Author's Note: Happy December 1st! Today is the LAST DAY TO SUBMIT PROMPTS! Tomorrow, requests will be closed so if you have one, please submit now. This story will now be updated daily! I hope you guys enjoy having a month full of hurt Sam! I know I love to write them.

Today's prompt comes from, CBloom2 who requested, "I was thinking about maybe Sam getting caught in a freak snow storm while out buying a present for Dean. He makes it back to the motel where Dean has to warm him up and so spends a sleepless night caring for his brother, then Sam is OK next day and makes Dean a tasty Christmas dinner while Dean gets some rest." Sounds perfect to me! One frozen Winchester coming up. Set early season 2. Please enjoy!

"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas

With every Christmas card I write

May your days be merry and bright

And may all your Christmases be white."

—Michael Bublé

Dean is never letting Sam go anywhere alone ever again.

Yes, Sam can take care of himself, but trouble seems to follow the kid around. As a child, he was always being picked on. As a teenager, he was awkward and full of angst and as a young adult, he had suffered through more heartbreak then Dean could comprehend. He should've known that something would go wrong if he let Sam walk out the door and lo and behold, the other shoe had dropped.

Sam was out—by himself with no cellphone service—in the middle of a freakin' snowstorm. Only his baby brother could get caught out in a sudden snowstorm that none of the newscasts Dean's put on—four of them and counting—knew were coming.

Especially considering the circumstances that had caused Sam to leave.

Why won't you tell me about Dad? Dean, whatever he said to you, you can tell me!

Drop it, Sam.

It's eating you alive, Dean, and I just can't watch you—

Just shut up, Sam!

"Dammit, Sammy." He ran a hand through his hair and sunk onto the bed, the mattress dipping somewhat. Truth was, it was Dean who fucked up, and it was Dean who practically pushed his brother out the door and into the storm. Sam had just kept pushing the whole "talk about your feelings about Dad" crap and Dean wasn't in the mood. Sam didn't know the burden he carried everyday, didn't understand that whenever he glanced at his baby brother, he worried that one day he would have to pull the trigger.

Save your brother or you will have to kill him.

"Fuck!" Dean roared, rising from the bed and tossing the television remote at the wall. It shattered, the batteries flying out and rolling onto the carpet. "Who the hell tells their kid that?"

Apparently, the fearless John Winchester did.

What did that even mean, save Sam or kill him? Save him from what? Who was after him? Who was going to try and hurt his brother? It wasn't right, wasn't fair. He had all of this on his shoulders and he couldn't tell Sam, couldn't risk his baby brother looking at him like he did that night he left for Stanford, hazel eyes full of distress and anger.

No, Dean needed to solve this on his own.

He could handle this.

The door flung open and Sam stumbled in, his lips nearly blue as silent words passed through chattering teeth. Dean was there, rushing over and taking most of his baby brother's weight.

"Sammy?" He tugged his brother over to the bed and noticed the small box that his brother was clenching onto for dear life. He glanced at the familiar insignia the sharp reprimand faded away, replaced by a lump of emotion.

Sally Mae's Christmas pie.

Sam had remembered, Dean realized. His little brother—whose insistence on stopping in this little town made sense now, looking back on it—had recalled that one Christmas when they had both been young kids and John had left them for the night to finish a hunt. Sally Mae—they were renting a house next to her at the time; she was a truly kind, matronly woman—had given them this pie for Christmas and Dean had declared it to be his favorite. The pie was chocolate peppermint—it was heavenly.

"S'okay?" Sam stuttered and it took a few moments for Dean to comprehend that he was inquiring about the pie.

"Yeah," Dean mumbled incredulously. "It's fine."

"G-good." He shivered violently and the eldest Winchester sprung into action. He pulled off Sam's overcoat, damp from snow and tossed it aside. His little brother's boots came next and his socks. The rest of clothes weren't damp enough to warrant removing and Dean started to pile blankets on Sam's bed. "D-Dean?" Perplexed hazel eyes met his and the older brother sighed softly.

"Look, I'm sorry," He mumbled. "I shouldn't have snapped at you, okay? I didn't mean—" A cold hand squeezed it and Dean knew all had been forgiven. "Now, what do you say we get you warm?" Sam hummed his contentment and Dean began to pile blanket upon blanket on him, even stripping the ones from his bed to use. Sam's eyebrows went up at this, but Dean just shook his head. This was his penance, but beside the point, it was for Sam.

He'd do anything for Sam.

Turning up the heater, he watched his little brother valiantly try to fight his impending drowsiness and he chuckled. Leave it to Sam to be stubborn even though he had been through hell tonight. Ruffling his brother's hair, he grinned.

"Get some sleep, dude. I'm not going anywhere."

And, for once, Sam obeyed.

Dean didn't sleep that night.

He only allowed himself to get some rest after making sure Sam hadn't contracted a fever from his excursion out in the storm which, fun fact, ended as quickly as it came. Even then, he slept only a half and hour at time, waking up to check his brother's vitals and see that he was doing okay with the heat. Luckily, Sam was well dressed when he left and aside from the shock of being so cold, his little brother was okay.

He finally let down his guard at Sam's insistence the next morning.

"I'm okay, Dean," Sam swore. "Get some sleep, okay? I'll be right here."

So, Dean did—not because he was tired, but because he was indulging Sam—and the next thing he knew, sunset had arrived. He opened his eyes, blinked a few times and then sat up quickly.

"Sammy?"

"I'm here." He was at the table and it was then that Dean noticed it. The pie was out on full display, along with what looked like pot roast. It appeared that Sam had been busy while Dean had been asleep.

"You make this?" He gestured down to the food and Sam chuckled softly.

"I had some help—"

"Who—?"

"Sorry. Trade secret."

"C'mon, Sam—"

"Just eat." Sam directed and his brother didn't need any other incentive. The food smelled delicious and he was halfway through his dinner when he noticed that Sam had barely picked at his. "Sam? Something wrong?" His brother shook his head and Dean waited.

"Just . . ." His eyes met his. "Merry Christmas, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean grinned. "Merry Christmas."

And even though Sam didn't know the truth about their father's last words, Dean felt like the burden got a little bit lighter that night.

Author's Note: Last minute requests, go! See you tomorrow for another chapter!