Christmas 2008

Sam looked down at his right index fingernail. The one he'd so traumatically lost last Christmas. Dean had been dead a month by the time it grew long enough to need to be trimmed again. Damn Auntie Claus. It still hurt just thinking about it. A lot of things weren't sacred in this life but - dammit – fingernails should be one of them.

This morning, Christmas morning, Sam'd been awake long before the sun rose and started bouncing cheerful light off the snow banks and into their motel room. He made coffee in the unbelievably small coffee maker on the bathroom sink and snagged a couple of the frosted anise cookies out of the waxed bag on the cupboard, then settled in his bed, sitting back against the headboard to stare at his Christmas present.

Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanza, St. Nicholas Day, St. Patrick's Day, Easter, Leap Day, Arbor Day, birthday – any day that a present might be given, Sam had that present right here with him in the tiny motel room, sound asleep under a puke-tan bedspread, oblivious to the glaring daylight and muffled church bells and smell of coffee filling the room.

Sam's Christmas present was Dean.

Neither of them had had any nightmares last night at least; the heavily spiked eggnog probably had a hand in that. Dean hadn't mentioned anything about celebrating this year, so Sam hadn't either, but he'd bought the eggnog and Dean already had the whiskey so they'd celebrated in their own particular Winchester way. No tree, no lights, no decorations, but no nightmares so that was a 'win' in Sam's book.

Merry Boring Christmas…

He looked from Dean back down at his fingernail again.

The nail had grown back misshapen at first, all bumps and dips and ugly and Sam thought it might stay that way permanently. These past few months though it'd been growing straight and even. The past few months since Dean had been back. Not that one had to do with the other, it was just that Sam's way of telling time had evolved from 'before Dean died' and 'since Dean died', to - Thank God Almighty - 'since Dean came back.'

Three months and one week he'd been back. And things between them were as bumpy and dippy and occasionally as ugly as his regrowing fingernail had ever been, but things would smooth out. That's just the way things worked. Ugly, angry, and pissed always gave way to concerned, laughing, and forgiven.

Always.

And even if it didn't, it didn't matter. Sam had been willing to go to hell to save Dean, and no amount of tension between them would ever be hell. Even losing another fingernail would be nothing compared to –

Sam pushed himself off the bed and went to check the latest yield of coffee. The little coffeemaker barely made enough for one good sized mug each time. He refilled his cup and set the machine up ready to make more coffee, as soon as they wanted it, with the flip of its switch.

How stupid was it to complain about one measly little fingernail when Dean had endured hell. Hell and inconceivable agony; a lifetime of pain and misery and agony and horror. What was one fingernail to that? What was anything compared to that?

Merry Freaking Christmas…

Sam took his coffee back to his bed but didn't touch his cookies. He didn't feel much like eating anymore. He felt the same ache in his chest and unease in his gut that he always felt, that he'd been feeling for a year and a half, since Dean first made the deal.

Usually when he was with Dean, when they were talking or driving or fighting, as long as they were together, usually Sam could stop thinking for awhile what Dean had been through, because when he was with Dean there was always something else to think about. Or talk about. Or argue about. Music and motels, who to trust, what to hunt, when to stop, where to eat, how Dean was smarter and why Sam should do what he said.

But when Dean wasn't there, or when he was there but asleep, or there but just not talking, those forty years seemed to fill up every bit of space in Sam's brain, the years and the pain and the horror and the screams that Sam knew he could never imagine clearly enough.

And that was Sam's hell.

Merry Stinking Christmas…

Dean didn't stir, no matter how hard Sam stared at him and willed him to wake up. But that was okay, they needed it. Dean to sleep and Sam needed to not need Dean to wake up.

It wasn't like they were going to do anything special. They were maybe four hours away from Bobby's, but nobody had mentioned going there. When Dean did wake up, they'd pack up and check out and go find somewhere to have a late breakfast. Then they'd get on the road and drive somewhere, anywhere, just to not have nothing at all to do.

They used to be able to do nothing at all together - drive, sit, drink beer, watch TV, go to a movie. Now everything had that strained undercurrent of what was said vs. what was meant vs. what was a lie vs. what wasn't being said at all.

Sam got up and put his cookies back in the bag. Maybe he should boot up his computer and look for a hunt somewhere. Look for some something they could do today that wouldn't be celebrating Christmas, but wouldn't be mindlessly driving nowhere at all either. Something that made Sam feel like they were brothers again, and not just two guys who happened to be going the same place at the same time in the same car.

That's what it felt like ever since Dean told him about hell, like he had thrown up a wall that Sam wasn't allowed through. Sam could tell Dean anything, everything - almost everything - he could even use his powers in front of Dean, and apparently Dean could deal with it, even keep treating Sam like the brother he'd always been.

But from the minute Dean told Sam about hell, that damned Winchester Wall of Silence came between them every damned time Sam tried to do one damned thing for his brother.

Merry Stupid Christmas…

He sighed and rubbed his face and looked at his fingernail again.

When it first got ripped out, it hurt worse than Sam ever thought anything could hurt. And considering everything he'd been through in his life to that point, that was saying something. Then when Dean died, Sam knew that nothing in his life before that moment had ever hurt at all. Even now, even with Dean just across the room, safe and sound and softly snoring away, it hurt to remember how he died, and how every single breath from that moment on was like breathing fire.

When Sam's finger was hurt, all the painkillers in the world - tablet, liquid or topical - weren't enough to make him to forget the pain entirely, even when it was only the memory of the pain.

When Dean was dead, everything made Sam remember that he was gone and in hell.

Merry Miserable Christmas…

Sam sat at the table and picked up his laptop. He'd find a hunt or a hint of a hunt or something dammit to fill up their day. But it slipped in his grasp and fell on that same index finger, mashing the tip between the table and the corner of computer. He spat out a few curses and shook his hand and tried to squeeze the pain away.

His outburst had the unintended consequence of rousing Dean. He yawned and pushed his blankets back and sat up, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"Hey." His typical morning greeting. He pushed to his feet and headed for the bathroom. "You're up early." He sounded worn out.

A year before, or six months, before Dean died, Sam would have had no hesitation telling Dean that he didn't feel well, that something was bothering him, that he wasn't sleeping. And Dean would've pressed for more information, asking questions, assessing answers, pushing until he was sure he knew exactly what was wrong, and that Sam knew exactly what Dean would do to make it better.

Now though, since Dean came back, any mention of Sam not feeling well seemed to balance on the thought or wonder or assumption that he'd been doing things Dean didn't approve of, with the result that Dean didn't push for anything more, and rarely offered any help or comfort.

Merry Pointless Christmas.

"I whacked my finger with the laptop." Sam told him, even though that wasn't why he was up early. "Same damn finger I lost the nail from last year."

Dean stopped as he walked past the table. He grabbed Sam's finger and pulled it up for a closer look. He pinched the tip and gave it a shake.

"Ow." Sam complained and pulled his hand away from Dean.

"Not broken. Ice." Dean said in that same exhausted tone.

Before Sam could tell Dean he was fine, Dean walked to the refrigerator and pulled out the tray that made ice cubes that were smaller than cubes of sugar. He dumped them all into a plastic cup and plunked that down in front of Sam.

"Put your finger in there…"

Sam rolled his eyes but did as he was told.

"S'there coffee?" Dean asked.

"On the bathroom counter. Just flip the switch."

"Right."

The bathroom door closed and Sam let out a long breath as his apprehension and all his dark thoughts of hell and misery and hopeless loneliness drained away. Dean was awake and alive and bossy and the best Christmas present Sam had ever had. Dean could hole up behind his Wall. They could get in the car and drive for the next twenty four hours in complete and utter silence. They could let this day fritter away with never once saying a word to each other. As long as it was Dean he wasn't talking to, it wouldn't matter to Sam.

Dean finished in the bathroom and came to the table. Instead of sitting down, he pushed a section of newspaper in front of Sam.

"Whyn't you find a matinee movie we can go see? Bobby's expecting us by five…"

Then he dropped an anise cookie in front of Sam, muttered, "Merry Christmas, Sammy," and went to get dressed.

Sam stared at the cookie, he stared at the newspaper, he stared at his brother, pulling clothes out of his duffel and covering a yawn with his hand.

Bossy, pushy, annoying, best-present-Sam-had-ever-gotten-in-his-life, Big Brother.

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

The End.