Author's Note: Happy Holidays and welcome to the 7th Annual 25 Days of Hurt Sam. Can you believe it's been seven years? I know I'm a bit late this year, but I hope to bring you all some wonderful hurt Sam goodness with a holiday flair. So, how does this work, you ask? Let me break it down.

You can send me prompts for holiday themed hurt Sam stories. Key word is on holiday though. Your prompt MUST have something to do with the holiday season. If it doesn't, I won't do it.

Your prompt must be sent in via a review. You can make the prompt as detailed as you want or just send in a word. The choice is yours.

Sam must feature in this story, but feel free to specify other characters. Also, please specify the season or general timeframe.

NO M-RATED PROMPTS. No rape, no extreme violence or torture, etc.

I'm a gen author so I don't do slash or stuff along those lines so don't request it.

Prompts are fulfilled on a first come, first serve basis. To make sure I can fulfil as many prompts as I can, ONLY SEND ONE PROMPT IN PLEASE.

Since the last go-round of these stories, I've gotten a new job and life in general has been pretty hectic, so I'm going to commit to do doing five prompts at a time. If I finish those five, I will take on the next five and so on. The goal is for me to have 25 this year (I really want to carve out the time to write for that!) so I hope you'll all cheer me on. Without further ado, here's Christmas at Stanford!

"They say that things just cannot grow

Beneath the winter snow,

Or so I have been told."

—Sara Bareilles & Ingrid Michaelson, "Winter Song"

Here's the thing about Christmastime in California—while it may not snow, you can feel just as cold as if you were standing in a mountainside in Alaska. Case in point, Sam Winchester, as he watches his roommate pack and up and head home for Christmas break, beaming and rambling about his family and their many holiday traditions.

"You sure you don't wanna come with me? Mom wouldn't mind."

Sam refuses, shaking his head, thanking Brady for the offer. It's his first Christmas truly on his own. He needs to take his time to process this, to realize that Dean isn't going to give him stolen presents wrapped in newspaper. No, this Christmas, Dean is miles away, ignoring Sam's calls, still furious over the choice that he made to walk out that door almost three months ago.

It had been an ultimatum, one that Sam knew Dean wished had a different outcome.

But here he is, standing in a quiet dorm room, by himself, with Christmas days away.

So, what do you when you're a scholarship kid, forced out of the dorms with nowhere to go?

For Sam, it's simple, you hide out in a motel room with the last of the money you saved from various side jobs before you left your family. It's odd to be in a motel room again. It's too quiet, too surreal and any second, he expects Dean to walk in, a smirk tugging on his older brother's lips.

But Dean isn't coming.

Sam is alone.

But Sam won't wallow. He won't let the grief consume him. He chose this life and Dean chose to oppose his choice. His older brother couldn't have possibly been surprised—Sam made it clear how important school was to him—but Sam supposes it was the betrayal of it all that stung. For Dean, Sam chose school over his family.

And for Dean, family always came first.

That night, Sam went against everything Dean stood for. He had stood up to their father, defended himself and dug in his heels. While Sam had shouted at their father, Dean had frozen, remaining silent, his eyes wide and panicked.

If you walk out that door, don't you dare come back!

There's no point dwelling in the past. Sam had made his choice.

He turns on the crappy motel TV, hoping the faint sounds of Christmas music will distract him.

Of course, Sam gets sick on day two of break.

It's the damn flu that had been going around—a combination of tired students facing down finals and the biting cold snap that had swept into the area. Sam isn't really surprised by the 101 degree temperature staring back at him on the thermometer. He manages to get sick after finals like clockwork and he's ridden out illnesses before in motel rooms.

He's just never really done it alone before.

But, after a quick trip to the local store, he returns armed with Tylenol and cough syrup and prepares to ride out the storm.

He doesn't expect it to be so rough.

Constantly turning, sweat rolling down his forehead—or are those tears?—and every nerve in his body feels like it's constantly poked by needles. He's taken way too much medicine and his fever keeps rising, almost mocking him. The room spins around him and the cough wracks his body, his ribs feel like they're grinding against each other and he wonders—

"Dean?"

—how did he ever think that leaving his family for school was a good idea?

He never should've gone to Stanford.

He misses his brother.

Cool touches, soft voices.

He floats in a void, the pain blissfully numb, the heat simmering rather than outright burning.

I'm here, Sammy.

Peace.

Calm.

Safety.

"Mr. Winchester?"

He blinks at the matronly nurse before him. She wears a pair of reindeer antlers on her pinned back chestnut hair and they jingle as she bustles about the room, taking his vitals.

"Where?" His mouth is dry, and his tongue feels like sandpaper. His chest aches, like someone has sat on it for days.

The woman smiles softly, "You're at Stanford General in the ICU. You gave your brother quite a scare, young man."

It takes him two seconds too long to comprehend, "My brother—?"

"Hey, Sammy."

It's not a vision of a fever dream that greets him. It's truly Dean, leaning on the doorway, dark circles under his eyes, five o'clock shadow stubble on his chin.

The nurse grins, "I'll be back to check on you in a bit," She moves to the doorway and stops suddenly, "Oh, and Merry Christmas." With that, she scurries out.

Dean's gaze pierces his, his brother always has had an uncanny ability to read Sam's face like a book, to figure out all the secrets that the youngest Winchester did his best to conceal.

"Dean."

Dean crosses the distance between them, taking a seat in the well-worn chair by his bedside. It's been three months since Sam last saw those emerald eyes and heard that warm voice. He hadn't realized, until now, just how much he missed his big brother.

"You've always had a flair for the dramatic, Sammy," Dean smiles, his eyes misting, "I come to surprise you for Christmas and find you burning up of a fever on your own."

So, Dean had found him.

Dean always finds him.

"You were coming to see me?"

Dean runs a hand through his hair, grimacing somewhat, "Three months was . . ."

"Too long," Sam completes softly, "Dean, I'm—"

"Don't apologize. I get it. Stanford is your thing. And fuck, I should've been proud of you. My big brained, nerdy brother got a full ride to one of the best universities around," Dean huffs out a dry laugh, "You're smart. You were smart to leave. I just didn't see it."

Silence. The steady beeping of the heart monitor echoes in the small room.

"I missed you." Sam confesses and later, he'll blame this on the aftereffects of the medicine, but he grabs his brother's calloused hand in his and squeezes it, grounding himself.

Dean smirks, "No chick flick moments, dude," But he doesn't let go of his hand. Then, softly, "I missed you too."

And as Christmas music plays around them, Sam realizes that his brother is the greatest Christmas present of all.

Author's Note: Looking forward to writing more stories for you guys!