Christmas 1983
The baby wails, an angry squall crashing against the burdened silence of the Kansas hotel room. John Winchester struggles against waking. Sleep is the last thread of hope he has and it coils and strains against the reality of his loss. He longs for the shift of the couch cushions when Mary sat beside him and the smell of her skin mixed with the snapping cold of a fall afternoon.
"Shush, Sammy, Daddy's tired." The only gift he receives is his older son's quiet consolations. John curls toward unconsciousness and Mary, ashamed but unable to rise.
Christmas 1993
Wind begs and moans against the windows and door of the hotel room, slipping frigid tendrils through cracks in the cheap vinyl siding. Sammy is fevered and flushed. Dean stirs a can of chicken noodle soup on the hot plate; tears prick and threaten when he hears Sammy moan and sprint for the bathroom.
"I miss you mom." He whispers to the peeling olive wallpaper flocked with golden laurel leaves.
Christmas 2003
"Do you miss them?" Sam's fingers shake like an old man's bones. Jess never asks, but snuggled against his side, Jimmy Stewart begging the angel, the universe to return him to his family, she wants to know.
"Sometimes." The ghost of Dean's hands card through Sam's wavy chestnut hair, soothe his fevered forehead. A dust devil of regret whirls across abandon cross-roads in his mind peppering his eyes with memories he buried in shallow graves. He left to spare Dean the sickness he carried, the insurmountable desire that threatened to crush them both with its insatiable need.
Christmas 2009
Sam's lips meander across Dean's collar bone, hungry nips followed by the white heat of Sammy's tongue. Dean moans, thrusting his hardness toward Sam, hands gripping shoulders, heels grinding into the hotel sheets begging for purchase.
"Sammy, love you." He aches for release. Sam's mouth ceases its teasing explorations and moves to engulf his silken steel to the root. Fingers dig into Dean's ass, drawing him deeper, pulling and suckling at his cock until Dean's orgasm causes his body to shiver and buck.
"Merry Christmas, Dean." Sam cups Dean's chin, brushes the single tear from Dean's cheek, and stares into his lover's eyes to gaze at the only home he has ever wanted.
Christmas 2053
The chill of the Vermont winter is steeped in Dean's bones and he hastens the gathering of fire wood, anticipating the delicious warmth of the cast iron wood stove. Sam watches his lover through the kitchen window, spider webs of frost framing Dean as he stoops gingerly to retrieve some kindling.
Dean stomps the snow from his boots and throws open the door. "Stop you grinnin' and drop your linen, Sammy, it's time to open some presents!" Sam turns to watch his brother fill the wood chest and feels the familiar tug of want stir in his gut. Fifty years and Dean still manages to cause his breath to hitch in his chest with desire.
"You never get tired of that one, do you old man?"
"Nope."
"At least you can still get wood, huh?" Sam chuckles, turning back to the sink to rinse their breakfast dishes.
Sam feels Dean's lips, still cold from his trip to the wood pile, brush against the nape of his neck. "Who are you calling old, grandpa?" Dean's hands, wrinkled and calloused with age, slide inside Sam's robe and pull him tight against his body.
They stand together and watch a Christmas snow fall across the frozen lake, the only sound their quickening breaths, the soft rustle of Sam's robe as Dean slips it from Sam's shoulders and it falls to the floor, and the shift of wood as it burns and settles in the stove.
END