A/N - Another little interlude from our Christmas break—this time from Sam's POV. Set just before 6.13: Unforgiven, this chapter follows Sam's quiet return to family, memory, and a flicker of hope. Re-souled and still carrying the past, he starts to find healing in laughter, love… and one very sparkly toddler.

When you try your best, but you don't succeed
When you get what you want, but not what you need
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

And high up above or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
But if you never try, you'll never know
Just what you're worth

LIGHTS WILL GUIDE YOU HOME

Christmas Day
Battle Creek
Sam's POV

BEER & BELONGING

The first thing I noticed was the smell.

Cinnamon. Pine. Roasting meat—ham, I thought—and something sweet with a slightly burnt edge, like someone had gone a little overboard on the sugar cookies. The house was too warm by far, which meant the oven had probably been on all morning, and someone—probably Dean—had started a fire in the living room "for ambience" and then forgotten about it.

I stood awkwardly just inside the entryway, shaking snow from my boots and trying not to drip on the floor. The lights on the Christmas tree blinked in uneven reds and golds, casting a lopsided warmth across the room. The tree itself leaned just enough to be noticeable—like it had given up resisting the chaos around it—and at the top, a crooked star blinked like it was stuck somewhere between a nervous breakdown and a cry for help.

I couldn't help but huff a laugh under my breath. It seemed just like the kind of Christmas tree star Dean would have.

From the kitchen came the sounds of clattering pans and laughter—Beth's voice, and Lisa's too. Somewhere deeper in the house, I heard the sharp, delighted shriek of a child caught mid-chase.

Sophia?

No, that had been an older kid - probably Ben.

My chest tightened a little. I hadn't seen Ben in over a year - long before going to Hell. But Sophia - my niece?

I'd never met her.

Not properly. I'd seen her—once—from a distance, back when I was watching Dean and Beth play house in what felt like another lifetime. I remembered the way Dean had scooped her up in the front yard, her arms flailing and giggling, Beth laughing from the porch. I'd told myself I didn't care. Soulless-me had barely felt the sting of it.

But now… it was different.

I looked down at the snow still clinging to the hem of my jeans. Beside me, Bobby hung up his coat on the rack and cleared his throat.

"Well. We made it," he said flatly.

"Barely," I replied. "Weather was brutal."

"Tell me about it," he muttered, scratching at his beard and already scanning the house for an escape route. It had been over an hour of near-silent driving, broken only by forced small talk and the occasional grumble about traffic. I could feel how awkward he was around me—still raw from what I'd done while soulless—and I didn't blame him for it.

Before either of us could say much more, Dean came into view, grinning and rubbing his hands together like we hadn't just trudged in from a blizzard. Dean was in jeans, a red flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and a Santa hat that looked a little worse for wear, cocked to one side like it had lost a fight with a toddler - or one of Santa's elves. He looked every bit the family man I'd always known he could be—rough edges and all.

Dean lit up. "There they are! Took you long enough. We were starting to think you got swallowed by a Minnesota snowdrift."

Bobby gave a gruff snort. "Would've made better time if the whole of South Dakota wasn't trying to drive south for the winter—and Sam here, letting every one of 'em merge at the on ramps. Guess having your soul means you got your manners back."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, well, Sam's always driven like an old lady."

I tried to laugh it off. "Hey, just because I don't drive like Dominic Toretto doesn't mean I'm driving Miss Daisy."

Bobby just grunted.

Dean chuckled and clapped Bobby on the shoulder. "Well, you're here now, that's all that matters. Jefferson's flying in - snow storm and all—we're just waiting on him before we get stuck into lunch."

He waved us toward the living room. "Come on, get in here. Don't mind the mess."

The living room looked like a wrapping paper bomb had gone off. Toys, half-eaten snacks, bows —and God help us, there was glitter everywhere. I shook my head, half-wondering if some of the faeries from a few months ago had followed Dean home.

"You joke," I muttered, brushing a handful of sparkles off the arm of the couch, "but this place looks hexed."

Dean laughed, full and unashamed. "I know! I was thinking the same thing. I don't know where it came from or how we're gonna clean it up—but this shit is everywhere. Like, I got glitter in places I don't even want to think about. And Beth... well... last night—" He held his hands out, like he was framing a picture, and he opened his mouth as if to finish that thought, until -

"No!" Bobby and I said at once, both of us urgently trying to head off the visual Dean was about to share.

"What?" Dean asked, looking up. "Oh come on! I wasn't gonna - get your minds out of the gutter!"

But we'd unwittingly unleashed a monster.

Dean's eyes turned distant, and a little smile tugged at his mouth. "Y'now we hardly got any sleep last -"

Beth cleared her throat from the kitchen where she was paused at the fridge, listening.

Dean froze, then tried to pivot. "Beth, hey sugarpie, look who's here. I was just telling them how magical you looked... last night... with all the uh - glitter."

Beth rolled her eyes as she stepped around the peninsula counter and strolled past the dining table, carrying three beers.

"Mhmmm..." She commented, sidling up to Dean and handing him a beer - maybe as a peace offering, more likely a bribe, and then gave him a mockingly stern look. She said chidingly "ix-nay on the bedroom play".

Dean feigned an innocent look, then grinned.

Beth shook her head and turned to place a beer in Bobby's hand - squeezing his shoulder before leaning in to kiss him on the cheek and wish him a Merry Christmas.

She then turned to give me a quick hug, smiled at me—warm, familiar.

"Glad you made it, Sam. Have a drink, believe me it'll help." As she passed me the last bottle, a beeping echoed from the kitchen, causing her to scurry back into the kitchen.

"Make yourself comfortable! Be careful not to start a Nerf war."

Dean swept some paper off a couple of armchairs with his forearm, then winced at the mess he'd made and crouched down to start picking up toys—and a tangle of loose Christmas lights that had clearly given up the ghost.

Bobby snorted and dropped into an armchair like it had personally invited him.

I stooped to gather some of the scattered paper, only for Dean to look up and frown. "Sammy, you're a guest. Quit helping."

"I don't mind," I said, and I didn't. Helping felt… normal.

"You got anything stronger than beer in this circus?" Bobby asked, stretching out his legs, taking a sip from his bottle just the same.

"What do I look like, Tony Montana on a budget?"

Dean paused, made a decision, then dumped the armful of already broken toys, trash and god knew what else into a nearby box, straightened, and brushed his hands at a sprinkling of glitter than had made it's way on to his red flannel.

"Damn straight I do. Come with me."

He motioned Bobby toward the den and the two of them disappeared down the hallway - almost conspiratorially, leaving me standing in the middle of the room, arms full of half-crushed wrapping paper and broken plastic, wondering if this was what belonging felt like—or was it just shattered Christmas dreams?

I probably could have followed. But the awkward silence had been riding shotgun, even after the car ride had finished. Dean tried to joke, but no one could deny that Bobby was still feeling betrayed and angry - and now that I had a soul and understood what I'd done- I couldn't even blame him. I simply didn't now how to fix it.

So I stayed in the living room - giving Bobby some space as I picked up random bits of paper and ribbon, tossing them into the box Dean had used, taking it all in.

It was, without question, the most domestic scene I'd walked into in years.

It was chaos.

It was perfect.

And I was alien to it all.

Everyone else fit into this space. Already part of this life. And I was the late arrival who'd broken it once before. I thought, maybe I'd just hover here for another minute—long enough to figure out how to smile without it looking like an apology.

Before I could decide whether or not to sink into the armchair and embrace the laziness of Christmas day, a familiar voice reached me.

"Sam! You made it!"

Lisa.

And thank God for that.

CIDER & COMFORT

Lisa's voice rang with warmth—not forced, not polite. Genuine. I looked up and saw her standing at the edge of the hallway, barefoot, yoga pants and a sweater marked with flour and the ever present, offending glitter. She was holding a wine glass in one hand and a polaroid camera in the other - which she lifted and snapped a photo with before I could protest.

She looked a lot like Beth—long dark hair, dark eyes, but with olive skin. She had the body of a yoga teacher—probably because she was one - and the ease of old Mrs Michaelson, one of the women Dad had roped into babysitting Dean and I when we were young. But there was something different in the way she carried herself. She was glowing. Content. A woman who lived in this house, in the chaos, and liked it that way.

"I wasn't sure we'd make it in time," I said, stepping forward. "Snow was biblical."

"Bobby texted," she said. "Glad you're here. Come in, come in. We've got snacks, pie, something that was once pie, and hot cider with a suspiciously generous pour of whiskey."

I followed her into the kitchen, wiping my hands on my jeans, feeling awkward and tall and out of place. But she didn't treat me like a stranger. She moved like I belonged there—like my showing up hadn't disrupted the picture at all.

The kitchen was just an extension of the living room chaos and filled with a different kind of mess—the food variety this time. Flour, cinnamon and ground ginger on the countertops; used mixing bowls, utensils and mugs stacked haphazardly by the sink; a baking tray of singed cookies cooling by the stove. Beth was bent at the oven with a dishtowel slung over her shoulder, muttering something about uncooperative dinner rolls that refused to rise properly. Lisa laughed, and patted her consolingly on the back.

I noted that the dinner rolls were from a can, and chuckled. Same old Beth - trying to make everything perfect, even though she had never really learned to cook. I wondered how you could possibly screw up Pillsbury biscuits, but then stopped myself from making the joke.

At least she was trying - which was more than we'd gotten as kids.

I watched her silently, appreciative of this big sister who had dropped into my life out of nowhere when I'd been twelve years old, and wormed her way into a special part of my soul.

Across the hallway in the den I could hear Dean's voice -low and easy, chatting with Bobby. A moment later came the sound of glass clinking. So Bobby had found that extra rocket fuel after all.

"You holding up okay?" Lisa asked, refilling her glass with a casual swish of the bottle.

"Trying to," I said honestly.

She gave me a knowing look. "The trick is to drink the cider before anyone makes you wear reindeer ears."

"Noted."

We shared a quiet laugh, and I felt a little of the tightness in my chest ease as I sipped at my beer. For a second, it almost felt easy—like I could breathe in this house without waiting for the floor to drop out from under me. Lisa didn't press or prod. She just stood beside me, her warmth and calmness doing more to settle my nerves than anything else had since I got my soul back.

Beth joined us a moment later, brushing flour from her hands and reaching for the cider. She studied me for a second, then gave a small smile. "You look better than the last time I saw you."

"That's not a high bar," I said, and she snorted.

"No, it's not," she agreed, then bumped her shoulder against mine affectionately. "But still. I'm glad you're here."

That meant more than I could say.

Beth glanced toward the stairs. "I should check on Sophia—she's probably stirring from her nap by now."

"Best grab her before she sleeps the day away," Lisa agreed. "Or none of us are sleeping tonight."

Beth ducked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with Lisa again.

"I suspect," Lisa said, grinning as she took another sip of wine, "that she and Dean did not get much sleeping done last night anyway- judging from the way they looked when Ben dragged them out of bed at 5.30 this morning."

I snorted, and nearly choked on my beer.

"I'm not sure if they ever get any sleep," I said with a chuckle. Before Hell, it had been a nightmare proposition for me. "I can't tell you how many times I've walked in on them mid - well you know."

Lisa laughed, loud and heartily, then rolled her eyes.

"Right?! They're like freaking rabbits."

I joined her laughter, but something tugged at my heart at the same time. I saw humour, and happiness, and a good naturedness to Lisa that people like her didn't have after their exposure to monsters.

Somehow she'd managed to keep that.

I found myself staring at the way she smiled.

Later, I'd have to ask her how she'd kept her optimism in the face of all the darkness.

MANHATTANS & MAYHEM

There was the sound of pattering feet flying down the staircase, then down the hall, followed by a sudden shout from the den - Dean - and a boy's manic laughter. Lisa winced.

"That would be Ben and the Nerf war," she said, moving to open the swing door to the hallway. "Round three."

"Mom! Dean's gone rogue!" Ben shouted, crashing out of the den and racing toward the front door.

Dean roared out next, face intent on catching his prey. He nodded at us then chased after Ben—loud, laughing, full of that older-brother energy that could never quite be contained.

"You hit me first, ya little gremlin!"

I moved toward the doorway to watch, catching a glimpse of the two of them as Dean ducked behind a coat rack that had the air of an exhausted mall Santa—overworked, underpaid, and about ten seconds from snapping. Nerf gun in hand, grinning like a maniac, he stalked toward the younger boy. Ben sprinted past him, but got caught.

Dean swung him up into the air with strong, protective arms - earning himself a shriek of protest mixed with joy.

"Put me down you bully!" Ben called out.

And in that moment—seeing them like that, tangled up in ridiculousness and joy—I felt it.

Not envy. Not quite.

Just the sharp, impossible weight of everything I'd missed. Everything I'd nearly taken away.

Dean dropped Ben back to his feet, disarming him and ruffling the boy's hair with a short laugh. I watched Ben duck into the living room, still laughing, as Dean got off a shot then paused, pretending to be outrun.

Right on cue, Ben tore into the kitchen, socks sliding on the linoleum, a frantic expression on his face and a foam dart stuck in his hair.

"Mom!" he yelled. "Quick! I need my back up gun!"

Lisa stepped aside and he disappeared into the walk-in pantry, rifling around in a box on the floor under a row of shelves. Ben turned, brandishing a Nerf shotgun, looking pleased.

I caught movement through the back window—Dean was sneaking around the side of the house with hunter precision, Nerf gun in hand and a wolfish grin, clearly enjoying the hunt more than he should.

Ben must've clocked my expression, because he stepped back into the kitchen and hissed, "What? What is it?"

I jerked my chin toward the door. "Incoming. Back door."

Ben's eyes went wide. Without hesitation, he tossed his Nerf gun to me. "Cover me."

A second later, the back door creaked open and Dean burst in with an ambush shout. I raised the Nerf gun and nailed him square in the chest with a dart before he could fire.

"Traitor!" Dean cried, dramatically clutching at the foam stuck to his flannel.

Ben whooped and grabbed another gun from behind the cereal boxes—how many did this kid have stashed around the place?

We bolted from the kitchen and up the stairs, laughing breathlessly. Ben led the way, peeling into his room where he had a full arsenal tucked in a laundry basket: pistols, darts, extra clips—enough to supply a small army. I couldn't help but laugh.

"You've got them hidden all over the house, don't you?"

Ben looked proud. "Just like Dean with the real ones."

Then he hesitated, glancing up. "I mean, Dad."

Something cracked in my chest again. The correction. The ownership. The love in it. I swallowed hard.

Ben looked guilty. "Don't tell him I slipped up."

"I won't," I promised. "But you gotta know—Dean wouldn't care. You could call him Humperdink and he'd still beam like you handed him a medal. Real dads? They don't care what name you use. They only care that you mean it."

Ben gave me a look—one eyebrow raised, his mouth quirking in a way that was pure Dean as he waved his hand dismissively at me.

"Dude, c'mon. No chick flicks," he declared solemnly, sounding so like Dean that it was like looking at my pre-teen brother all over again.

I burst out laughing.

BOURBON & CEASEFIRE

Back downstairs, I could hear Dean opening the front door and welcoming someone in. "You made it! Get in here, we're under siege. I need backup."

Jefferson's smooth British voice floated up, sounding amused. "I haven't even taken my coat off yet. And this is how I'm greeted?"

"C'mon, Bond, let's see what you're made of," Dean goaded.

Jefferson must have accepted the challenge, because seconds later, I heard foam darts flying again, followed by a dramatic, "For Queen and Country!"

Ben and I peeked over the upstairs banister just in time to see Dean and Jefferson, crouch behind the overturned coffee table like action heroes, angling themselves so they could return fire toward the stairwell - and let loose the madness.

That's when Beth stepped out of the bedroom at the top of the stairs, Sophia on her hip. A volley of bullets whizzed past her head, each one somehow missing.

She ducked instinctively with the grace of someone who'd been dodging much worse than foam bullets for years, shifting Sophia to her hip as she slid down a few steps, landing in a crouch against the bannister. With one hand steadying the toddler, she reached behind her and pulled a Nerf pistol from the small of her back like it belonged there.

She scanned the chaos—Dean and Jefferson crouched behind the coffee table downstairs, and Ben and I up on the landing above, heavily armed and giddy. She was flanked.

"Lisa!" she shouted. "Backup!"

There was a beat of silence—then Lisa emerged from the kitchen, dual-wielding Nerf guns like she'd been waiting for the call. She fired a volley that made Dean yelp and hit the floor.

"Fall back!" Dean ordered Jefferson, they retreated behind the couch just inside the hallway arch.

Lisa lay down cover while Beth darted down the remaining stairs, with Sophia squealing in delight, clearly thinking this was the best Christmas ever. She paused to reload behind the coat rack, while Lisa fired a volley of bullets at Dean and Jefferson, the guns finally clicking empty. With that, Beth resumed firing - both at me, and Dean, as Lisa tossed her empty guns aside, and grabbed a nerf bow and arrow that had been hidden under the hallway table.

"Hey!" Ben shouted. "That's mine!"

"All's fair in love and war!" Lisa called back, and she nodded to Beth. They backed down the hallway, baby in tow, toward the kitchen entrance. Beth laid down one-handed cover fire while Lisa lobbed dart after dart toward the living room - keeping Dean and Jefferson at bay.

Ben and I began raining fire from above, Nerf darts zipping past the two women and baby as they retreated.

Just then, Bobby stepped out from the den, a glass in his hand—only for a stray dart to smack right into the glass, splashing bourbon up into his face.

Ben winced. "Oops."

Everyone froze, as if they'd just been caught egging the sheriff's car—again.

Bobby sighed, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and surveyed the scene in front of him - the floor was littered with a rainbow of soft foam bullets in all shapes and sizes. He picked out the one in his drink and flicked it aside, shaking his head as Jefferson and Dean peeked out from the living room.

"Son of a bitch! I get one quiet drink and y'all turn it into D-Day."

"Guilty," Jefferson said, calmly reloading behind a couch cushion as Bobby crossed the hallway into the kitchen and away from the chaos.

I crouched back behind the banister, glancing at Ben, who was picking foam darts off the floor with military focus. The room buzzed with energy—static and glee and foam projectiles—but even Christmas chaos needed strategy.

"Hey Dean!" I called down, the beginnings of a plan forming.

"Yeah?!"

"I'm thinking we need a strategic retreat," I whispered to Ben, "give us time to come up with a new plan to take them out?"

Ben chuckled and looked toward his room.

"We do need to reload."

I nodded, serious, at him.

"I'd like to propose a ceasefire!" I called out to my brother.

Dean seemed to confer with Jefferson.

"Terms?!"

"We eat," I replied, calculating. "Then we can take this thing outside where the real fun begins."

"Yes!" Ben said, pumping his fist. "But, Mom said I have to stay inside, 'cause of the snow."

I grinned, what was a little snow compared to fun on Christmas day?

"I'll negotiate terms with her too," I promised.

"All right!" Ben whooped, already plotting.

EGGNOG & ECTOPLASM

We'd all managed to squeeze into the small dining area around a six-seater table with a few extra chairs crammed in wherever they'd fit. It was loud, messy, and perfect.

Ben was trying to show Sophia how to make a mashed potato volcano, and Dean was just as invested in the structural integrity as he was. Lisa kept threatening to confiscate the gravy boat. I had a terrible feeling we were going to end up with more gravy on us than glitter the way things were looking.

Bobby wrapped up one of his stories—this one about a ghost in Duluth that kept hiding people's dentures.

"Honest to God," he said, gesturing with his fork, "four different residents at the nursing home swore their teeth vanished in the night. First time I've ever salted and burned a pair of gums."

Lisa snorted wine through her nose. Ben stared - gravy boat poised - like he couldn't decide if it was the coolest or most horrifying thing he'd ever heard.

"Turns out," Bobby went on, "the guy used to be a dentist. Guess he couldn't let go of his collection."

Beth groaned, half-laughing as she tossed a napkin at Bobby. "You are not telling denture ghost stories over Christmas ham."

"Oh come on," Bobby grumbled, grinning. "It's festive."

Jefferson leaned back in his chair, swirling his bourbon like he was delivering a monologue in a very well-lit play.

"I have a memorable ghost story too," he began, his eyes flicking to Beth and then Dean. "John sent these two on a case years back—he was laid up at the time. We had to dye Beth's hair blonde to match the victim profile. And even with a serial-killing ghost trying to fillet Beth and me giving them the only double bed, they still didn't resolve the epic, borderline Shakespearean level of sexual tension going on."

Bobby choked on his drink.

Beth stared at Jefferson, wide-eyed. "You said you weren't going to tell anyone about that!"

"I didn't," Jefferson said with a calm sip. "Until now. Consider it a holiday gift."

A couple of mental puzzle pieces fell into place, and I chortled. "I remember that. They would've ended up like Romeo and Juliet if Dad had ever found out."

Beth shot me a look. "No, he wouldn't have, because there was nothing going on."

"Not then, anyway," Dean added softly. He fell quiet. Not laughing. Not snarking back. He turned to feed Sophia some mashed potato, avoiding looking around the table like he had a secret he didn't want the rest of us to see.

I caught it.

Because I knew what that silence meant.

Dean had told me once—quiet, drunk and wrecked—that he came undone not long after. He'd nearly kissed Beth, so relieved she was okay when they rescued her from the poltergeist. He told her they could be something more. But she'd pulled away—afraid of what Dad would say, or do. So he went out that night, looking for comfort, and met Lisa—dark hair, dark eyes, kind smile. Something about her reminded him of Beth so strongly it hurt. He hadn't been looking for anything lasting. Just comfort. One night. But halfway through, he slipped—said her name. Beth's name. And the moment cracked.

He told me it hit him like a punch. That he wasn't with her. That he couldn't be. And what was meant to be comfort turned hollow in an instant—cheap, aching, wrong. It wasn't just a mistake. It was a reminder of everything he couldn't have. He never slept with another woman who looked like her again.

He'd said he was damn lucky Beth didn't hold that time against him - or the women that came after, in his relentless search to get her out of his mind. Because she'd waited for him - even while denying them both because of Dad's rules.

I cleared my throat and jumped in before the silence stretched too far.

"Anyway. Who wants pie that isn't haunted?"

Ben, bless him, perked up instantly. "Me!"

Lisa laughed and got up to grab the dessert plates.

Dean glanced at me—just for a second—and I caught the look of gratitude flicker across his face before he masked it with a smirk and reached for his drink.

The moment passed. But I felt the weight of it anyway.

And then we were into the second course - three different pies to choose from, whipped cream, ice cream, and something called plum pudding that Jefferson assured us was 'authentic British' but which smelled like someone had set a fruitcake on fire and then tried to save it with brandy.

For a moment—just a breath of time—it felt like the world had hit pause.

Like we were all exactly where we were meant to be.

WINE & WISDOM

After the late afternoon lunch, the house had quieted. Upstairs, Ben was hunting for batteries. Dean and Beth were wrestling the dishes into submission. Bobby had claimed the armchair nearest the fireplace and looked one scotch away from napping.

I slipped out the back door for some air.

The cold hit like a balm. Snow drifted gently from the sky, cloaking the yard in silver. Everything was still. Clean. There were no hymns, no angels. But something about it still felt blessed.

Lisa joined me a minute later, cider in hand. She passed me a mug and leaned beside me on the porch railing without a word.

We stood together, the kind of silence that didn't ask for filling.

"You doing okay with all this?" I asked eventually, gesturing toward the house. "The hunting. Monsters. This life."

She gave a half-smile. "Well, I subscribed to a wine club. That helps."

I huffed a laugh. "Yeah, I bet."

She went quiet for a moment, then looked out across the yard. "Honestly? Dean and Beth… they've become my best friends. They're my family. I'd rather be inside the mess of their world than on the outside of it."

I didn't know what to say. She wasn't trying to be profound. She was just telling the truth.

Before I could respond, the door creaked again.

Jefferson stepped out with a glass of bourbon in one hand, looking like he'd just strolled out of a magazine shoot instead of a living room full of Nerf carnage. No coat, sleeves rolled, unbothered by the cold.

"Thought I'd find the grownups out here," he said, gaze sweeping over the yard, then landing on Lisa with an approving nod. "You're glowing. That cider?"

Lisa smirked. "You know it. We're hiding from the children."

He nodded, took a sip. "Wise move."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, exactly. But it was weighted.

"For a while Sam, I didn't think we'd get you back," Jefferson said suddenly, eyes still on the snow, but speaking directly to me as if Lisa wasn't even there. "And to be fair, there were days you worked hard to prove me right."

I looked down at the mug in my hand, unsure what to say.

"But," he went on, quietly, "you're here. You're trying. And for what it's worth…" He glanced sideways, toward the window, where Dean and Beth were finishing up the dishes - batting bubbles around with a laugh. "She still believes in you. So do I."

That hit harder than I expected.

Jefferson didn't speak in platitudes. He didn't give compliments freely. There was a time Jefferson wouldn't have offered me a drink. Hell, he'd offered a fist instead. And I knew—though he'd never bring it up again—that he'd been the one to catch Beth when I'd let her fall. I didn't know the full story. I didn't want to. But I could feel it in the space between us.

"I appreciate that," I said, rougher than I meant to.

Jefferson just nodded, sipping his bourbon, and then his phone rang and he moved to answer it, walking down the side of the house.

Lisa bumped her shoulder against mine. "He's annoyingly insightful for someone who looks like he moonlights on Miami Vice."

"It's the Bond accent," I said. "Makes everything he says seem regal and wise."

She laughed, and nodded knowingly. "Yeah, maybe. But Sam, he's not wrong."

We stayed like that for a few more minutes, then Lisa slipped back inside, the door clicking softly shut behind her, leaving me alone on the porch with the snow and my thoughts.

I stood there for a while, cider cooling in my hands, breath fogging the air in front of me. Jefferson's words lingered—simple, steady, and impossible to ignore.

It wasn't forgiveness, exactly. Not absolution. But maybe… a doorway. One I hadn't known was still open.

Maybe it was enough.

I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and turned back toward the house.

MILK & MIRACLES

The warmth hit me as soon as I stepped through the door—along with the scent of charred pumpkin pie, spiked cider and lemon dish detergent where Dean was running a second sink for another round of dishes.

"You good?" Dean asked as I joined him, and I nodded.

"Yeah, man, I am - I really am," I said quietly.

"Good," he replied with a short nod. I picked up a dish towel but he tutted at me, a shake of his head telling me he wasn't about to allow his guests to do the cleaning.

"You can check the fire if you want to help," he said, clearly dismissive as I was certain there was nothing to do there other than park myself in front of it, and maybe get in a post-Christmas dinner nap.

I huffed and rolled my eyes, patting his shoulder as inched my way past the extra chairs at the table and into the living room.

Beth was there, gathering up stray Nerf darts into a crinkled Christmas gift bag, stacking used plates and mugs on a tray. She gave me a glance and a tired smile, nodding toward the coffee table.

I moved to help without being asked.

We righted the coffee table—no longer a makeshift foxhole—and returned it to its rightful post in front of the couch.

She moved like it was nothing. Like this kind of post-chaos cleanup was second nature—just another day, tidying up after the people she loved.

And maybe it was. She'd always been doing this, in one way or another. Picking up after us. Holding space for us. Carrying the weight we didn't know how to name.

And from the upstairs bedroom, I heard Ben yell again—

"Dad! I can't find my Motorblitz Blaster!"

"Try the linen closet!" Dean called from the kitchen.

There it was.

Dad.

Ben's voice. Certain. Casual. Real.

I watched Dean's eyes flick to Beth, catching sight of her picking up the tray of new dishes from where she'd left it. He drifted toward her like gravity had caught hold —candy cane tucked behind one ear, twinkle in his eyes, and a quiet kind of certainty that only came from belonging. He wore a look that said he wouldn't trade this life for anything.

With one of their trademark silent exchanges—the kind that said more than most people managed in a full conversation—Dean leaned in and kissed her softly on the cheek, then took the tray of dishes from her hands without a word.

"God help us if he finds that thing before bedtime," Beth murmured with a yawn, nodding toward where Ben had last been seen plotting Nerf-based domination.

Dean chuckled, stifling a yawn of his own. I saw it then—the fatigue pulling at his shoulders, the way he'd been holding it at bay all day. He'd kept the mood light, the laughter flowing, the monsters at bay. He'd been building something here. Not just a holiday. A memory. One where we were all safe. Together. Human.

He didn't have a free hand, so he leaned in and touched his nose to hers instead, breath mingling. Just for a second, they stood there like they were the only two people in the world.

"Why don't you catch a nap?" he said softly, as if I wasn't in the room. "I've got this."

Beth looked up at him with a sleepy smile that was just shy of adoration.

That's when Sophia crawled into view—determined, fast, and clutching a stuffed owl by one wing like she'd won it in battle. The poor plushie hit the floor with a soft thud with every movement of her hand, but she refused to give it up. She wore snowflake-print footie pajamas spattered with drool, and her curls stuck out in every direction like she'd just emerged from a nap-related bar fight.

She was adorable.

As I dropped onto the couch, feeling the weight of the day settle into my spine, she stopped at the coffee table, and pulled herself upright, her gaze fixed on me. It wasn't the first time I'd caught her watching me—she'd been staring during dinner too, eyes full of quiet curiosity.

Wide eyes. Green like Dean's. Unruly brown hair like her mother's. She really had gotten the best of both of them.

Dean and Beth both watched her from the centre of the room, utterly smitten. And then Beth shifted, rolling her shoulders like she was bracing herself for another round with a heavyweight.

Dean caught the motion, smirked, and inclined his head toward me.

"She's got an uncle now," he said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he headed for the kitchen. His voice was soft. Happy. "Use him."

I arched a brow in his direction as he disappeared into the clatter and chatter of the kitchen sink brigade.

Sophia inched her way closer, a little unsteady on her feet - but she made it.

Then she lifted the stuffed owl in her tiny fist and offered it to me.

I leaned down, breath catching.

"Hey," I said softly. "I'm Sam."

She blinked. Then patted my knee. Then shoved the owl into my hands like a gift.

Beth spoke—quiet, but steady. "She knows who you are. I've shown her your pictures ever since she was born."

I looked up at her, heart thudding.

"She's known your face longer than she's known her own name," Beth added.

Sophia gurgled, then plopped herself down on my foot like she'd claimed me.

And I broke.

Not all at once. Not loud. But inside, something cracked and gave way. I reached down and gently scooped her into my arms. She didn't resist. Just settled on my lap with a giggle and started chewing on the ear of the owl like this was the most normal thing in the world.

"I… thanks," I managed, looking up at Beth. "For that. For everything."

"You're her uncle, Sam. Always have been." Beth said, then she looked at me with a cheeky glint in her eye.

"Which means... you're on babysitting duty, while I take a nap," she added, a smile uplifting the corner of her mouth.

I wasn't going to argue.

I settled into the couch with Sophia while Beth dropped into the armchair nearby, curling her legs beneath her like she'd done it a thousand times.

She was quiet, her gaze flicking between me and the baby like she was memorising the moment. I didn't say anything. I didn't want to break whatever fragile peace had woven itself around us. She looked like she'd been awake for the last twenty-four hours running on adrenaline, cinnamon rolls, and sheer force of will.

Maybe she had been.

I shifted a little to get comfortable, Sophia nestled in my lap—warm and solid in that way only toddlers are, all soft limbs and quiet weight. She wasn't falling asleep—far from it.

Her wide eyes followed the flicker of the fire and the blinking lights on the tree, utterly entranced.

Every so often, she'd look up at me like she was checking to make sure I was still real.

She had glitter in her hair, on her forehead, and all over her hands. Which meant that it was on me, too. A trail of it dusted my sleeve like she'd rolled through a craft store on the way to the living room.

I supposed it was close enough - she had crawled through the explosion of silver and gold on her way to the couch.

She clapped her hands softly at the tree, sending a dusting of sprinkles in the air like a fairy godmother doing a spell, and then leaned back against my chest with a contented little hum.

Beth had drifted off in front of the fire, her head resting to one side like she'd fallen asleep mid-thought. It looked like her body had finally called time out on the holiday marathon.

So it was just us.

Me and the baby. The blinking tree. The fire. And this strange, holy quiet.

Sophia turned and rested her head under my chin, still wriggling like a restless puppy, her hands absently tugging at the buttons on my flannel.

And at that moment, something cracked open.

They'd done everything to save me. All of them. Beth. Dean. Even Bobby. I hadn't earned it—not really. But they hadn't asked me to.

She knew I was family.

And maybe… maybe that made me worthy of more.

Maybe I was finally ready to believe it.

Even with glitter in my hair.

AUTHOR'S NOTES

Song for this Chapter is "Fix You" by Coldplay

6.13 Unforgiven is up next!

This fic is fuelled by caffeine, Nerf warfare, and reader you've laughed, teared up, or just found glitter in unexpected places, I'd love to hear from you. Reviews, comments, or even a "still here!" help keep the words (and eggnog) flowing. I read every single one—and yes, they absolutely make my day. Thank you for reading.

Just a reminder for the regulars:

I'm gearing up to post the whole series on AO3 (starting with Season 1)—invite's coming any day now.
Question is: should I keep posting new Season 6 chapters here while AO3 catches up, or hit pause so everything syncs up?
Sound off in the comments—I promise to read them all while pretending to be productive.