Chapter 3

Please R&R! It makes me want to keep writing this story! Also, if you have any ideas on what Sam should get Dean and vice versa, please let me know!!

There was no response as Dean's entire body writhed on the frozen asphalt, "DEAN! Give me the keys! I'll drive you to the hospital!"

Sam knelt closer to his brother when he heard a mewing gasp only to see that his brother was laughing so hysterically that he couldn't even make a sound. "Jesus, Dean! You nearly gave me a heart attack! I thought something was really wrong!"

"Oh…God…Sammy!…" he gasped between bouts of laughter, "…that…was…so…" he couldn't even finish his sentence as the hilarity of the scene from moments before replayed in his mind and he mentally heard the girly squeal and saw his brother wipe out again.

Sam was suddenly filled with anger and he began to pace around the car, even though it he did more hobbling than actual pacing. "You know what? I tried to make this Christmas special for you, especially since it's the first Christmas since Dad died, but just forget it!"

Dean sobered instantly at the sight of his brother's limp, "Sammy, are you okay?"

"How many times do I have to tell you Dean? STOP. CALLING. ME. 'SAMMY'. IT'S 'SAM'!"

"Okay, Sam, would you stop acting like such a girl and let me look at your ankle?"

"No," came the stubborn reply.

"C'mon, Sam! You may have done some real damage to it. You need to have it looked at…and I think we may be snowed in." Dean called out in a concerned voice as he gestured to the blizzard that surrounded them and threatened to swallow them whole. "For now, you're stuck with me."

The apprehensive tone in Dean's voice made Sam's anger disappear and he felt the wind rip though his damp jacket and he started shivering violently. He thought about what the past five minutes must have looked like to an observer and he cracked a smile. "J-just f-f-find your st-t-tupid clue so we can g-go inside," he said while his teeth chattered uncontrollably.

"Deal!" Dean's breath puffed out in the form of a white cloud as he unlocked and opened the driver's side door of the sleek, black Impala. He stretched across the seat and opened the glove compartment. Sure enough, there was his next clue; he tried to undo the ribbon, but his fingers were so cold that he couldn't even feel them, let alone untie the stubborn ribbon. Instead, he shoved it into his pocket, got out, closed the door and locked the Impala up tight for the night. "Let's go! My ass is frozen!"

The brothers warily made their way back to their room and slammed the door closed behind them. They quickly stripped out of their wet clothes and exchanged them for dry ones.

Sam grabbed an old Stanford sweatshirt (that was once white, until Dean had accidentally put a red sock into the washing machine and Sam's favorite sweater had turned a pale shade of pink) out of his bag and pulled it over his head as he completed the look with the matching red sweatpants that had escaped Dean's laundry disaster.

Dean came out of the washroom clad only in an old pair of old, faded blue jeans that hung off his hips in all the right places. He walked at a clipped pace over to his duffle bag as he used a towel to dry off his chiseled chest and wet hair. He removed a worn red plaid shirt and donned it quickly, trying to banish the last of the chills that were still trying to race up and down his spine.

Sam looked at the old shirt and a memory suddenly flashed into his mind:

December 1990

Sam sat on the bed and watched as his father pulled his favourite red plaid shirt on and cried out in pain from the injuries he had sustained from his last hunt. John Winchester buttoned the shirt slowly and a five year old Sam watched on as the stark white bandage that held his broken ribs gradually disappeared.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Sammy?" John Winchester sighed tiredly.

"What happened to you?"

"I'll tell you when you're a little bit older."

"That's what you always say. When will I be old enough? I'm already five years old!" Sam exclaimed as he held out five chubby little fingers to prove his point.

John smiled and sat beside Sam on the bed, "I'll tell you what; when you're eight years old, I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

Sam glanced down and counted to eight on his fingers, then removed five of them as John watched on in amazement.

"But Daddy, that's three years!" he exclaimed.

"I know."

"That's forever!"

John lightly pulled his son to his chest and Sam breathed in the scent of his father and played with the hem of his shirt. John chuckled at his small son sniffing his shirt; the sound reverberated through Sam's ear and he smiled. His Dad didn't smile often and he laughed even less, especially around Christmas. "I know it feels like forever now, but trust me, those three years will go by so quickly. Time seems to fly by…"

Sam sighed and lifted his head to look into his father's eyes. "No Dad," he explained slowly to ensure John fully understood his point, "time seems to fly by for you because you're old," he said honestly.

John let out a burst of laughter then groaned and clutched his chest, "I may seem old now son, but I've never lied to you before and I'm not about to start now."

Sam shook his head slowly, believing that his Dad had not fully understood his point.

John decided to drop the topic for the time being and distract his youngest, "do you want me to make you some cinnamon French toast for breakfast?"

The small boy gasped and jumped off the bed, tumbling onto the floor in his haste, "Really? That's my favourite!"

"I know Sammy. I'll always know your favourites."

"Sam?"

"Huh? What?" Sam blinked his eyes to see that he had moved across the room and was now playing with the bottom of the very same shirt as he had all those years ago. He quickly dropped the hem of the garment, took a step back and cleared his throat as a blush crept up his cheeks. "Sorry."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"What?"

"I asked, 'do you want to talk about it?'"

"Er…no. What's with the chick flick moment? Are you turning soft on me?" San chuckled uneasily. "Where did you get that shirt?"

Dean glanced down and a faint smile passed across his lips, "It was in Dad's duffle bag. I found it after the," he cleared his throat, "the accident." With that he turned around and pretended to look for something in his duffle bag. "I remember that he always wore this when he was home from a hunt and I couldn't bring myself to throw it away, no matter how angry I am at him."

"Oh. Okay."

The two men stood and looked uncomfortably at each other for a beat and then they both looked away.

'God! Can anyone say 'awkward'?' Dean though self consciously as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

"So…uh…are you going to read the clue?"

"Only after you let me check that ankle, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes at his overprotective brother while he tried to hide the fact that pain shot from his ankle up his leg and down to the tips of his toes. 'Way to go, Sam! You just sprained your ankle…and that's the best-case scenario! A sprained ankle doesn't normally hurt this much…'

Dean was having none of Sam's I'm-fine-so-don't-worry-about-it attitude. He saw the way his brother's limp had grown worse since his initial fall coupled with how Sam almost had to unlace his entire shoe to get it off. His little brother did not seem inclined to move, so Dean lightly pushed him towards his bed.

Sam allowed his brother to push him and he moved backwards until his knees made contact with the bed, then he sat down with a loud huff.

"Stop being so dramatic, Sammy. It's bad enough that you scream like a little girl, it's even worse that you keep acting like one," he teased as he kneeled on the floor and took Sam's clothed foot. His normally loose sock was now being stretched by the swelling; he tried to pull off the sock, but Sam yelped and his hands automatically froze where they were. Dean shook his head at his brother's stubborn streak, grabbed their worn first aid kit and crouched on the floor. He took out a pair of small scissors and cut away the material. When he peeled off the remaining fabric, he sat back on his haunches and whistled, "do you want to take a look at that and tell me it's 'no big deal'?" he asked as he gestured to the swollen, technicolour appendage.

Sam lifted his leg into the air and cursed under his breath. "Dean, it's may just be a break!"

"Sammy, I think it's just a sprain…"

"No, it's broken. I know it is. I can feel it. No sprained ankle hurts that much!" Sam whined.

"Man up, Sammy!" Dean teased as he wrapped his brother's ankle in a Tensor bandage.

"What does your next clue say?" Sam snarled.

"That's the spirit!" Dean grinned until he tried to read the next clue, "'Vos nunquam pensus ullus intentio ut mihi ut a parvulus, tamen Ego servo vestri vita magis vicis quam Ego tutela deputo. Ego operor non habitum is clue. Vultus sub cubile.'"

"Dude, you butchered the pronunciation!" Sam chastised with a mischievous smirk on his face.

"Shut up Sammy! You know Latin isn't my strong suit!" Dean shouted; he hated admitting his shortcomings.

"Break it down," his younger sibling advised.

"I wasn't asking for help. I've got it all figured out," he beamed. "The only thing that has Latin in it is the book we use to exorcize demons!" He bolted over to his bag and rifled through it, but the book wasn't there. "Damn it!"

Dean dropped to his knees and started searching through the mess that he had made in his haste earlier. He located the book, opened it and leafed through the pages. Nothing. "Sammy, where is it?"

"I don't know. Read the clue again," he taunted.

Dean went back to the clue and started picking apart the clue using the words he knew. He figured out enough to know that the clue wasn't in the book, however, he couldn't figure out the last part. He broke down and finally asked Sam, "What does the last part of this clue say?"

"You don't know?"

Dean glared, "No, I left my handy Latin dictionary at home," he deadpanned with sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"Dean, we don't have a home."

Dean looked at his brother in disbelief, "Exactly."

"Oh," Sam raised his hands in surrender, "Okay! Let me rephrase it: where do you sleep?"

"Lately, I've been sleeping in the Impala, but I'm assuming you mean my bed?"

"Yup!"

Dean quickly walked over to his bed, dropped on his knees, moved the bed sheets off the floor and peered under the mattress. Sitting there was a package wrapped in newspaper; Dean slid the present out from under the bed and whistled, "Wow Sammy, I thought you were just kidding about getting me an actual present…"

"Nope. Open it!" he cried out.

"You don't need to ask me twice!" Dean declared while beginning to rip away the newspaper with fervor.

Please R&R! I have no idea what the gift should be! Any suggestions for Dean's gift (and/or Sam's gift) would be much appreciated!! Thanks!