"Well ain't you two just the picture of domesticity," said Bobby, stomping to clear snow from his boots and tossing his cap on the faded avocado folding table that sat between the door and the kitchen. A blast of cold air entered with him. "Wood fire, wool blankets, hot chocolate... monkey suits. You plannin' to cuddle yer badges, too?"

Dean straightened his tie. "We prefer to be well-dressed for our cosmopolitan après-swim visits to the vacation house, yes."

Sam grinned. "It adds ambiance. Also, most everything else is at the bottom of the lake with a Chara and some poor guy's boat."

"Caint you boys handle a simple monster drowning without bringing the game warden down on your asses?" asked Bobby.

"Apparently not," said Sam.

"Seems we should've had a Chara tag," said Dean. "Guy's big on catch and release."

"Well, seein' as he applied that philosophy to you two idjits, I suppose I approve. What's that abomination on your head, Dean?"

"Oh, my expert field-bandage?" asked Dean, raising his eyebrows. "I was a little busy operating on my brother."

Bobby sighed. "Sit down, I'll look at 'cha." Pulling away the paper towels, Bobby grumbled. "Bloody mess."

"Does he need stapling?" asked Sam.

"What in the hell?" asked Bobby. "Stapling?"

"Yeah, uh, Dean found a surgical stapler in the first aid kit and used it to put my shoulder back together," said Sam.

"Good times," said Dean. "Good, old, wholesome, bloody, fun."

"Speak for yourself," said Sam.

"You boys got some odd notions of fun," said Bobby, wetting gauze with the iodine solution and dabbing at the back of Dean's neck. "Hand me the damn stapler. This is a nasty cut."

Sam passed it to him, wincing. The idea hadn't seemed bad at all when it was him, but the idea of watching it done to Dean made him shy away.

Bobby pinched the two sides of the cut together and positioned the stapler while Sam watched through half-closed eyes. Dean yelped when the staple shot into his skin, and Bobby grabbed the hair on the back of his head to steady him.

"Hold still and stop actin' like a girl," said Bobby, affection in his voice betraying the hard words.

"Sam didn't act like it hurt! It hurts!" Dean complained, wincing.

"Could've let me do it," said Sam. "Since it's so fun."

"Shut up." Dean closed his eyes and held still, keeping his jaw set and his breathing deliberate, only flinching once while Bobby finished closing the cut.

"Done," said Bobby. "That thing's kinda handy."

Dean just sat there with his head bowed, like he was accepting some sort of punishment, that frighteningly stoic expression on his face. Not joking, not acting tough. It concerned Sam, and he nudged Dean when Bobby went out get things from the truck.

"You okay?" asked Sam, keeping his voice low.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Jus' don't like seeing you hurting, I guess," said Sam.

Truth was, Dean's cracks were showing this evening. He'd been too scared out on the water, given up too easy until he'd realized Sam needed to be saved. Been too guilt-ridden while treating Sam, reacted too oddly to Bobby just then. He was too fixated on the slight pain from that stapler, which was nothing more than a sharp pinch.

Sam wished he'd insisted on checking Dean's injury before Bobby got there, so whatever this was, Dean could go through it in private.

"Feels like I crossed a line, Sam." Dean's voice wavered and cracked despite himself. "I sliced into your back with a friggin' hunting knife and put metal staples in your skin and you acted like it was nothing! It hurt! I sat there like it was nothing, like a pure psychopath, and operated on you without anesthesia. Damn it, I could've been at least a little more-"

"Worried?" asked Sam. "You know what I felt? I felt safe, and protected, and cared for. And don't lie to either of us about being some psycho. I felt every bit of how much doing that bothered you. Just the way it bothered me watching Bobby do that. You didn't hurt me, a chunk of some guy's boat did."

Dean wouldn't look at him, but the relief on his face was plain. "You really felt safe? You weren't afraid of what I'd do with that blade? You weren't seeing Lucifer when I cut into your fuckin' skin?"

"I wasn't afraid, Dean," Sam reassured him. "Not for one second. I never will be. Not of you. I'm scared for you. I'm afraid you'll start thinking you're a monster, and you'll think you deserve to be punished or even die, and you'll just throw yourself on the nearest sword and call it saving the world instead of self-flagellation or giving up. You're just human. You're so fucking human. You're good, Dean. I believe in you."

"How can that be? Things I've done..."

"I've seen you with vulnerable people," said Sam. "Seen you gentle and kind. In our life - we're fighting evil in ourselves as well as in the real world. I've done terrible things too, are you afraid of me?"

"No - I believe in you, Sammy. Like, a lot. I'd put my life in your hands any day of the week."

"Then trust that I feel the same," said Sam.

Dean's expression lightened when Bobby entered with bags in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

"Anyone around here need a little hunter's helper?" asked Bobby. "I know I sure as hell do."

"I love you, Bobby," said Dean, grinning and jumping to his feet.

"You're s'pposed to say that after you get plastered, not before," said Bobby, plunking the bottle down on the table and setting the bags on the couch.

"Rules aren't for me, Bobby. I'm a renegade," said Dean.

"Yeah, yeah. Go fetch the glasses, Renegade."

Dean went over to the cupboard while Sam helped unpack the bags. Thermal long underwear, with a foil bow stuck on each pair. Meatloaf. Baked potatoes. A big container of chicken noodle soup. Clean dry socks. Pie.

Sam grinned. "Merry Christmas Eve, Dean! He brought pie!"

"Man's my hero!" said Dean, slamming glasses down on the table.

"First booze, then dinner, then dessert," said Bobby firmly.

"Brrr," said Dean, clasping his upper arms with a theatrical shiver. "I'm getting Titanic flashbacks."

"Okay, okay, Kate," said Sam. He wiped six inches of accumulated snow off the trunk, popped it open to get at the wrapped presents within, and looked up at the falling snowflakes. "Kinda pretty, though."

Snow blanketed the ground and cushioned the limbs of trees. Large flakes drifted down from the sky soft and quiet, creating a landscape of muted twilight beauty. The cold was an unseen force urging them back to the cabin and the warm light beckoning from within.

"Yeah." Dean shuffled his feet. "You good?"

"It's Christmas Eve, remember?" said Sam. "Just us, and Bobby. I'm not even tied to a chair getting my fingernails pulled out by pagan gods."

"Yeah, that was gruesome," admitted Dean. His head fell, and when he spoke again, his voice was faint. "And - it was the last Christmas before starting a nice little life sentence in hell..."

They were silent for a good minute, heads bowed against the snow. Hadn't celebrated Christmas since that day. Hadn't celebrated much, really.

"Ready to give this Christmas thing another shot?" asked Sam.

"Yeah - I'm looking forward to presents, don't get me wrong. I love presents. But being with you, both of us alive and mostly-sorta well, that's a gift. That's one hell of a gift, Sammy."

Sam hugged Dean tight. "You're one hell of a Christmas present too. This is a good night."

Dean returned the hug with fierce sincerity, snuggling his chin into the notch where Sam's neck and shoulder met and holding on for dear life. "It is."

"I have one request, giving you this," said Dean. "Don't you ever, ever, make me look through it for clues on how to find you because you've gone missing somewhere, or read it to look back on the good old days 'cause you're dead. Okay?"

"Okay," said Sam, baffled.

Dean tossed him a badly wrapped package covered in reindeer, and Sam tore the paper open to reveal a large, thick journal covered in dark brown leather embossed with warding symbols. Each symbol was meticulously painted in with silver and gold. It closed with a snap engraved with a devil's trap.

"Did the leather work myself," said Dean. "This old guy at the shop taught me how, it was pretty cool."

Sam looked at the first page, where Dean had written:

Sam,

Hunters keep journals, or so they seem to. You'd be good at it. I never wanted to because every journal I've ever looked through belonged to someone dead or missing. But they've saved us, and saved other people. Knowing our work was still out there helping people when we're gone would be kinda nice. So don't you dare leave me holding this and remembering you. We're gonna live, both of us, because we're never gonna give up. When it's time, we go together. If you ever, ever think about giving up or sacrificing yourself, read this, because this is me begging you not to.

Dean

Sam gulped and rubbed his face. He'd expected something irreverent and funny. Not something that'd make him almost want to cry.

"Thanks," whispered Sam. "I'll do my best. Jerk."

"You'd better. Bitch," said Dean, ruffling the hair on the back of Sam's head.

"Well-" Sam tossed Dean his present, wrapped in a muslin cloth he'd found in the bunker. He'd barely had time to have the thing custom-made, never mind tracking down wrapping paper. "We were on similar themes."

Dean untied the string holding it all together, and unfolded the cloth to reveal a leather shoulder holster. The saddle shop had made it of hand-tooled golden-brown leather, and looked like something the FBI might issue - if the FBI had been running around the old west with demons on its ass. It had traditional flourished tooling, like a saddle, but Sam had gotten the crafter to work in anti-possession sigils and other protective marks from lore far and wide.

Dean's grin was so all-encompassing, he looked like he was about to bounce up and down in glee. "This is so cool! It's like Clint Eastwood and John Wayne had a baby and it was a really hot FBI chick who knows Enochian!"

"So, you're saying it's gay?" asked Sam, raising his eyebrows and smiling.

"No. No. The union of Clint and John would be the manliest - well - not like - maybe it is, okay? But if it were, well - that'd be one cool kid."

"Wow," said Sam. "I knew you had a Western fetish, but I wasn't prepared for the depths-"

"Shut up! This thing is friggin awesome, don't ruin this for me with pedantry! Best Christmas ever, and I do mean ever."

Dean put the holster on over his white dress shirt, adjusted it, and folded his arms with his eyes narrowed in the most blissed-out smirk possible. "This is awesome."

Sam grinned. "Got a stick?"

"For what?" asked Dean.

"To beat the girls off with."

Dean struck a pose and waggled his eyebrows as an odd expression came over his face. "Wait - beat - girls off with? Oh, yeah, I got a 'stick' that can do that..."

"I don't want to hear about your 'stick', boy," growled Bobby.

Sam hid his face in his hands, shaking his head. "Welcome to Christmas with the Winchesters."

"Time for more whiskey," said Bobby.

"Speaking of which..." Dean stood and handed Bobby a box. "You should open this."

Bobby opened the lid, and his eyes widened. "Johnnie Walker Blue? What'd I do to deserve this?"

"Not really sure," said Dean. "I forgot. Musta saved our lives once or something little like that."

"Once? More like a dozen," said Bobby, a happy glow on his face. He kicked his feet up on a chair and tossed Dean a box wrapped in pink paper with birthday candles scattered on it.

Dean ripped it open without comment, and pulled out a bottle of Car Guys liquid wax, cleaner, and tire shine spray in shiny black plastic bottles with white lettering, along with a huge, soft chamois cloth.

Dean pounced on his toes. "These were made for her! It's like it's Christmas around here or something!"

Bobby tossed Sam another, far smaller pink package. "Dunno if it's mightier than a sword, I got my doubts on that score."

Sam tore the paper away to reveal a black cardboard box, which opened to display an ivory pen with a silver cap.

"It's a fountain pen," explained Bobby. "The barrel's made of horn, an' the cap's silver. Iron gall archival ink, just like what they used to write most of the old manuscripts."

Sam swallowed back a lump in his throat and rubbed his eyes. "Merry Christmas. It's a damn merry Christmas. Bobby - Dean - thank you. Thank you."

"Merry Christmas," said Bobby, hiding a grin and uncapping his gift.

Dean wrenched open the door, scooped up a handful of snow, and hurled it at Sam's uninjured shoulder. "Merry Christmas."