Author's Note: Hi there! Welcome to the 8th Annual 25 Days of Hurt Sam! We're doing something different this year. I will be taking prompts only from my A03 (Center_of_the_Galaxy) and my tumblr (centerofthegalaxywrites). Please go make your requests on either one of those two sites. Don't worry though, I will be cross-posting all the holiday hurt/comfort here as well!
"It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
I wish I had a river I could skate away on."
—James Taylor, "River"
Sam is eight when the though first pops into his head.
He knows that his family is different from others. He knows that his mother is dead and that he must never speak of her to their father. He understands that Christmas is a tiny, deformed tree that Dean got on the cheap and newspaper wrapped presents while their dad sleeps off his hangover. This is his normal, but deep down, his heart holds questions. His classmates never move as much as he does nor do they have Christmases celebrated with Charlie Brown Christmas trees.
"We're different," Dean tells his little brother with a soft smile, "This is just our life."
And maybe, when he thinks back on it, that's when things started to shift ever so slightly.
Sam is ten when he spends his first Christmas in the emergency room.
He has stiches in his stomach that burn whenever he tries to shift his body in his uncomfortable hospital bed. The thin, baby blue blanket, covers him, fraying at the edge. Through a medicated fog, he tries to remember how he even ended up here.
"You can cry," John tells him softly, a worn smirk on his lips, "You've got stiches."
Maybe Sam will when he wakes up tomorrow, but all he can process now is that he hurts and he wants his big brother to hold him.
"Where's Dean?"
John's lips thin into a tight line, his brow furrows, "Don't worry, Sammy. He's fine."
"I want him."
For a brief second, John's gaze darkens, but it vanishes as fast as it appears, "I know, kiddo. He'll be here."
And to his credit, Dean does get there the next morning, tired, slightly bruised, but still wearing a grin.
He's 14 when he spends Christmas Eve in the lair of a werewolf.
Tied up with garland, the werewolf—a woman with a jolly, light up Christmas sweater—prepares to eat him for her holiday dinner.
"It's nothing personal, dear," She calls out to him as she stares at him in the makeshift cell, "We all have to eat, don't we?"
Sam tries his best to break out, but the more he rubs, the more his wrists get raw and he winces as he feels the material cut into his skin. He's a hunter, trained for this situation, but fear consumes him. He wants to go home. He wants Christmas with his father and his brother and their deformed tree.
He doesn't want to die.
"Sammy!"
Gunshots ring out in the room and Sam shuts his eyes, waiting, hoping that this will end. The cell door clatters open and warm arms grab him, hands searching for injuries. He meets his brother's panicked gaze and slumps over, burying his face in the crook of his neck, as Dean grips him.
"Dean!" Tears sting his eyes.
"Sammy, you okay? You hurt?"
"Just bruises," He holds his brother for dear life, trying to ground himself and gain control over his rampaging emotions, "She dead?"
"She's gone," Dean assures him, "I have you. C'mon."
Somehow, Sam manages to stand and he walks out with his brother.
He spends the rest of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day passed out on meds.
He's 18 when he spends Christmas alone, in the frigid dorm room at Stanford.
There's no phone call, though Sam wonders if he should breach the divide. In the end though, he drinks eggnog and tries to sleep.
Merry fucking Christmas.
Christmases pass.
Sam grows and learns and loses. His heart gets broken and he dies—a few times—but there's only one constant.
"Fever down, Sammy?"
He's 38 now and has seen more than anyone in life should. Yet, even he is reduced to being couchbound by a nasty cold. Dean still hovers, a mother hen as always, and fusses, making sure the blanket tucked around him isn't too tight. He places a hand on Sam's forehead, frowning.
"No?"
"More meds for you." His older brother smirks, handing him some pills and a glass of water.
"Dean?"
"Hmmm?"
"You don't need to hover. I can handle this."
His big brother rolls his eyes, "Sure."
Sam huffs out a laugh but it dissolves into a cough. It wracks his body, making his lungs burn and his eyes water. Dean is there, rubbing comforting circles just like he used to do all those years ago.
Some things never change.
"Dean?"
Emerald eyes meet his, "Yeah?"
"Merry Christmas."
Faint Christmas songs filter into the room as the sad Charlie Brown tree sparkles.
Dean beams, "Merry Christmas, Sammy."