Author's Note: Our next chapter request comes from sakarrie who requested, "As for prompts if there's still space/time, mine is: s1-2 (or season 11/15 if you wanted to go non-Azazel visions!); Sam gets a vision while stringing some lights and in his lack of awareness is either electrocuted by broken lights or falls and injures himself (depending on what kind of lights you have him putting up. Or you could do both if you want brownie points." I do love brownie points. Enjoy! Set in season 2.

"Great

Fake plastic Mistletoe

Wrap me in a great big bow

And tear me apart

It's Christmas time

So open up the flood gates

Tell me that you'll be late

And rip me apart ."

—Colbie Caillat, "Mistletoe"

John is dead and gone, burned into ashes and given back to the earth.

It hasn't stopped him from haunting Sam's memories—words of what he could've said, what he should've done, constantly ring in his mind. His father is gone though, and nothing will change that.

"You doin' okay there, son?" Bobby's gruff voice breaks his reverie and Sam glances down from the tall ladder, the Christmas lights in his hand sagging a bit.

"Fine," He lies, a tight smile on his lips, "This is my last strand."

He's only hung Christmas lights once before, in another life far away from here. Jessica by his side, smiling at him as he stood on a different ladder, adjusting the lights to her suggestions. He hadn't been a hunter then—hadn't thought about ghosts for almost two months—but he'd felt a gaping hole in his heart.

But he couldn't have both worlds. Now, the gaping hole was named Jessica and any thoughts of normalcy were gone, just like his father.

"Be careful up there," Bobby cautions, "Brother would have my hide if you fell."

Sam knows that's a lie. Dean hasn't talked to him since they came to stay with Bobby, his brother preferring to hide out in the salvage yard, taking his frustrations out on the multiple cars that littered the lot. Maybe Dean blamed him for their father's death. Sam didn't know, and he didn't care. He blamed himself. His last words to his father were ones of anger and he deserved to—

"Who are you?"

His vision flickers as pain flares in his temple, the first sign that a vision is coming on.

"Sam?"

He grips the gutter, wincing. He needs to get down before the worst of the vision hits, but he feels so far from his body, so detached and far away.

"Sam!"

He feels himself leaning, his forehead colliding with the gutter, his hand burning as his skin brushes over an exposed wire in the light, as he succumbs to the dark—

"Who are you?"

A young woman, terrified, voice high pitched, tears staining her cheek.

"Help!"

—and Sam is gone.

"Sammy?"

He stirs, his brain screaming for relief as pain sears into his skull. He winces, feeling sick, trying to move only for his body to not respond.

"Easy, son," Bobby is there, calm voice and steady hands as he holds a phone in his hand, "Ambulance is coming."

"I don't need—" He struggles, but a warm hand grips his. Sam's breath catches as he meets those emerald eyes that he knows so well, "Dean?"

Dean is there, though he looks horrible. Haggard, with deep wrinkles and five o'clock shadow. When was the last time his big brother slept? Sam had been trying to appeal to his brother to no avail, but now, Dean is here, by his side, like nothing ever happened.

"You're bleeding, Sam," Dean informs him softly, "You got some Christmas lights in your side." Sam's eyes travel downwards and he sees blood blossoming on his shirt, shards of multicolored glass embedded in his skin. Dean huffs out a dry laugh, "Only you could get electrocuted and impaled, Sammy."

"What?"

"It's okay," Dean soothes softly, running a warm hand though his hair, "We've got you. Get you all fixed up."

But nothing can be fixed. John is dead, Sam has visions and some way or another, things are going to come to a horrible conclusion. The youngest Winchester feels his eyes sting, tears welling up.

"It's okay, son," Bobby whispers, "They're coming."

"Dean?"

"I'm here, Sam," Dean assures him, smile never faltering, "I've got you, baby brother."

"I'm sorry."

His brother's brow furrows, "For what?"

"Dad."

"Ain't your fault, Sam," The eldest Winchester replies, voice tinged with confidence. "We're gonna figure this out."

Sam feels himself fading, the world spinning around him into a blur of colors. He struggles to focus on his brother's face, but soon, he lets go and falls into the dark.

He awakens to the smell of disinfectant and the steady beeping of a heart monitor.

"You with me?" Dean is by his side, tired, empty cups of coffee by his feet.

"Dean? The lights?"

"You electrocuted and cut yourself, Sam. Never heard Bobby holler so loud for me before." Dean's fingers lightly brush over the various bandages around his side, frowning, "You okay?"

"Are you?" Sam presses, "I haven't seen you since . . ."

Since Dad died thinking I hated him. Since we moved back here with Bobby. Since we blamed each other for what happened to our family.

"I know," Dean confesses softly, "I fucked up." He leans forward, locking eyes with Sam's. "Dad wasn't your fault."

"Dean—" Sam sighs.

"I mean it," He insists loudly, "We were dealt a crappy hand, okay? We're all that's left. We need to stick together."

Sam wants to protest, to ask why it matters. They are orphans now, still endangering themselves for a world that would never know what they sacrificed to protect it. What was the point of it all?

"You with me, Sam?"

Dean is so earnest though, voice so hesitant and pleading.

"I'm with you, always."

Sure, there are a lot more things they need to work out, but the pain meds have dulled him, pulling him back toward sleep.

"Rest, Sammy. I'll be here."

Sam, for once, does as he's told.

Author's Note: I'll be back tomorrow with a new chapter!