Unlike the first chapter, what follows is more of an entire short story in itself. Starting off with a little reminiscing from Sam, it'll explain exactly how Sam came to be bleeding all over the bathroom floor Christmas Eve. I reckon it'll take up the next 2 chapters so I hope you'll enjoy it and not mind me straying from the shorts theme? Best laid plans and all that...or no plans whatsoever...as seems to be my usual preference.

Thanks & hugs to all those who've read and reviewed, your reviews have been wonderful and just the push I needed

Stanford and Sam

Christmas was approaching fast and Sam was worried. Worried about the recent hunt, which had landed right on his Stanford doorstep yes, but just of late, he was worried about exactly what on earth to get Jess for Christmas. Buying Christmas presents wasn't exactly new to him but buying for a female sure was. The Winchesters never exactly did Christmas, at least, not like the Christmases Sam had watched on television or seen in movies. He'd never run downstairs in his pyjamas to open a mountain of presents as his dad sat watching contentedly sucking on a pipe with his carpet slippered feet resting on a futon. In reality the whole suggestion of John Winchester in a pair of carpet slippers seemed too ridiculous to Sam for words.

John had always bought his sons presents for Christmas, never failed to do so. Although sometimes the presents came a little late, February, and were typically items John considered important. Important if your sole purpose in life was hunting. Last Christmas Sam had received a new bowie knife from his dad. It was a fine knife there was no denying that fact and Sam had thanked his dad with a big smile slapped right across his chops. The smile which had been solely for John's benefit slipped away once John left the room.

Dean on the other hand, despite his whole 'I'm allergic to sentiment' facade, did pay close attention to the things Sam considered important. After displaying what he'd deemed to be appropriate amounts of joy over his knife, Sam had sat on his bed with his back pressed against the headboard, absentmindedly slipping his new present in and out of its sheath. Dean had entered the bedroom they shared, unceremoniously hurling the paper bag he was carrying so that it landed on the bed at his brother's feet. "Ho ho hoe bitch."

"What's this?" Sam had frowned, prodding at the bag with his big toe.

"Why don't you open it genius." Dean's brash smile had been replaced with a huge warm one and he was virtually hopping from one foot to the other.

Sam raised an eyebrow and reached for the paper bag. He'd opened it and pulled out a battered paperback novel, staring dazedly at the cover. "The Great Gatsby?"

"It's the right one, isn't it?" Dean's smile wavered ever so slightly but didn't disappear.

"How did you…" Sam began.

Dean winked, his face positively beaming now. "Guess sometimes I can still hear you whining on about books despite the fingers stuck in my ears."

Sam adored the copy of 'The Great Gatsby' Bobby gave him when he turned fourteen. Sam had carried the book around with him everywhere, reading and re-reading it until one day, three years later, it got left behind in a motel room in New Orleans and Sam didn't realise his carelessness until the Impala was 200 miles in the opposite direction. There was no going back just for an old book John had remarked, adding how Sam should learn a lesson from his negligence. The copy Sam held in his hands that Christmas morning was identical, right down to the faded yellow cover. Sam had sat up higher on his bed, opening up the book before beginning to read fervently. A genuine smile slapped on his face.

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His first Christmas Eve in Palo Alto and hunting had found its way back into Sam's life once more. Sam was convinced now there was a werewolf residing somewhere in the housing estate, which surrounded the Stanford University campus. The lunar cycle was exactly right and the fact the victims had all been female made it highly likely the werewolf was a predatory male, heck, maybe even a male Stanford student. Whilst Sam had done a little research into possible suspects, he also had a hunch which had been growing steadily stronger and more persistent over the past few days.

Sam had never hunted alone and more specifically he'd never hunted a werewolf. However this was his home now and he couldn't sit around idle whilst there was a chance innocent people, Jess included, were at risk.

He felt awful about giving Jess egg nog laced with a large quantity of brandy especially when his own glass was filled with a decidedly non-alcoholic version but he had to hunt tonight, Christmas Eve or not, it was the last full moon of the cycle. There were lives at stake tonight and however much his dad might believe Sam didn't care about saving lives, he actually did, immensely. Saving the lives of others had always been a huge burden of responsibility for Sam. For as much as he felt beyond euphoric whenever they saved a life, the guilt caused by those he and his family couldn't save gnawed away at his spirit and the crushing sense of his own failure was almost too much for Sam to take.

He had turned his back on hunting for that exact reason. He'd never meant to turn his back on his dad and certainly never on Dean but John Winchester had laid that down as the cost for his freedom and so it became that leaving hunting meant leaving them too. In an exchange overflowing with a flood of hate filled words, Sam made his decision and it hurt so profoundly he had thrown up as he walked alone to the bus station. Dean had witnessed it all, the Sam and John fight to end all fights. In the midst of the vicious clash, Sam had glanced over at his brother who sat uncharacteristically pale and resolutely silent at the dining table, fingers busily scraping at the worn wooden surface. For all the times Dean had stepped up to the plate to rescue Sam over the years, Sam had never felt as alone as he did right at that moment. Whilst he sat on the Greyhound bus winding its way towards a new life in California, too exhausted to feel anything but numb, he had searched in his rucksack for his copy of 'The Great Gatsby' but failed to find it amongst his hastily packed crumpled clothes. Fresh tears welled in his sore bloodshot eyes as he'd realised he'd left more than just his book behind this time.

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It hadn't been hard pretending to be a little drunk, he'd spent most of his life weaving lies, impersonating other people and perhaps trying to be normal was his biggest pretence yet. As he waited for Jess to fall asleep, he observed her peaceful face and felt guilty. He wondered if she'd love Sam Winchester if she really knew him. He'd wanted to tell her the truth, God so badly. Many times the words had been right there, posed on the tip of his tongue, before he'd forced himself to swallow them again. He couldn't bear the thought of seeing distrust in her eyes, the thought of how the truth could cause his Jessica to look at him, not with love but with a combination of fear and revulsion.

When her breathing settled into a deep steady rhythm and Sam knew she was fast asleep, he climbed quietly from their bed. He paused as he did so and reached out a hand, which he let hover for a moment over her hair before moving away through the dark bedroom to quickly pull on some clothes and gather together his weaponry.

Sam eased himself quietly through the front door. It was a little after midnight and the streets surrounding their apartment were deserted. As he closed the door behind him and started to walk down the steps he froze at the sight of a figure sat in the shadows.

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