Thanks-Giving
K Hanna Korossy

The days tended to blur on the road. Their job didn't recognize regular hours or workdays, and weekends only differentiated themselves from weekdays by less traffic on the road. Sundays stood out in pealing church bells Sam listened to wistfully and Dean ignored, and shuttered libraries. In all, it was more a blessing than a curse, allowing them to pass obliviously the painful anniversaries of their lives: Mom's birthday, their parents' anniversary, all the dates Sam and Jess had held special. And, of course, November second.

So Sam had to go back two weeks to count from the last day he'd been sure of the date, to figure out where—or rather, when—they were. He could've checked the computer or his phone or the stray digital sign they passed, but the mental math was a welcome occupation, and didn't distract Dean from the song he was humming along to. Dean showing genuine pleasure in anything those days was rarity enough that Sam didn't want to interrupt.

Except… "Hey, Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"You realize it's Thanksgiving in three days?"

The barest shrug. "So?"

Sam looked out the window. "I don't know, just seems like we should do something. Besides getting the turkey special at whatever diner we're at."

"I hate turkey," Dean muttered.

Sam smiled. "No you don't. And anyway, not the point, dude." No response. "Dean?"

The humming had stopped, the vague sort of tension settling again into Dean's shoulders that had taken up residence there the last month-plus. Since… Yeah. Maybe the quintessential family holiday wasn't the best thing to bring up right now, Sam realized belatedly.

But Dean was thinking about it, paused in braced silence.

He surprised Sam by speaking just as Sam was about to. "We've never celebrated Thanksgiving before. Why start now?" A side glance at Sam. "I don't know about you, but I'm not feeling particularly thankful these days, Sam."

That was true; Thanksgiving had never exactly been a Winchester holiday. All the things it represented: family, counting your blessings, a bounty of food, had always been in short supply during Sam's childhood. It was only at Stanford, hearing his friends' plans for the holiday, that he'd realized what the day was supposed to be and how abnormal his own experience had been, yet again.

And the year before…well, three weeks after Jess's death, Sam hadn't been feeling very thankful, either. Dean had changed the channel whenever holiday commercials came on, and they'd managed to pass the day itself out in the middle of nowhere, away from any reminders of what Sam was missing. Nothing except his nightmares, which Dean had soothed him through. It had been the one thing Sam had been able to find any gratitude for inside himself for months after.

Now, they'd just said good-bye to Dad, and the wound was almost as raw as Jess's loss for Sam. For Dean, it was Hell. Forget gratitude; they were just trying to get through each day. It wasn't the time.

But something sad and longing stirred in Sam nonetheless.

"I don't know," he said honestly to Dean's question, tracing a "W" on the fogged window beside him. "It just seems like we should do something, you know?"

"It's just an excuse to pig-out, Sam, no big deal. We can do that anytime." Dean's face seemed to lighten, but it was an act, all an act these days and Sam knew it. "Speaking of which, Sam's Fried Chicken is up ahead." He cast Sam a grin that stayed far away from his eyes. "Can't pass up a sign like that."

Sam didn't think that was where the real sign lay, but he dropped the subject and played along. It was all he could do those days, too.

00000

He tried again the next day, while his brother filled up the car. "Dean, we could—"

"No, Sam." Whatever else might be broken, Dean still knew him, what he was thinking. Except maybe why this was important to Sam. He wasn't exactly sure of that one himself.

"But—"

"I'll buy you some Turkey Jerky, okay?"

Not okay, but he dropped it and asked for a coffee instead.

00000

But Sam fought for lost causes.

He thought he was being smarter this time, introducing the subject in a public place. "Dean, it's tomorrow. Everybody'll be—"

Dean's back was up, literally and figuratively, and his voice dropped. "Everybody'll what, Sam? Get together with their families? Go home for the holiday? In case you hadn't noticed, that's not exactly an option for us. We're it, Sam, no home, no family. So pick something else to obsess about already, okay?" One that doesn't shove a knife through my gut, was the unspoken tag. Sam knew his brother, too.

He wasn't surprised when Dean left his half-finished meal and stalked from the diner back out to the car. Or when Sam contritely appeared five minutes later, Styrofoam box in hand, and Dean took it and changed the subject and all was forgiven.

Sam didn't mention it again. Dean was hurting enough.

He just wasn't sure why he'd thought a holiday that meant nothing to them would have fixed anything.

00000

They spent Thanksgiving in a home, just not their own.

The poltergeist call had come from an old acquaintance of their dad's. Sam had watched his brother's frozen face through the couple's well-meaning but ill-timed regrets on their father's passing and apologies for interrupting their holiday. Sam deflected it with a forced smile and thanks and got the pair out of there as soon as possible. He returned to find Dean silently checking out the house, ignoring the decorated dining room and starting to relax into hunting mode. Sam shut out the thoughts and memories and joined him.

They'd added Missouri's wards to their armory, but they'd both agreed that wasn't what was called for here. There seemed to be multiple poltergeists, and a simple banishment might not get rid of them all. Neither of them needed to mention the house in Lawrence. Sam instead flipped through their dad's journal until he got to a ritual that bound the forces to each other and then expelled them as one. He showed it to Dean, got a curt nod and a "Let's do it" in response, and they began.

Somehow the Latin always fell to him when they were together. Sam didn't mind. He read in a steady, solid voice, watching out of the corner of his eye as Dean applied herbs and oil. They had set up in the living room in tacit agreement, a spot from which all four corners of the house were visible. There would be no choking lamp cords this time.

No, this time they managed to sabotage themselves.

The wind picked up as the ritual reached its climax, a faint screeching in the background that might have been the whipping air or not. Sam raised his voice even though the words had power with or without volume, and braced his feet. Not far away, Dean fought the unseen pressure and laid down the last few signs.

When Sam yelled out the final words, the air itself seemed to crack…and everything went downhill. Or at least down.

He could see Dean tumble in the edge of his vision, knocked flat on his back. Sam had already lost his footing, the shockwave of reaction sending him flying back. He knew in that split second before his head and back slammed into the wall that they'd screwed this up, used too strong a rite.

He didn't think much after impact.

The next thing he knew, Dean's face filled the whole of his wobbly field of vision. Even groggy, Sam knew his brother's fear when he saw it.

"M'okay," he protested, trying and failing to gather limbs beneath him and push up. Maybe because Dean's hand was pressed against his chest, keeping him flat.

"Yeah, sure you are," Dean said lightly, but there was something hovering behind, beneath that tone and those eyes, something Sam knew he should be looking for but couldn't seem to focus enough to find. "How many fingers, Sammy?"

He blinked. "Three." His vibrating vocal cords seemed to rattle his skull, and Sam pressed his eyes shut with a groan.

"You'll be okay," Dean said more firmly this time, but his hands were oh so gentle and not the Dean of late as they turned Sam on his side, tied something around his head, then gathered and propped him on his shaky feet. When a shoulder buttressed Sam's own and an arm carefully wound around his waist, Sam's eyes grew watery, and he pretended it was just from the bruises and aches flaring to life along his back. He dropped his throbbing head on his brother's shoulder and let himself be guided out of the house that wasn't theirs.

The Impala wasn't a bad substitute, actually, and Sam sank into the familiar vinyl seats with gratitude. The irony of thankfulness now didn't escape him, not when Dean eased him in on his side so there wouldn't be pressure on his back, or when a blanket was wrapped around him. Dean's door squeaked as he got in on the other side, and then rough fingers rested on his cheek and the underside of his jaw for a second before the car started. Dean turned the music down and Sam dozed.

Things got blurrier after that. Dean found them a room somewhere, which Sam only realized when he was being lowered onto a bed. No two motel rooms ever smelled the same, and this one carried faint traces of cigarette smoke and detergent and, oddly, lilac, as Sam crushed his face into the pillow.

Dean undressed him like he was five, and Sam couldn't seem to care, his head hurting enough to eclipse any shame. Fingers prodding the skin around his spine did make him hiss and arch away, let alone when something very cold suddenly settled against the small of his back, but Dean's arm went around him to hold him in place and patted his chest until the worst was over. Sam swallowed and muttered a half-hearted curse that earned him an honest-to-goodness Dean Winchester laugh.

It made him want to see Dean, and Sam pried his eyes open to watch his brother as Dean inspected Sam's aching body. The intensity that had been given to grief and pain and anger those last few weeks was turned to tenderness now, and Sam somehow couldn't regret the cost to himself. This was the Dean he knew, mostly absent those last few weeks but still there under torn and battered shields. Broken but not gone.

"I'm glad you're here, Dean," he murmured, and saw the shock in hazel eyes before his own slid shut again.

He fell asleep to the small movements of care as Dean slid up beside him, hip pressed against Sam's shoulder, and gently started cleaning the blood from his hair.

00000

He thought he woke a few times, to different degrees of light and sound. Dean was always there, pressing water and pills on him, asking him to move his arms or legs or recite his name and age, palm flat and warm on Sam's stomach when nausea crept up on him. Then he'd coax Sam back to sleep. It didn't take much. His body craved it as if making up for lost opportunities.

Sam was even less certain what day it was when he finally emerged on the other side of feeling more human, squinting at the grey light outside the window. Then turning his head to see Dean sitting against the headboard of the other bed, legs stretched out in front of him and a paperback in his hands.

"Carrie again?" he mumbled.

Dean's mouth pulled up. "Can't beat the classics." He tossed the book on the bed next to him and swung his legs over the side of the mattress, giving Sam a hard look. "Feel better?"

Sam worked his jaw a minute, tensing and untensing his body. "Yeah, actually," he said with a little surprise. Apparently, he'd slept through the worst of the bruising. "My bladder's about to explode, but…"

"Dude, too much sharing." But Dean was already leaning forward, his grip solid as Sam pushed himself up and sagged down on the edge of the bed. "You need any help…?"

A shake of the head proved unwise—"better" was not "healed"—and Sam just pushed himself up, finding his balance after a moment of dizziness, and lurched on toward the door he assumed to be the bathroom. "How long've we been here?"

"Almost three days."

The casual answer pulled him up short. Three days? Sam turned his whole body, his back not up to twisting around, to raise an eyebrow at Dean.

His brother just shrugged. "Guess you needed the rest."

Huh. Sam turned again to the bathroom. He really had slept through the worst of the pain. Although, if the coolness of menthol along his back was any sign, Dean had done his best to help the recovery along.

Sam decided on a shower while he was in there, albeit a short one. His stomach was empty, his blood sugar probably in the basement, and his head still hurt, all conspiring to occasionally send the room spinning and Sam listing into the tiled wall. After a few minutes, Dean started pounding on the door, telling him in no uncertain terms to get back out there. Sam smiled wanly at the mirror as he toweled off, knowing worry when he heard it, even in four-letter words.

Dean had left him sweats and a t-shirt on the closed toilet seat, downtime clothing. Apparently, they were staying there a day or two longer until Sam wasn't swaying on his feet. He was grateful for that, even if the showerhead was a foot too small for him and all the trim in both rooms was a bright red that reminded him of fresh blood. Sam dressed, then opened the door to lean against the jamb, summoning the energy to cross the room back to bed.

An arm slipped under his. "Come on, tough guy." Dean had been waiting, and provided the strength for him. One of these days, Sam's pride would return with his energy, but considering a few weeks before Dean had been weak as a newborn and allowing only Sam near him to help, he didn't feel too badly about a return of the favor. As if they'd ever kept track or used it against each other.

Sam didn't see the spread on Dean's bed until they were nearly at his own, and his stomach gave a ridiculously loud growl at the smell of food. Dean's shoulders jerked in amusement.

Sam glared down at him, his pride grateful he could still do that. "Shut up. You try going three days without food."

"Hey, that's probably all that's wrong with you. I'd be getting up close and personal with the carpet, too." Neither of them needed to comment on Sam's wince as Dean sat him down on his bed, or the stitches he could feel pulling at the back of his scalp.

He eased himself very slowly back against the headboard, and the pillows Dean hastily piled behind him. "So, what's on the menu?"

Dean, oddly enough, seemed to grow a little subdued. Hesitant, Sam would have called it, if his brother even had such a setting. But there was definitely some uncertainty there, half-glances at Sam, as Dean gathered items and laid them out in Sam's lap without meeting his eyes.

"Turkey sandwiches—I think they're still good." The plastic wrapped bundles were joined by a can. "The gravy's cold but I can stick it in the microwave in the main office. Figured it would be good for dipping the sandwiches in." A white bag. "Cranberry muffins." A box, the store's seal unbroken. "And pumpkin pie. No whipped cream, Sammy, sorry."

Sam stared at the food, then up at his brother, puzzled. "Are you serious? So, what, thanksgiving on a budget?"

Dean flushed, reached out to take it back. "Forget it, never mind. I'll go get you some pancakes or something."

He realized his mistake, the miscommunication. "No, Dean, I…" Sam grabbed his brother's wrist, and could feel Dean's whole body tense through the contact. Sam gentled. "No, it's great, man, really. I wouldn't want it any other way." And he meant it, preferring this mini-mart, motel-bed feast to any Norman Rockwell scene. "I just…I don't get it. Three days ago you didn't even want to hear about Thanksgiving. What changed?"

Dean was completely still until Sam let him go, then he began unwrapping sandwiches. It was as obvious a stall as Sam had ever seen, but if it gave his brother time to say things his way, Sam could wait.

Then again, looking down at their Winchester-style holiday, Sam reflected that Dean had already said things his way.

The answer when it came, therefore, quiet and accompanied by a defiant glare as if daring Sam to make something of it, wasn't a surprise. "Yeah, well, maybe I found something to be thankful for, okay?"

And Sam was melting inside, loving this guy beside him so much it hurt. Too much to make Dean any more uncomfortable than he already was, heart bared in a simple convenience store meal. So Sam grinned instead, careful not to let it or his voice waver. "No whipped cream, huh? Falling down on the job, dude."

Dean relaxed, throwing him a silently grateful look. "You go find whipped cream out here in the middle of nowhere. You're lucky you got this much, turkey boy."

"'Turkey boy'?" Sam laughed. "Did you stay up late thinking that one up?"

Dean growled at him. But he stayed there next to Sam, and he was smiling.

And if that wasn't something to be thankful for, Sam didn't know what was.

The End