Christmas 2007

Sam was pretty sure the smell of pine branches would always be a painful memory for him.

For one thing, Dean's insistence on celebrating this last Christmas, and his own continued refusal, hurt every time he thought about it. Holidays never meant much to any of them, except as reminders or markers or flashing lights pointing out other more painful dates in their lives. And all those Christmas lights were pointing now was the black hole that Sam would be dragging along right beside himself come next May.

For another thing, his fingerfreaking hurt wherefreaking Auntie Claus had ripped his freaking fingernail out. Usually Sam was pretty stoic when it came to pain and blood and gaping wounds in his body, but dammit, it hurt. It wasn't bad enough that they'd ripped it out, but then he'd had to wrestle the branches off a Christmas tree, digging needles into his exposed nail bed that felt like red hot spikes. Then they had to wrap up the bodies and cart them off for a little Yuletide salt and burn, and all the exertion kept the blood flowing out of his finger in a thick trickle.

And it hurt.

Dean had put a bandage on it at the car and made Sam take painkillers before they did the actual burn, but now they were back at the motel and Sam had to wash his hand of the pine pitch and blood, and that meant properly washing his mutilated finger.

Which was going to hurt.

Maybe it wasn't the physical pain though. He'd worked with broken bones, bronchitis, migraines, torn ligaments – pretty much any injury a person could get, he'd worked with. A couple of painkillers, a shot of whiskey, an ace bandage, and then back in the game.

This time though, this time everything was just a reminder that he was losing Dean. A year from now, six months from now, there'd be no Dean to put a bandage on so Sam didn't have to do it one-handed. No Dean conspicuously hovering outside the bathroom door waiting to know how Sam was coming along.

No pain in the ass big brother with zero sense of personal space to come into the bathroom anyway with no more warning than that he was suddenly there.

"How's it coming?"

"I can't get the bandage off. The gauze is stuck to the skin – DON'T!" Sam nearly shouted when Dean took hold of his hand. But he didn't pull at the bandage like Sam was afraid he would, he only turned Sam's hand over once or twice, looking close.

"Relax, Princess. I'm not gonna do anything…we need to run some warm water over it. That'll loosen it up."

"That'll hurt."

"Yeah, probably. Here…"

Dean turned the faucet on and held his hand under the water, adjusting the knobs until the temperature apparently met with his satisfaction.

"All right. Here we go."

He took Sam's hand again and as he moved it toward the stream of water, Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the oncoming pain. Instead of the water hitting the tip of his finger head on though, only a thin trickle ran down, gently soaking the gauze and working it loose. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Dean had positioned his own hand over Sam's hand, blunting the water, making it hurt less.

"Okay, let's see…" Dean shut the water off and nudged at the bandage and it slid into the sink. "Okay, looks good. Y'know, as good as it can for being so ugly…how's it feel?"

"Hurts."

"Bad?"

"No. Not as bad as I thought it would."

"Good. Okay, wash your hands, I'll get the kit."

Dean left the bathroom and Sam picked up the bar of soap. He wasn't sure that he could wash both his hands though without getting that fingertip wet. But he managed. He turned the water on and wet the soap, then ran it over his hands and cautiously scrubbed them together to get all the pine tar off. His fingertip stung, but not unbearably.

He heard Dean out in the motel room, whistling 'Jingle Bells', as he got the first aide kit. Against his will, Sam heard silence instead of the trilling notes. If he couldn't save Dean, if Dean didn't want to be saved, if some miracle didn't happen and soon, Sam's world would be filled with the silence of loneliness and desperation and no Dean.

"Okay, here we go." Dean came back into the bathroom, jarring Sam out of his painful thoughts. Dean was here, he was still here. "Got the bandages, got the plastic bags."

"Plastic bags? For what?"

"To cover your hand so you can take a shower. 'Cause - you need to take a shower…"

"Funny, Dean."

"Who's being funny? All right, here we go. C'mon."

Sam offered his hand up. Dean used a folded square of gauze to pat the fingertip dry, then squeezed a blob of antibiotic ointment onto it, and taped it up with pre-made bandage of gauze-stuck-on-medical-tape. Sam didn't watch what Dean was doing though, he watched Dean's face.

He knew that face, from his earliest memories he knew that face in exactly this attitude - absorbed in his task, slightly amused from some random thought that was crossing his mind, taking care of Sam, whether it was a flesh wound gushing blood, or the shattered dream of a normal life.

Wasn't he always taking care of Sam?

And the only thing he'd ever asked in return was to celebrate one last Christmas with his brother.

And Sam had said no.

"What?" Dean asked, looking up to catch Sam watching him.

"Hell of a way to spend Christmas Eve, hunh?"

"Not the worst we've spent."

"No."

Then Dean covered Sam's hand in three plastic grocery bags and used most of the rest of the roll of medical tape to secure them around his wrist, then patted Sam's shoulder.

"There you go. Unless you want help taking a shower."

"Uh - no. Thank you. I can manage from here."

"Okay…"Dean left the bathroom again, whistling 'Jingle Bells' again, and shut the door behind him.

He deserved a Christmas and dammit, he was going to have one. The best Christmas that Sam could manage to put together.

Because celebrating Christmas this year wouldn't hurt as bad as the memory of not celebrating it was going to hurt next year.

Sam took his shower and mapped out his strategy for the next day.

The End.