Author's Note: Okay, this is for Shannanigans, who asked for "too much bottled holiday cheer, hurt, embarrassed Sam". I hope this is what you were looking for! This is set sometime after "Everybody Loves a Clown" and for the sake of this piece, we'll just pretend that episode took place in December, okay? Please enjoy!

"I can't figure you out.

Is this what Christmas is about?

'Cause it's a broken heart

That you're giving me."

—Reliant K, "I Hate Christmas Parties"

They hadn't spoken in what felt like weeks, but Sam knew was only in reality a few days. He had thought he had gotten through to Dean after that disastrous hunt with the killer clowns—Sam shuddered just even thinking about them—but it would appear that the Holiday season had once again taken his brother back to his grief. And yeah, Sam understood why, though heaven knew that Christmas had never been a big deal for their dad. Half of the time, John hadn't even been in town for Christmas. It usually was just a time where Sam and Dean exchanged mostly stolen gifts and smiled at their crappy excuse of a tree.

Still, it was those Christmases that he had loved the most. It was those Christmases that he had longed for while at Stanford. Jessica had tried, in vain, to get him to come home with her for the Winter break, but Sam had always refused. He had spent his Christmases in school, staring out the window and wishing for a familiar black car to rumble into town. He often wondered now, if Dean had felt like he had. Had he wanted Sam back for Christmas too?

Well, it didn't matter now. They were back together and that's what mattered. Sure, one of them was in a whole I'm-going-crazy-with-grief-but-don't-help-me-or-I'll-kill-you funk, but Sam was doing okay. The guilt gnawed at him constantly, the what-ifs raced through his mind; but overall, he was doing okay.

As okay as one could be with a dead father and a mad-with-grief brother.

Sam sighed.

Okay, so he wasn't doing as well as he could be.

It was Christmas Eve and Dean had left for God knew where, leaving Sam to his own devices. He had made it very clear that he did not want to talk about Dad and no, he had no idea when he would be back so just shut the fuck up, would you, Sam? Bobby had run out to do a simple salt-and-burn a few towns over, but promised that he would return in time to celebrate Christmas with the boys.

Which left Sam alone in a much too quiet house.

Growing up, he had learned that silence was never a good sign. Silence meant death. Silence meant fear. Silence meant that you were alone and no one was going to watch your back. It scared him and quickly, he flicked on Bobby's ancient television. A jazz version of "The Christmas Song" filled the room and the youngest Winchester settled slightly. He sat down on the well-worn couch and wondered briefly what to do. Idly, he played with his hands and let his gaze drift and a pile of books caught his eye. Relieved to have something to distract himself with, he stood up and headed over to the stack of books. Sitting down, he flipped the first one open and let his eyes scan it, happy to have something to lose himself in.

God, he hated bars on Christmas Eve.

For one thing, there was always too much holiday cheer. People were smiling and laughing, even with strangers. He felt like a fish out of water in the bar with its cheerful holiday music and twinkling lights. Besides, he wasn't in a happy Christmassy mood. Ever since his dad had died—died to save him—and told him what he had to do, Dean had felt nothing but rage and despair. Rage, because who the hell told their child that they would either have to save their younger sibling or kill them and grief, because their dad had died in order to save him. It was his fault—all of this—and Dean downed the rest of his beer.

"Oh, Stacy!" A blonde, busty, extremely attractive woman exclaimed as she helped dab a stain off her brunette pal's dress. "Think you've had a bit too much bottled holiday cheer. Better give it a rest, okay?" Her eyes met Dean and she grinned seductively. Her eyes flashed with a clear "come hither" stare. If he stuck around, he would definitely be able to hook up with her. But . . . Christmas had always been his and Sam's thing and avoiding the kid wasn't going to solve anything. It was simple really actually. He would save Sam—there wasn't any other option. Sam wasn't going to die under his watch. It would be a cold day in Hell before Dean let that happen.

Mind made up, Dean placed some bills on the counter before heading outside. It was Christmas Eve and he knew where he was supposed to be. But first things first, he would have to get some presents.

"Shit," Sam hissed as he pressed down on the bleeding wound he had managed to inflict on himself while cleaning the new knife he had bought Dean a few states back. He had bought it such a long time ago, that he had almost forgotten about it until he had read one of Bobby's books about hunting Shifters. How he had managed to hurt himself with it . . . well, it was stupid really. He had been distracted—had let his mind wander—and had somehow caused the blade to slice him. "Great, Sam, just great." Because, not only did he have a cut that stung like hell, but also Dean's blade was now a shade redder than Sam had intended.

The key jostled in the lock and Sam froze. He hadn't even expected his brother back until late tomorrow, let alone 10:00pm tonigh. Frantically, he tossed the knife under one of the books and ducked into the bathroom. If Dean saw the blood, he would snap at Sam and the last thing he needed was yet another sharp rebuke from already constantly angry brother.

"Sam?" Dean called and Sam tilted his head to the side in confusion. Dean wasn't drunk which was odd. Usually, he went to the bar and drank himself into a stupor and then woke up with a nasty hangover, which left Sam walking on eggshells until noon. What could've caused the deviation in Dean's pattern? "Sammy?" More urgent, an undercurrent of worry in it—a tone Sam hadn't heard in quite a long time.

"Bathroom." Sam replied and he could practically hear Dean's sigh of relief. There was the sound of something hit the table and then the distinct clanging of something metal on the ground. Sam's heart skipped a beat as he waited. Maybe it was something else? He was about to breathe when the bathroom door burst open and his brother stormed in, bloody blade in his hand, eyes full of sheer concern and fear.

"Sam—" God, Sam had missed that side of him. He had missed his big brother with all of his mother hen tendencies. He had missed his brother taking care of him. Hell, he had even missed Dean's stupid jokes.

"It was an accident," Sam replied shakily, trying to hide the bleeding arm behind him. It was stupid after all and he knew Dean knew that. They had been taught from an early age to always be careful when handling weapons, to always keep your mind focused. Sam had broken that rule and he didn't need his brother to remind him of that. "M'okay."

"Let me see." Dean held his hand out, waiting. Sam eyed him oddly. Embarrassed, he shook his head. He wasn't a baby—he could handle this.

"Dean, I—"

"Sam," His older brother's tone was full of no-nonsense. It was strong and sure and reminded him so much of his dad. "Let me see." Reluctantly, Sam allowed his brother to inspect the wound and remained silent as Dean scanned every inch of him, checking for any other injuries. Confident that the cut was the only one, Dean nodded and grabbed the bandage Sam had placed by the sink. Then, while softly humming Metallica, he wrapped the white gauze around the injury and secured the bandage in place. "All done." Dean shot him a grin.

"You're not mad?" Sam asked, cautiously.

"Mad?" Dean echoed, confusion lacing his tone. "For what?"

"Christo." Sam said suddenly and then when Dean's eyes remained their green color, he grinned. This was his older brother—this was the Dean he had missed, that had been buried so far in grief that Sam hadn't been sure if he would ever reach him again.

"What the—?" Dean began, but Sam just chuckled.

"Hey, you wanna watch a crappy Christmas movie?"

"Sure, Samantha," His older brother answered with a smirk. "I know how much you love those cheesy Hallmark movies."

"Shut up." Sam retorted, though there was no heat in the words.

"We can do presents tonight too," Dean added. "I mean, if you want—"

"Yeah." Sam whispered, sheer relief coursing through him. Dean was back. Dean was okay.

"Okay, well, I'm sure Bobby's got some eggnog somewhere so you get that and I'll get the movie." Sam nodded and watched with wide-eyed wonder as his older brother left the bathroom and vanished into the living room. He glanced down at the bandage and grinned. It seemed Dean had pulled himself out of grief after all.

Maybe there was hope for them after all.

Author's Note: This turned out to have a lot more angst than I had anticipated, but I really like the way it turned out. I hope you did too! Please review/request if you have a second. Thanks!