Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. Sadly, I do not own any of these guys.
A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone! I'm sorry for waiting until almost Christmas Day to post this, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. I don't do many Stanford-era fics, so hopefully this turned out alright. :)
"Sam, are you sure you don't want to come to my parents' place for Christmas?" Sam's roommate Brady asked as he forced the last of his dirty laundry into a mesh bag that was already full to bursting. He already had his other travel bags packed and laid out on his bed – thanks in large part to Sam, who was such an old pro at packing that he'd managed to get all of his roommate's toiletries and clothes folded and stored almost before he'd finished deciding what to bring.
It was just after sunset on December 23, 2001, and although most of the other students had already gone home for their winter break the week before, Brady had stayed longer to finish up some paperwork for the multiple honor societies and clubs he was applying for next semester. Sam, of course, stayed because he had nowhere else to go.
"My mom already said she'd be willing to let you stay in the guest room until we head back to school, and we have enough travel miles on our cards to get your plane tickets for free."
Sam shook his head, yawning as he stretched lazily across the barely-long enough twin bed on his side of the room.
"Thanks, man, I mean it. But I have to work all day tomorrow and Christmas Day, and Sal probably won't be able to find anyone to fill in for me on such short notice."
That was only part of the reason he wasn't going, though. Sam really had been working long hours at an on-campus coffee-house all semester to help supplement his meal plan, and his boss really would have trouble replacing him if he left less than a day before his shift was supposed to start. But the other reason – one he didn't plan on telling Brady – was that he didn't feel at all comfortable with the idea of being in a "normal" family's house with them at Christmastime.
He knew his father and brother would probably be hunting on Christmas Eve, just as they always had. And somehow, the idea of knowing that his family was out in the cold risking their lives while he sat down for an over-priced holiday dinner and opened presents in front of a warm fireplace with his friends just felt wrong.
Brady sighed and nodded, finally seeming to realize it was a lost cause. "Alright, alright. Just don't say I didn't offer when you're cold and lonely here by yourself."
Sam responded by picking up a stray shirt on the floor by his bed, tossing it at Brady's head and chuckling when it made him lose his concentration and half of the laundry bag's contents tumbled out onto the floor again.
"Aww, thanks a lot you douchebag," he growled in mock-anger, stooping down to retrieve the clothes yet again.
Sam grinned devilishly. "You're welcome."
It didn't take too much longer for Brady to get the last of the laundry packed, and Sam helped him get his bags to the elevator that would take him down to the first floor. As they waited for the elevator to reach the fifth floor where their room was, Brady turned to Sam and gave him a quick hug, patting him on the back and then pulling away just as the doors opened beside them.
"You sure you don't want to come, Sam?"
"Nah. Go have a fun Christmas, man."
Brady nodded. "Alright. I'll see you in 2002, Sam."
"See ya."
A few seconds later his roommate was gone, and Sam sighed and made his way back to their dorm room, locking the door behind him and settling down on the foot of his bed so he could watch some TV. After a while, though, it became clear that the only things on were Christmas movies and infomercials, neither of which interested him in the slightest; the last time he'd watched any Christmas movies had been with his brother the year before, and he had no interest in stirring up those memories right now.
He glanced at the phone on his bedside table.
It had been months since he'd last spoken to Dean – almost eight, in fact. And although he really wanted to call him now, wish him a merry Christmas and make sure he was okay and tell him to stay warm, he knew he couldn't. After all, their dad had been pretty clear about Sam never coming back if he left for college. And Dean had stood right there and not said a word; obviously he'd felt the same. Why would his older brother want to hear from the person who had abandoned him, the one who was warm and safe in his room with his friends and working a steady job while Dean suffered alone in the snow trying to keep people safe?
No, Dean probably wouldn't want to hear from him. The thought suddenly made his whole body feel a lot heavier.
After deciding there wasn't really much he wanted to do and knowing he had to be up early for work anyway, Sam burrowed under the covers and turned off the light, hoping that by tomorrow the gnawing ache in his chest would have disappeared.
Business at the coffee house was as slow as cold molasses the next day. There were a few customers between nine and ten in the morning, mostly kids who had traveled to the U.S. from India or China to attend college and couldn't afford to fly home for Christmas, but otherwise it was pretty much dead. That left Sam with a lot of free time, which he tried to fill by cleaning, sweeping under tables, organizing and restocking the shelves, and eventually just doing crossword puzzles in the newspaper. Once, he even tried calling Dean, but his phone dropped the call as soon as he tried. Of course.
Even with all of that, though, it was still a long, boring morning, and by three o'clock that afternoon he was ready to pull the radio speakers out of the wall so he wouldn't have to hear "I'll Be Home for Christmas" or "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" one more time. The skies had also darkened and clouded over, a light snow falling and dusting the roofs and streets so it looked like they were sprinkled with powdered sugar. It was like everything was suddenly out to remind him of the fact that he had no home to go to for Christmas, and no family to celebrate it with. And honestly, it was really starting to bring him down.
By three-thirty Sal decided to close up shop, seeing as they hadn't had a single customer in hours and he had his own family at home to spend Christmas Eve with. He walked Sam out and gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder, waiting for the younger man to shrug into his coat for the walk back across the campus to his dorm.
"Have a merry Christmas, Sam," he said, turning the key in the deadbolt and tugging on the front door to make sure it was securely locked.
"You too, Sal."
The two parted ways, and Sam headed back to his room alone. There wasn't a single other person to be seen on the sidewalks; everyone else was already gone, home with their families or gathered with their friends in their dorm rooms to celebrate Christmas Eve. Even the parking lots looked deserted, only the odd car breaking up the flat whiteness here and there. By the time he made it back to the fifth floor of his building and unlocked the door, Sam was pretty sure this was the lowest he'd felt since he'd come to this school.
He took a quick shower, only taking enough time to cleanse himself of the sweat and grime that came with working around steam and food all day, and then settled down on his bed to watch "A Christmas Story" on twenty-four hour replay. It was a classic, one he and Dean had watched every Christmas as long as they lived together, and it brought up a lot of bittersweet memories.
The most vivid, and the funniest by far, was the Christmas when he was five and tried to go outside and lick the Impala's passenger door while Dad was out and Dean was busy; he'd seen it in the movie and thought it looked fun. Needless to say, he'd ended up having about as much fun as the kid in the movie who licked the frozen telephone pole, and he got just as stuck.
But Dean had soon heard his cries of distress and hurriedly heated up some water to help pry him loose, being a lot more careful not to cause him pain than any other nine-year-old would have. And then Dean had even gone out and gotten him his favorite flavor of ice cream to help numb the pain in his tongue, a treat Sam always begged for but they rarely had enough money to buy. All in all, it had been a great Christmas, and it was still one of his favorite memories of his family.
Feeling inspired by the joyful memory, he picked up his cell phone, quickly dialing his brother's number and waiting while it rang. But after only two rings, the dial tone stopped, and then to his dismay he heard: "The number you have reached is no longer in service. If you believe you have received this message in error, please try again."
Sam didn't realize he was crying until the first tear dripped onto the back of his hand, and then all of a sudden he couldn't seem to stop. He put his face in his hands, silently berating himself as the realization that he'd essentially shut Dean out of his life as well as John hit him full force. He had no doubt he'd hurt his brother when he left for Stanford, but he hadn't been able to let himself care at the time; all that mattered was getting away from the hunting life. But then he'd never gotten back in touch with him, never written or called or even texted, and now Dean probably thought he'd never wanted to. He probably thought Sam didn't even care about him, to the point that he hadn't even bothered sending him his new number when he changed it. What had happened to them?
"Oh, God, I'm such an idiot," Sam groaned. "What the hell did I do?"
He was brought out of his panicked thoughts by a sharp knock at the door, and he hurriedly wiped his eyes and strode over to the other side of the room, hoping he didn't look as pathetic as he thought he might. Once he opened it, he saw his floor's RA, Mike, standing outside, holding a large package in his arms and smiling from beneath a gigantic Santa hat.
"Hey, Sam," he greeted, waving and almost dropping the box before he adjusted his grip on it. "I've got some mail for you."
"Oh. Uh, thanks," Sam said quietly, not sure who it was from since he hadn't ordered anything.
"Any time," the guy said once he'd handed it off to Sam. "It's actually been sitting there for a week, but the guy who gave it to me told me I wasn't allowed to deliver it until tonight."
Sam's eyes widened. "What guy?" His heart was racing, and he knew it was foolish to hope, but –
"Eh, he was about six-foot-two, short brown hair, leather jacket – probably a couple years older than you. Drove a big black muscle car, too. It was beautiful."
That was all Sam needed to hear. He barely waited for Mike to leave before slamming the door shut, taking the box over to the bed and tearing through the tape like the box had a self-destructing timer. And what he saw when he looked inside almost made him start crying all over again.
At the very top was a brand-new Stanford University hoodie, which he immediately loved after it turned out to be exactly the right size for him. He had always preferred wearing hoodies over coats or jackets, and he'd wanted one from Stanford ever since it started getting cold, but official university merchandise was expensive. Besides, his scholarship only paid for tuition and his dorm, and he barely made enough money working part-time to pay for food, let alone luxuries.
Underneath the hoodie were three T-shirts: one was a pale blue with a whippet-looking dog on it, another was blue-gray with an abstract-looking pattern of ravens and Celtic symbols, and the last was red-and-black striped. All of them, again, were a perfect fit. Next to the shirts there was a tiny envelope, which turned out to contain one-hundred dollars in cash and a fifty-dollar gift certificate to "The Axe and Palm," an on-campus burger joint that he rarely visited but had heard from others was amazing.
Last but not least, there was a small note at the very bottom of the box, almost invisible amongst all the other items. It wasn't very long, but it said more than a ten-minute speech ever could:
Heya, Sam.
Sorry I missed you when I dropped by. The RA said you were in class and I didn't want to barge in and get you in trouble with your professors. I hope you like everything, and that it all fits okay.
The cash is for whatever you want to spend it on. More hoodies, books, a date with a girl, whatever.
But the gift certificate is FOR BURGERS ONLY. If I hear you went and got a bunch of salad with it I'll kick your ass. Can't have you forgetting what meat tastes like just 'cause you're in California.
Anyway, sorry again for missing you. If you get time and you feel like dropping me a line once in a while, here's my new number (werewolf broke my last phone): 1-866-907-3235.
Have a merry Christmas, Sammy.
Your incredibly awesome big brother,
Dean
Sam folded up the note and put it on his bedside table, grinning from ear to ear as he hung the shirts up in his closet and put the money and gift certificate in his wallet for later. It was such a relief to know that Dean didn't have a grudge against him that he hardly knew how to react. For having started off so miserably at first, this had turned out to be a much better day than he had thought possible.
And he was definitely going to be able to put this new hoodie to good use tomorrow, because the first thing he was going to do was go get himself a big, juicy burger at The Axe and Palm.
That is, right after he called his brother.