A/N: The stuff about St. Barbara is true. Swear to God.

Chapter 5: Bleak Midwinter

Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness,
But it's better than drinking alone.
-Billy Joel

Sam had forgotten about Christmas.

He sat in the Impala, snowflakes melting as they drifted onto the hood, and looked.

Wreaths on the heavy wooden doors of the church, fragrant boughs of local pines slashed with bright red ribbons. Trees edging the drive, strung with glittering white lights that bobbed to the rhythm of the frigid breeze. A lot packed with cars just starting to gather thin gauzy layers. Faint singing making its way through the thin stained glass and out into the night.

It was so...normal. Sam used to crave normal. He'd never had a real Christmas, not that he remembered, but he knew what they were supposed to be like. Lights and pine needles and homecooked food. He'd spent a Christmas with Jess's family once and it had been like that: decorations everywhere, food enough to feed an army, noisy conversations in every room, a house packed so full of family there was barely room to sit down.

Sam steps out onto the porch, shoving his hands into his jeans and exhaling a frosty cloud of vapor. After the incredible heat inside, he doesn't feel the Oregon winter as sharply.

He takes a minute to listen to the silence. It's not that he minds the noise. On the contrary. But there's an ache deep in the pit of his stomach and he can't tell if it's guilt or homesickness.

He loves Jess. He loves the life he has with her. This is what he's always wanted and every day he thinks about how lucky he is to have it.

Except it wasn't luck that laboriously filled out application after application. Or maintained a 3.8 GPA despite multiple high schools. Or finally stood up to John Winchester and walked away from hunting forever.

Now, surrounded by the kind of huge, intact family he always wished for, all he can think about is the tiny, broken one he left behind. He thinks of John and Dean in some shithole motel, cleaning their guns. Or in a cemetery, digging graves and burning bones.

He remembers saving quarters and dimes and precious dollar bills until he had enough to buy a Hendrix tape for Dean. Remembers how his brother always gave him normal for Christmas: candy bars and cartoons and even a tree (of sorts) once. And all the while insisting that it was a stupid holiday and there was no point in celebrating it anyway.

"Sam? Everything okay?"

He glances over his shoulder at Jess, who is standing in the doorway eyeing him anxiously. She can guess he's thinking about his family again, but she's not going to pressure him because she knows he won't want to talk about it, but she can't help giving him the opportunity to say something, just in case, and god, oh god, he loves her...

"Yeah." His smile is sincere, if a bit sad. He follows her back inside.

Sam reached up reflexively to touch the amulet dangling from the rearview mirror and felt Dean's faint presence stir in response.

A figure slipped out of the church and the singing was briefly clear before the thick door eased itself closed. It took Sam a moment to recognize the conservatively dressed nun as the same one from his first visit. He wondered if she was packing under all that heavy black cloth and what the parishioners would think if they knew.

"Are you going to come in, or are you just stalking somebody tonight?" she asked as he put down the window.

"Sorry. I should have called. Didn't know there were services tonight..." Yes. Because what kind of Catholic church had services on Christmas Eve? Sam resisted a sudden urge to plant his face into the steering column. It didn't help that Pastor Jim would have found this hilarious.

A wry smile. "We both know demons don't celebrate Christmas. Why don't you come inside and we can talk?"

"No, really, it can wait until after. I'll just..."

"Sit out here in the cold? You don't have to go to the Mass if you don't want to. The rectory's empty. And heated."

Her eyes were friendly. And maybe a little lonely. The rectory's empty. And Sam couldn't explain that he didn't want to spend one more second away from the Impala than he absolutely had to. So he knew he was going to accept her invitation.

But with his reluctance to leave the car, Sam's vague sense of his brother grew stronger. Dean didn't like it when Sam clung to the car. He had, in fact, forcibly ejected Sam from it several times. Sam knew it wasn't exactly healthy to sleep in the backseat when there were perfectly good beds available, but he thought it was a bit hypocritical of his older brother to object to this behavior. Dean was the one who was so freaking clingy he refused to stay buried, for Christ's sake.

And that thought was why Sam found himself blushing furiously and practically bolting out the door to escape the sudden stream of explicit images that his not-quite-dead brother was pouring into his mind. Sam knew there was no way Dean had seen the nun naked, but it was freaking unbelievable how detailed his imagination was. And what made it worse was the unmistakable impression that Dean would have totally hit on her if he hadn't been inconvenienced by that whole dead thing.

"You're right. It is pretty cold out here," Sam offered.

The nun's puzzled, amused glance lingered on him for a second before she turned towards the church. As Sam followed, he felt Dean's laughter like a memory of mirth fading gently as Sam's distance from the car increased.

Five minutes.

That was how long Sam managed to sit in the warm kitchen of the rectory with his cup of coffee.

It was the emptiness that got to him. It had been a while since he'd seen Pastor Jim, but the memories were strong and good and not quite enough to fill the silence.

Sam was sick of silence. He avoided it whenever he could. So he gulped down the rest of his attempted latte (Jim Murphy had never believed in non-alcoholic additions to coffee) and tiptoed down the corridor and into the church.

He entered a nave that was all lit up with fire and song. There was light everywhere, both candle and electric. A soprano with more enthusiasm than pitch was wrestling some sort of hymn.

St. Michael, pray for us. St. Gabriel, pray for us. St. Raphael, pray for us. All you holy angels and archangels, pray for us...

Sam found it surprisingly easy to blend in. He wasn't the only one standing or wearing jeans. The heat from so many bodies pressed so close together reminded him of Jess's family in Oregon and he swallowed. He was taken with a sudden, strong yearning for the safety of the Impala, but he knew how Dean's spirit would feel about that.

St. Peter, pray for us. St. Paul, pray for us. St. Andrew, pray for us...

No empty spaces here. The place was splashed with green and red, suffused with candlelight and singing. So why did it hurt almost as much as the silence?

St. Stephen, pray for us. St. Lawrence, pray for us. St. Vincent, pray for us...

Sam closed his eyes and focused on the atmosphere around him, until he could feel it in his blood, like the whole world reaching, crying, pleading for a light to banish the darkness. He pulled it into himself and let it commiserate with the tattered thing his soul had become.

From the snares of the devil, Lord, save your people. From anger, hatred and all ill-will, Lord, save your people. From lightening and tempest, Lord save your people...

He hung on the edges of the crowd, slipped through the shadows beneath the stained glass, listened with half an ear to the service as it continued. He hadn't completely lost his agnostic curiosity, but it wasn't as strong as it had been in the past.

The Mass climaxed and ended. People streamed from pews, filtering out into the cold, donning scarves and gloves and hats. Parents carried sleeping children. Families held whispered conversations. Musicians collected their things and left. Ushers were handing out drinks and cookies in the atrium, little cups of warmth to carry through the night.

Sam was staring at a figure in one of the windows, trying idly to remember what Pastor Jim had told him about the three-two arrangement of the fingers, when the nun appeared at his elbow and thrust a glass of eggnog into his hands.

"Trust me, it's better than the store bought stuff," she said off his look. "The secret is the raw eggs and bourbon."

He took a hesitant sip. It was fluffy and cold, but it went down smooth and warm, leaving the taste of nutmeg behind.

"Thanks," he said, surprised. She nodded.

"I like this window," she said, staring up at it thoughtfully.

"Why's that?"

"It's the only nativity scene we have. Supposed to be a happy image, and it is, for the most part. Joseph and the kings and shepherds are all looking at the Christ child, smiling. But look at Mary. She's the only one not looking at the manger."

Sam followed the sad figure's gaze to a lamb at the very bottom of the window. Its feet were bound with ropes. It looked dead.

"The lamb represents Christ," the nun continued softly. "While everyone else is celebrating her son's birth, Mary is looking ahead and seeing his death."

They spent a few more moments regarding the window before she spoke up again.

"I'm Sister Barbara Michelle, by the way. Call me Mica."

"Michelle after St. Michael?" Sam guessed.

She nodded and started walking back to the rectory. Sam followed, his curiosity piqued. He was pretty sure Pastor Jim had said something at one point about nuns picking the saints they were named after. St. Michael was a pretty obvious choice, but he didn't know the story on the other one.

"And Barbara?"

Mica glanced back at him as she pushed open the heavy oak door that led to the rectory. A full-faced grin transformed her features for just a fraction of a second.

"Patron saint of ammo. She blesses all my handloads. So. Tell me what you've got on this demon."