Author's Note: Once again, I'm blown away by how kind and welcoming all of you are. From the bottom of my heart, thank you all so much! Today's prompt comes from bagelcat1 who requested, "Sam gets cursed with a desire to eat fruitcake and eats slice after slice after slice - he can't stop. Of course, he hates fruit cake to begin with and that much heavy fruit and nut, booze-soaked cake makes him very, very sick to his stomach." This is a really interesting prompt! Thanks so much! Let's set this in season eight, but before the Trials.

"The fire's burning bright

Strike up the band and play the tune

'Cause Christmas will be here and soon

You'll hear our song in every room

This merry Christmas night."

—Relient K, "Merry Christmas, Here's To Many More"

The whole thing would be funny if it weren't happening to him. After all, it's a fitting curse, one that proves that its caster has a wicked sense of humor and as far as curses go, it's not exactly the worst one they've come up against. Still, as he tugs his arm forward, the IV burns and Sam hisses as he winces.

Dean glances up from the book before him, a frown etched on his brother's face, "You good?"

Sam rolls his eyes as he takes yet another bite of the horrible fruit cake, "I never want to see another fruit cake after this."

Dean huffs out a laugh, "You've never liked fruit cake."

"It's nasty," Sam mutters as he takes one more bite, "Seriously, I get why people give these to people they hate." He wishes he could at least take a sip of water to cleanse his palette, but the last time he tried that, he coughed up blood. The bunker had medical supplies and they're lucky that they have plenty of IV fluids to prevent dehydration.

"We'll figure this out, Sam."

Sam nods, but as he finishes up the piece of fruit cake before him, he can't help but frown as a wave of nausea washes over him. He can't stop eating though—not until they broke the curse, or it killed him—and right now, Sam's not sure what the outcome will be.

Witches are notoriously fickle.

Really, they hadn't even been looking for a witch. They had come to town to investigate reports of Christmas miracles—sudden snowfalls, surprise healings—and then they had bumped into the witch, bundled up in a light up Christmas sweater and eating sugar cookies.

"You guys are the worst," She complained as they burned her altar, "Such grinches!"

She hadn't put up a fight though and since she technically wasn't hurting anyone—spells always came with a price, but they couldn't tie any deaths in the area to her—they let her go. Still, as Sam turned to leave, her red and green nails bore into his wrist as she jerked him to a stop.

"You have no Christmas spirit, do you?" She smiled maliciously, peach lips turned upwards in a grotesque smile.

Dean instantly had a gun to her back, "Let him go."

"Two can play at this game." She released Sam then and faced Dean. Chuckling, she vanished before their eyes.

Dean rushed forwards, hands checking his baby brother for any injuries, "You good?"

"Fine." He rubbed his wrist, noticing the bruises from her nails digging into his skin, and felt an odd jolt run up his spine.

"Sam? You sure?" Dean's careful gaze scanned him, "We don't want—"

The youngest Winchester forced a stiff smile onto his lips, "Dude, relax. Let's go get something to eat and then get out of here."

That's how they ended up at the diner across town, Dean happily munching on a burger and an odd craving taking over Sam. He'd ordered a salad and a slice of fruitcake.

"Dude," Dean remarked, "You hate fruitcake. Everyone does."

Sam shrugged and took a bite, frowning at the taste, "I just wanted to try it again. This one looks homemade."

Still, he pushed the plate away and took a bite of the salad.

"You and your rabbit food." Dean groused, a fond grin on his face.

Sam swallowed and immediately began to cough. His stomach rebelled and the world around him spun.

"Sam?"

The coughing wouldn't stop, and the taste of copper filled his mouth. Grabbing a napkin, he coughed into it, only for the white to be dyed crimson. Finally, after a small eternity, his breathing returned to normal and the blood stopped. Grabbing his glass, he took a sip of water, but immediately spat it out as more blood flowed out of his mouth.

"Sammy!" Dean reached over, pulling his brother to him. It still amazed Sam that, after all these years, Dean could hold him just as easily as he did as a child. And just like when he was a child, Dean's touch always brought such comfort.

"Think she did something." Sam managed to get out.

"Yeah," Dean sighed, "C'mon, let's get back to the hotel."

And that's how they ended up back on the hunt for a Christmas loving witch.

Through trial and error, they found out that the only food that Sam's body would allow him to have was fruitcake. Anything else was immediately rejected, but luckily the IV seemed to fly under the radar of the curse. The last thing Sam needed was to be hospitalized for dehydration and have doctors freak out over his mysterious condition.

"You think if we go back to her altar that she'll be there?" Sam questions as he sadly takes another piece of fruitcake. He can't stop, as much as his stomach wishes he would. He's nauseous and wants nothing more than to lie down and sleep, but the craving for fruitcake is too strong. The longest Sam made it without coughing up blood was an hour without fruitcake.

"It's our best bet," Dean grouses, running a hand through his hair, "We could try a summoning there."

"That doesn't mean she'll reverse it."

"Then, we kill her," Dean replies flatly. At Sam's arched eyebrows, his brother tacks on, "Look, she may not have hurt anyone, but if it comes between you and her, I'm picking you, Sam."

Sam grins. Things haven't been too good between them recently with the whole purgatory debacle, but now, it feels like they're getting back to where they were.

"Let's go then." Sam stands up and reaches for his gun.

"You sure you're up for this? I can just go—"

"I'm not letting you go alone, Dean," He cocks his gun and checks it—good to go, "So, c'mon."

"All right." Dean's expression hardens, morphing from a concerned brother to a deadly hunter.

The altar is empty, but as soon as Sam enters the room, his stomach burns, and he doubles over, groaning.

"Sammy!" Dean's strong arms steady him, but there's panic in his big brother's voice.

"M'fine," Sam groans, but blood dribbles from his lips. It feels like someone has shot him in the stomach and then poured salt into the wood. He tries to swallow the blood back down, but his stomach recoils and he heaves, blood pouring out of his mouth faster.

"Where are you?" Dean growls to the empty room, "You better show your face or—"

"Or what?" The witch steps out from the dark, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. She smirks at the sight of Sam's sunken form, "Not doing too hot, are you?"

Dean immediately points his gun at her, "Reverse the curse!"

"You think killing me will solve this?" She asks, almost astounded, "I knew hunters were stupid, but I didn't get how stupid until now." She steps closer to Sam, kneeling down to make eye contact, "Fruitcake not sitting well, huh?"

"Please." Sam whispers, blood dripping onto the floor below him.

"Please?" She echoes, eyes widening, "That didn't stop you guys from burning my altar, did it? I was just helping people and you two ruined everything!"

"You don't kill," Sam points out, trying to push himself up so he can stand, "Don't start now."

A flicker of indecision enters her emerald eyes. She sighs, facing the window. Snow gently falls outside, and she places a hand to the window.

"Christmas has always been my favorite time of year," The witch mutters, "And I wanted to give back, the only way I could," She faces Dean and Sam, reaching a hand out, "Consider this your Christmas present."

Her cool hand touches his cheek and Sam staggers back, an almost electric shock coursing through him.

"Sam!"

But when he glances up to look at the witch, she's gone.

His stomach stays in knots for a few days afterward, but he's able to drink water and eat small bites of food so it makes life bearable. When he's ready to finally leave and go back to the bunker, he catches his brother staring outside the small window in their motel room.

"It snowing?" Sam questions.

Dean pulls the curtain back, revealing almost movie magical snow drifting down.

"That witch," Dean starts quietly, "Did we do the right thing?"

There are shades of grey in hunting, situations that many other hunters avoided. To other hunters, killing the witch would be the right move simply because she's a witch. But more and more, Sam finds that he and Dean are forced to make difficult decisions. Do they follow their father's creed and kill anything supernatural because it is supernatural? Or is it more a case by case basis?

"Honestly?" Sam shrugs, "I don't know."

Sam comes to stand next to his brother, watching as children happily throw snowballs at each other.

"But, for now, we've done all we could," Sam places a hand on his brother's shoulder, offering his support.

"Merry Christmas, Sammy."

And for a second, he sees the witch outside, passing out candy canes. She makes brief eye contact with him before smirking and vanishing in a wave of snow.

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

For now, they have each other and that's all that matter. Those shades of grey could wait a few more days.

Author's Note: Thanks so much for reading! Please review if you have a moment.