong thing to say. He wasn't sure how Dean would react to their old playfulness. He shouldn't have worried though. Dean's face stayed relaxed.
"Bitch," he replied. After a moment, Dean added, "Happy Christmas Sammy." Sam smiled again, this one bigger and more sincere then before. What had started out as being the worst Christmas of Sam's life had turned into the best one. Dean was back from hell and Sam was alive, something neither would have thought possible last year at this time. Though they still had a lot to talk about, they had a while. Neither one was going to die anytime soon.
"Happy Christmas, Dean," Sam replied. And so it was. As if on cue, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas started to play.
~Finis~