Author's Note: A quick word about my posting speed. Unfortunately, I will no longer be able to post every day, but I will do my utmost to keep wait times short. Thanks again for all the sweet comments! I had no idea how much this series meant to so many of you. I'm honored that you all look forward to it every year! Today's prompt comes from AngelofGrace96 who asked for "time travel". You got it! Let's set this pre-series, when Sam is 13 as well as post season five, pre-season six.
"Greeting cards have all been sent
The Christmas rush is through
But I still have one wish to make
A special one for you."
—The Carpenters, "Merry Christmas Darling"
Christmas is one of Sam Winchester's favorite times. While it's a break from school, it's also the one time that his father actually seems to smile, and Dean takes it easy. They try not to get involved in a hunt close to Christmas and usually bunker down in cabin somewhere.
Well, that's normally the plan.
This year, the hunt has taken them longer than expected. More specifically, they can't exactly nail down what creature is causing mysterious disappearances in the small town of Everett, Connecticut. The trail has gone cold—metaphorically and now, physically as a blizzard blows in—and if there's one thing their father hates, it's unfinished business.
Still, it's Christmas Eve. They can't be expected to hunt tonight, right?
"Sammy." Dean ruffles Sam's hair as he steps into the living room, shutting the door behind him as a gust of freezing air rushes in. Sam shivers a bit, tugging on his sweater. They splurged for heating, but keep it low, lest they lose it in the storm.
"Run into Dad?" Sam questions, handing Dean a warm cup of coffee.
"He thinks he's got a lead," At Sam's frown, the older brother adds, "But relax, Sammy, it's Christmas. Dad may be a workaholic, but even he takes Christmas off."
Sam lets a small grin alight on his lips. He may be thirteen now, but the magic of Christmas still touches him. He may not exactly believe in Santa, but he liked being able to spend time with his family and, for one moment at least, be normal. When they were around their makeshift Christmas tree, Sam could pretend that he was just a normal kid without a destiny of being a hunter in front of him.
Now, Sam hadn't told Dean this—and really, he dreads ever telling Dean this—but he doesn't want to be a hunter. He's never felt comfortable in the work nor does he get any satisfaction from it. To Sam, hunting just brings all one step closer to death. And if Sam ever lost Dean or John—he doesn't think he'll ever survive it. His family is all he has, and Sam will do whatever it takes to defend it. He just wishes that his brother and father felt the same.
"What have you been up to?" Dean takes a long swig of the coffee and the youngest Winchester shyly holds up his latest book, A Christmas Carol. Dean laughs heartily, clapping Sam on the back, "In the holiday spirit, are you?"
Sam can't help but grin.
"It can't wait until after Christmas!" John roars and Sam flinches at his father's harsh tone. John returned home after dark, a desperate glint in his eyes that made Sam uneasy. He knows that his father has a temper—he's been on the receiving end of it a few times—but there's something about the sheer desperation in John's tone that sets Sam on edge.
Dean glances at Sam, "What do you think?"
What is there to think? It's clear John has his heart set out on going into a blizzard to hunt some sort of mystery creature that none of them can figure out all based on a vague lead found in an unreliable book.
Sam glowers, "We shouldn't go."
John narrows his gaze, "You don't get to make decisions."
"There's a blizzard outside though—" Dean points out and John shakes his head.
"We let this thing go and more people will vanish!" John insists, "Is that what you two want?"
Sometimes, Sam wishes he could be selfish. He wishes he could say forget the world and just focus on himself. He's only thirteen—why should he have the weight of the world on his shoulders? How is that fair? And no, he doesn't want other people to die, but he's tired of risking himself and his family. He just wants to be—
"I want to be normal." It comes out before Sam can even stop it.
John ignores him and orders Dean, "Get ready. We're going."
Dean faces Sam, a worn grin on his lips, "We'll be back by morning, Sammy."
But it's an empty promise. For all Sam knows, they could die in the storm and Sam wouldn't even know. And where would he go if he became orphaned? With Bobby? Foster care?
Sam just folds his arms across his chest and mutters petulantly, "Do what you want."
He tries to not let Dean's crestfallen expression get to him.
And, Sam supposes, that's how he ended up alone in the house on Christmas Eve, rebelliously drinking way too much hot chocolate when the ornate grandfather clock struck midnight.
"Merry Christmas." He mutters, toasting himself.
"Tis not merry," A soft voice whispers, "You are in pain, young sir."
Sam jumps back, scrambling around for a weapon but the foe he sees catches him by surprise. A young woman with chestnut hair and peach lips, beaming at him, dressed in a white sparkling gown.
"Who—" He catches himself, "What are you?"
Her emerald eyes twinkle, "Come now, Sam Winchester, does your intelligence betray you?" She meaningfully looks at the book strewn on the table and Sam gawks.
"A spirit of Christmas?" That's impossible. Yet, as Sam knows, nothing is ever truly impossible.
"There was much that Mr. Dickens got wrong about us," She sighs, "Tis no matter!" She extends out a hand, "There is someplace where you are needed."
"Needed?" Sam echoes, "No, I'm staying here. I won't disappear like the others!"
She sighs softly, "They will be returned safely, on the morn of the day after Christmas."
"I don't believe you." Sam retorts.
She chuckles but adds, "Dean needs you."
It's probably a trap, a trick playing on his biggest weakness, but the fact that she hasn't tried to kill him yet, coupled with his love for Dean has him mulling over the possibilities.
"Come now," She chides quietly, "You haven't much time."
And against all his better judgement, Sam takes her hand.
He lands with a hard thud on top of a rusted car.
"Ouch!" He yelps as he forces himself to get off the hood of the car. He dusts himself off, pleased to see that's he's just bruised and not injured and then takes in his surroundings. He knows this place. It's—!
A gun cocks behind him.
"Hands where I can see them!" A voice growls.
Sam immediately does as he's told, "Uncle Bobby, it's me."
A dark chuckle, "Try again, punk."
Sam slowly turns around and meets the stunned gaze of Bobby Singer, though it appears to Sam that the grizzled hunter is much older, dark bags under his eyes. Sam almost didn't recognize him, if not for the fact that his voice is still the same.
"Uncle Bobby?" Sam tries again.
Bobby doesn't lower the gun, "What the hell kind of trick is this?"
That's not the reaction Sam was expecting.
"No trick," Sam assures softly, "I can explain why I'm here. I think." The gun doesn't shift, "Could you, please, put the gun down?"
Bobby's expression doesn't morph into that warm and familiar face that Sam knows. Instead, he keeps the gun trained on Sam's heart and growls, "In the house. Now!"
Sam quickly does as he's told and wonders what crazy universe he's in.
The gun finally gets put away after Sam drinks holy water and proves he's not a shifter. Bobby carefully bandages the cut from the dagger on his arm, well-worn hands deftly tying the bandage.
"Uncle Bobby," Sam tries again, but the gruff hunter can barely look at him for some reason, "What's going on?"
Bobby sighs, haggard, "Your brother is on his way."
Dean needs you.
"Was he hunting with Dad?"
Bobby grimaces, a flash of pain entering his eyes. Bandage tied, he rises from the table and curses, "Damnit."
Sam bites his lower lip nervously, "This isn't my home, is it?"
Bobby faces Sam, eyebrows raised.
"You're older than I remember. It seems like Dad's not around and I don't recognize a lot of things in this house," Sam puts the pieces together, "What year is it?"
"2010."
Sam gawks, "Okay, yeah, that's definitely different."
Bobby sits at the table again, a rueful smile tugging on his lips, "It's good to see you, Sam."
There's something more at play here, something that Bobby isn't saying. Sam knows he shouldn't pry—he's learned from books that learning about the future can only lead to horrible things—but he can't help but want to comfort Bobby somehow, to ease him through whatever trauma has occurred.
"You too, Uncle Bobby."
And before Sam can second guess it, he gets up and throws his arms around Bobby, hugging the older hunter tightly.
There are clues in Bobby's house—parts of the puzzle to put together to try and piece together what happened. A picture of all of them—he recognizes Dean and Bobby, but barely recognizes himself; does he really become that tall?—and a few scraps of paper on Bobby's desk with his handwriting on it. It's strange. The Sam here, of this time, feels almost like a ghost, haunting Bobby and confusing Sam himself.
"Sammy!"
Sam grins—he knows that voice too well—and quickly rushes toward the porch.
"Dean!"
If Sam's being honest, his brother looks terrible. He hasn't shaved in what looks to be weeks and he looks like he's lost some weight too. Dark bags are under his eyes and his hair is tousled. This Dean is a mess—the opposite from the Dean he knew.
Just what had happened in 2010?
"It's really you." Dean whispers, almost like raising his voice will break this illusion.
Bobby chuckles, "It's him."
Dean wraps his arms around Sam, hesitant at first, then forceful and strong. His older brother is clutching at him, like Sam is his only lifeline in the storm.
"Fuck, Sammy, I thought—" Dean's voice cuts off as a sob wracks his older brother's frame.
Dean needs you.
Sam just holds him tighter.
"I got you," Sam whispers, "I'm here."
Later, the three of them sit at Bobby's table and Sam tells them about the Christmas spirit.
"Never heard of anything like that," Bobby mutters, "But it would explain why so many people seem to go missing every year."
"They time travel and get stuck?" Dean posits.
Bobby shrugs, "Maybe."
"So, where am I?" Sam finally works up the nerve to ask.
Bobby's horrified face is his first clue. The grief that consumes his brother is the other. Dean coughs, trying to clear his throat.
"You're, uh, busy." Dean lies.
"Busy?" Sam presses.
"On a hunt." Bobby supplies softly.
"I hunt by myself?" The one thing their father drilled into them was to never hunt alone. Hunting alone was a reckless thing to do and just asking for trouble.
Dean's absolutely mournful when he states, "You were the only one who could do it."
Sam doesn't know what this hunt is, but he's not an idiot. He's starting to think that there is no hunt and he's dead. That would explain why Bobby and Dean were so shocked to see him. He's dead in this time. Is that why the spirit sent him here, to try and comfort Dean in his moment of grief?
"We should figure out a way to get Sam back." Bobby breaks the silence.
Dean nods, "Yeah."
But Sam feels like his real work is just getting started.
The salvage yard is still the same, thankfully. He's able to navigate it by heart, which gives him some small comfort. He has countless memories of running around outside with Dean, laughing and calling to each other. To think that he dies so young—
He can't think about it though. If there's one thing his family has taught him, it's that nothing is ever set in stone. Whatever is going on in 2010 can change. Sam has to focus on helping Dean and getting back to his own time.
"Which is more important?"
He turns around to find the Christmas spirit there, an easygoing smile on her lips.
"Why did you send me here?" Sam questions, "I'm dead here!"
"You think," She points out, "The truth is often more complicated."
"Enough of riddles!" Sam growls, glaring, "Send me back."
"Oh," The spirit frowns, "I cannot do that. You must find your own way."
His eyes widen, "You said you return everyone—"
The mischievous glint in her eyes flashes, "Only those of noble heart, those who give with the love of Christmas in their hearts, 'tis only them that return."
He's about to scream, when he pitches forward, knees falling into the dirt as he clutches his chest. His heart hammers, pounding painfully and his breath leaves him in fits.
The spirit bends down, frowning, "You haven't much time, Sam Winchester."
"Sammy!"
She waves and then vanishes as Dean rounds the bend. Seeing his younger brother on the ground, he breaks out into a sprint, skidding to a stop in front of Sam.
"What is it?" Dean panics, hands searching Sam for some sort of injury, "Sammy, breathe!"
But Sam can't breathe, and the world starts getting fuzzy.
"Bobby!"
And that's the last thing Sam hears before he passes out.
Predictably, Dean's face is the first thing he sees when he comes to on Bobby's couch.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean smiles tightly, trying to keep the worry out of his expression, but Sam knows him better, even despite all the time that has passed, "How you feeling?"
His chest still aches, and he rubs at it, "Hurts a bit."
Dean grimaces, "We need to get you back."
"She said I have to have a noble heart to get back."
"You saw her? But the wards—!"
Sam places a shaky hand on his older brother's shoulder, trying to find that piece of Dean still deep inside this fractured man.
"You shouldn't blame yourself." He tells him quietly, because of course, if something bad happened to Sam, that's what Dean would do. It's what he's always done, ever Sam was old enough to walk into walls.
Dean glowers, "You don't get what you're saying."
"I'm dead, right?" He tries not to jump when Dean flinches, "Dean, whatever happened, it wasn't your fault."
"Shut up, Sam."
"I mean it—"
"You're burning in Hell!" Dean screams, jerking away from the teen, "Forever burning, Sam, okay? And don't try to tell me it's not my fucking fault. It is! I should've found a way to save you!"
Hell.
That's terrifying. Sam likes to consider himself a good person, but apparently that didn't work out. If he's in Hell, then that's his fate. Or is it? Fate could be changed. There has to be some hope.
But Sam can't focus on that now. Whatever is going on with him is Future Sam's problem. Right now, Dean needs him.
"Did you try?" Sam asks quietly.
"Of course, I did! I spent months trying!"
Sam smiles, "Sounds good enough to me then."
Dean glares, "Sammy—"
Sam holds his hand up, "No, listen, look I have no idea what's going on here. I don't know how I ended up in," He sucks a breath in, steadying himself, "Hell, but I know you, Dean. I know you would've done anything for me. So, yeah, I think I'm allowed to say that I forgive you."
Dean doesn't say anything for the longest time. He's almost like a statue, frozen in place. Finally, a tear snakes down Dean's cheek.
"Hey," Sam gets his attention, "I love you."
Dean wetly laughs, "Love you too, Sammy."
"Well, 'tis a happy ending for all."
The spirit materializes in the living room, beaming.
"What the hell—"
"It's the spirit, Dean!"
"Season's greetings," She nods at Dean, before extending a hand out to Sam, "Time to go back."
Sam hesitates, glancing back at Dean.
"If you stay, your body will not survive," The spirit informs him, "Tis your choice."
"Go, Sammy," Dean murmurs, "I'll be fine."
"Bye, Dean."
"Goodbye, Sammy."
And he takes the spirit's hand once more.
"Sammy, you with me?"
Sam groans as he opens his eyes, wincing at the pain in his temple. Dean hovers over him, fussing with Sam's head.
"Dean?"
"What happened, Sam?" John interjects, concern lacing his tone, "We found you passed out on the floor."
Sam reaches for a memory, a fuzzy recollection, but he can't quite recall it.
"He didn't eat enough," Dean deduces, "I told you, Sam, your rabbit food isn't enough."
"What about the hunt?" Sam interrupts, "Did you catch it?"
John shakes his head, "It's Christmas Eve. You were right, Sam. It can wait."
Sam's eyes widen, "Really?"
Dean chuckles, "C'mon, let's get some food in you and we can find something cheesy to watch on TV."
It's one of the best Christmases that Sam will ever have.
"Thank you." Castiel bows before the regal Christmas spirit before him. She's been around almost as long as he, even before Christmas even existed, there were always spirits of goodwill and hope.
"Tis good to spread cheer to those in dire need of it," She states softly, "And from what you have spoken of those two boys, they need more help than most."
"I'm working on fixing things," Castiel explains, "I just needed Dean to have hope until then."
"Twill be a dream for he and Bobby Singer, but one that will keep them both hopeful."
"Yes, we all need hope." Castiel states.
"Merry Christmas, Castiel." The spirit vanishes in a flourish of snowflakes.
And Castiel swears, that this time next Christmas, they will all be back together again.
No matter the cost.
Author's Note: Oh wow, this one spiraled out of my control, but I enjoyed writing it. I hope you all liked it too. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!