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Christmas wasn’t a day the Winchesters celebrated religiously. Not in any sense of the word. They’d make their best attempt at a celebration when they could—especially Dean. A wreath made of beer cans, a few gifts snagged at the last minute from a nearby gas station and wrapped sloppily with cheap paper, alcohol with a splash of eggnog. Dean always insisted on making the holiday special—or recognized, at least—because that’s what families did. The Winchesters might not function as normal in the everyday—they might not have a steady roof over their heads or even a state to deem home anymore. But in Christmas, they could be like everyone else. Dysfunctional, maybe, but for a moment, lighthearted, in a world that weighed too heavily on those too young. To Dean, Christmas had been enshrouded in distant memories of the warm waft of apple pie and the even more tender feeling of safety, of comfort, of ceaseless love—the feeling he’d decided must define family. Every year, it seemed his memory faded softer, the scent of cinnamon fainter, the sense of ease inching further from his grasp, but he craved that again. And even when he was just a kid, he wanted it for Sam too, because Sam deserved to know family the way Dean knew it.
Dean stared at the magazines on the wire rack, chewing his lip. He grunted and spun it half-heartedly, sending the rack squeaking and rattling as he stalked across the store. His gaze skated over the cases of beer and bottles of wine, flicked over the coolers and assorted plastic bags of sweet and salty foods. He glanced over the aisle at the toiletries on the other side, the hairbrushes and razors.
Dean gritted his teeth and shook his head in rapidly escalating frustration as the slow, tinny song droned on about reaching home for the holidays. The invisible, unspoken timer in his head ticked loudly off-beat with the lyrics. His leg bounced subconsciously as he stood, protesting his idling. He needed to get back. He’d been gone too long.
The two Christmases when Sam had been away at Stanford had been the worst. On the first, his father had vanished on a hunt alone with a few scrawled words explaining his absence to ensure Dean wouldn’t pursue him, surely. It didn’t take long for John to stop leaving any signal. On the second Christmas, Dean had shared a beer with his father and a sparse few words. The holiday seemed to highlight Sam’s absence—his abandonment of his family, as his father had propounded—and cast what should’ve been a day of joy into one of solemn unease and raw loneliness. In those days, Dean couldn’t help but wonder how Sam spent his holidays. The older Winchester might not be familiar with college, but he figured most students would return home in their winter break. Initially, he couldn’t help but watch the door every day in early December, glancing up at the sound of a passing car, holding his breath at the turn of a key—then releasing it heavily when John entered wordlessly. In those days, Dean had cursed his brother for leaving them, for his stubborn refusal to return. He’d cursed himself for not foreseeing his brother’s departure, for not stopping it. In some bold moments, he’d even cursed his father for outcasting his baby brother.
Dean breathed a sigh—forced one, more like. He withdrew his phone from his pocket and swiped the screen. Nothing. It was a good thing, but it offered little comfort. He found his messages, clicking Cas’s name and punching out “All good?” Every second of silence drove Dean’s apprehension further, every moment stringing him closer to sprinting for Baby and screeching back to the cabin.
Then, a small ellipsis, followed promptly by: “All is good.”
The relief in Dean’s chest was quiet, but even that minor draw of calm was welcome. He pocketed his phone and looked down at his small blue basket, half full with groceries. Even if Sam was fine, Dean still didn’t like being away for long. He scanned over the store again, raking a hand through his hair.
Buying a gift for his brother had been difficult enough before. Now, after Sam had suffered the worst of hell, when anything foreign was dangerous and everything a potential weapon or trigger, Dean didn’t know if buying him anything at all was a good idea. The kid still struggled with the faintest of touch. Dean couldn’t even hug his hell-broken brother—not without risking Sam’s sheer dread at the sense of confinement, at the intimate feeling of a body against his. Of their oily fingers claiming his skin, as he’d finally managed to articulate. Dean shook his head sharply, choking back his rage. It wouldn’t do any good now, and he’d need it if he ever got the chance to go toe-to-toe with Sam’s torturers.
He started toward the register and paused. He snorted to himself and smiled faintly, then stuffed it in his basket, then another to follow, and resumed toward the front. The cashier glanced over her shoulder boredly, her gaze flicking over the items he began unloading onto the counter before she finally began to scan.
The Christmases following John’s death had passed mostly unnoticed. On one, the only recognition to mark the day was the imparting of “Merry Christmas” amidst a long day on the road as the boys rolled between hunts. On another, a demon had offered mocking Christmas wishes while the brothers labored to extract information on Lilith’s whereabouts.
Dean threw the plastic bags into the passenger seat of the Impala as he slid onto the bench and keyed the ignition. The car eased onto the road, yet it rapidly accelerated as though just as eager and anxious to return to their temporary home. Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” crooned quietly on the radio beneath the hum of the engine, but after a few words, Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter and twisted the knob, silencing the music. Only a few seconds of quiet passed before he flicked the knob again and the song resumed.
The winding roads were entirely empty—a fact that wouldn’t be unusual even on an ordinary day. It was a good thing, undoubtedly—something that made Dean increasingly grateful for Rufus’s isolationist tendencies in picking the location for his cabin. Dean cranked the windows down an inch, drawing a deep breath of the cool pine air. Snow flecked the shadows of the trees alongside the road, but the sun bore heavily on the asphalt, sending waves of warmth rippling upward. Sam would enjoy the easy, gentle heat, Dean thought. Maybe they should go for a walk in the sun or lounge on the roof. A faint, self-deprecating smile curled Dean’s lips at the irony, at how he would’ve ridiculed the suggestion of the activities before. But it didn’t matter now. Small luxuries like embarrassment seemed to vanish in a blink in the pursuit of surviving another day.
Dean drifted into the center of the road, risking a glance at his phone to verify the absence of any further messages. Finding none, he tossed it back onto the bench beside him and pumped the accelerator, focusing on the asphalt ahead.
As for the Christmas after Sam leapt into the Cage, Dean had wished it could’ve passed without remark. Wished he could’ve ignored it. But Christmas was hard to ignore in suburban life, with blow-up Santas and flashing string lights screaming its advent. And after roughly six months of tolerating, of welcoming Dean into their lives, how could he refuse to support what should have been among the brightest days of Lisa and Ben’s year? But, though he tried, he couldn’t manage even a modicum of levity. He couldn’t breathe without his mind racing back to the day he’d once thought was his last Christmas. The day that, perhaps, should’ve been—because then Sam might be the one with air in his lungs instead of screaming them out in the worst torments of hell. He’d thought of how, on that day, Sam had tried avoiding celebration, how he’d tried to isolate himself from the life and joy in the holiday. And he thought of how he’d pestered Sam on the issue, and how his little brother had succumbed and prioritized Dean’s wishes over his own apprehension and sorrow. To try to grant Dean as much of a Christmas, if not more, than Sam had ever known himself. Dean had cried that day. He wouldn’t have admitted it then, but a few tears had escaped in the late hours of the evening, when he’d thought of Sam the following year—alone. Sam hadn’t caught the betrayal of emotion, or if he had, he hadn’t hassled Dean about it. Dean thought Sam was too busy focusing on surviving the hours to impart an “I told you so,” even if he wanted to.
He might have been grateful to be spared the shame then, but Dean’s pride had withered in the absence of his brother. Now, it was pointless to deny his tears. Ben had caught plenty of glimpses of the scarlet face marred with wet streaks from his eyes, and Lisa had soothed his ugly weeping far too many times for him to even bother with a lame excuse about the humidity or a sabotaging eyelash. Maybe it was a chick move. Dean very rapidly couldn’t bother to care. Because he’d lost his baby brother. Because it was his job to protect Sam, and the kid was in hell. Because he was gone, and with him, Dean was too, in all but the physical.
Dean shifted the car into park, reaching for the bags of groceries as he slid out of the Impala. He paused in the doorway, breathing in the quiet, the distant chirping of the winter songbirds and the faint whistle of wind through the trees' needles. Then, with an inhale, he knocked softly on the door and gently swung it open.
Footsteps preceded Castiel’s appearance, his stoic expression easing somewhat when his eyes fell upon Dean.
“How is he?” Dean prompted, glancing around the empty living room as he dumped the bags on the kitchen table. He frowned faintly at a warm smell cloying the air—hinted with… cinnamon?
“He’s fine,” Cas replied, his tone carrying a slight amused or maybe tired edge, as though he thought the question unnecessary.
“Good,” Dean shoved the case of beers into the fridge, looking over his shoulder at the creak of the floorboards. The sight forced him to pause and straighten, closing the fridge behind him.
“Hey,” Sam greeted slowly, voice tense with trepidation. The wariness in his tone made Dean want to wrap Sam in a tight embrace, to whisper promises that he was safe now, like he had the night of that fateful fire decades ago, when Sam was only six months old. But he couldn’t. Instead, Dean’s gaze scrutinized him, wavering between concern and a smile. His brother was clean-shaven, his unkempt beard gone with only a thin, inch-long nick to announce the recency of its demise. His hair was combed, still damp—and shorter.
Dean’s gaze flicked over Cas immediately, his brain whirring with questions. What exactly had Cas allowed? Did he let Sam use the razor himself? Even letting him near one without Dean’s consent, without his knowledge… Did he supervise the task, did Sam ever get… shaky? Did Cas have to heal any errs, any impulses that waned undeniable?
Sam might be doing better, but any improvement wasn’t sure to last. Dean didn’t want to lose him again for the sake of reckless trust. They’d need to talk… but it wasn’t a conversation that needed to happen in front of Sam, and it wasn’t a conversation that needed to happen now.
Dean released Castiel from his sharp surprise, turning back to his brother and gesturing to his own neck, just below his ears, with a cutting motion of his bladed hand, “It’s still too long.”
Sam chuckled with a shake of his head, approaching gradually until there were only maybe five feet separating them. Dean jotted a mental note of the distance Sam had allotted, so he wouldn’t infringe on the space as he navigated the kitchen.
“Least you’re not competing with Rapunzel anymore,” Dean muttered loud enough for Sam to hear as he resumed unpacking the bags, fitting one as subtly as possible into one of the empty drawers.
Sam replied with a quick string of Enochian and a light, boyish smile. Dean, deciding today wasn’t the day to encourage an attempt at English, glanced at Cas for the translation.
Castiel’s brow twinged in amusement, offering it: “Speak for yourself.”
Dean scoffed a laugh, unable to rebut the counter. His hair probably hadn’t been this long since he’d started high school. He could really use a shave, a haircut. In fact, he’d been tempted to shave his hair down to a mere buzz, just to keep it out of his way for a while, but he hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
After shoving the last bag of funyuns into the cabinet, Dean balled up the remaining plastic bags and tossed them in the trash bin.
“How was…” Sam enunciated somewhat disjointedly, “Your run?”
“Fine.” Dean glanced over his brother. “You doing alright?” He didn’t need to push himself further today—he’d apparently already done a lot. Better to take it easy now and secure the win, rather than face the discouragement promised to follow overexertion.
“Fine,” Sam echoed, one of the words he had little trouble pronouncing after plenty of use, though it provided no assurance. Dean knew Sam wanted it to be true, and that he’d try his best to make it so, but he needed Sam to be honest more than optimistic.
“Okay,” Dean nodded, “I’m gonna get cleaned up, then. Shout if you need me.” He restrained himself from a glance to Castiel at his directive, starting toward the bathroom.
In the first year following Sam’s return, Christmas surely must have passed, because one day Dean absently noticed it was March. In the second, Cas had offered him a wish of Merry Christmas, a single beer, and a half smile, because after the previous Christmas, they could muster no hope that Sam would see another—but somehow, he had.
Dean spared a final glance in the thinly fogged mirror as he reached for the bathroom door handle. He’d promptly tamed his own beard to a stubble and snipped his hair to a rough cut—blatantly uneven, but good enough. He could’ve asked for Castiel’s assistance, because the angel undoubtedly helped with Sam’s and had seemingly done alright, but right now, Castiel’s attention was better spent on monitoring Sam. Dean muttered another quiet prayer of gratitude that the angel didn’t need sleep and apparently couldn’t get bored. After whisking his fingers through his hair again and finding no egregious errors, he double-checked the counter to ensure all razors had been properly sealed away before flicking the light and stepping into the hall.
In the living room, the television hummed with indistinguishable dialogue and light, bouncy music.
“I don’t understand.” He overheard Castiel before he turned the corner, finding the angel’s face scrunched in concentration as he frowned at the screen, “Why don’t they let him play? The color of his nose bears no impact on his competency in ‘Reindeer Games.’” Castiel tilted his head in acquiescing contemplation, “Unless these games involve concealment. An illuminated nose could prove detrimental to attempts at subtlety.”
Dean entered the room in time to catch Sam’s lips curling in amusement, a snorting chuckle in his throat. Sam replied in Enochian, and Cas turned to face him, but his expression didn’t change. His continued confusion caused Sam to add something else, but that didn’t seem to help much either.
“I suppose the politics of reindeer culture escape me.” The angel remarked, turning his attention back to the television, “Though they should be careful in their emphasis on homogeneity. Reduced diversity in the gene pool is detrimental to the survival of a species.”
“Cas,” Dean inserted, his own tone freckled in amusement, as he stepped fully into the room, “It’s just a kid’s show.”
Castiel squinted at the television, “I see.” Though Dean was doubtful he truly did.
Dean glanced over Sam, then clenched his jaw. Sam was covering it well, but Dean could see the wisp of unease in the fidget of his fingers. Was it too much change too quickly? Maybe Dean should’ve asked, or at least warned Sam that Dean was going to shave and cut his hair.
Sam noticed the scrutiny, and his expression relaxed somewhat as he shook his head—a silent dismissal of Dean’s worry. The older Winchester had certainly already exhausted his tolerable number of check-ins for the next few hours, so he didn’t pursue it. Instead, he moved to the couch and sat on the opposite end of Sam, allowing his brother plenty of space and clear visibility of everyone and everything in the room.
Staring absently at the television, and yet paying zero attention to the animations on the screen, Dean wasn’t sure exactly why they were watching this show. Whether Sam or Cas switched it on. Surely there was better television. Dean hadn’t seen this since… well, since Sam was in grade school. He wondered if Sam remembered it, though he tried to temper his expectations with the reminder that that was an eternity ago for his little brother.
He allowed the minutes to tick past with nothing but the quiet blather of the show. As slyly as he could manage, he monitored Sam, noticing his little brother was staring at his fidgeting hands, barely sparing the occasional glance for the television. Maybe he could use a distraction, a shift of focus.
“Hey,” Dean murmured before pushing himself off the couch and starting slowly toward the kitchen, feeling both Sam and Castiel’s curious gazes on his back. He slid open a drawer and grabbed the plastic bag he’d stuffed inside earlier, pausing only a moment before he started back toward Sam. Dean returned to the couch before he extended the bag.
“Merry Christmas, Sam.”
Sam’s fingers gingerly accepted, and he unraveled the plastic, his face relaxing into a soft smile. He withdrew the contents, revealing two books—Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings. A thin, light wisp of joy flickered in Dean’s chest at Sam’s expression.
“Thank you,” Sam managed, his hands exploring the books cautiously as though to verify their existence, to test their texture.
“I know you’ve read them before, but…” Dean trailed off. Sam might not even remember. Regardless, it’d be good practice. Sam’s English was improving consistently, but he still had a long way to go before reassuming his command of the tongue.
Sam shook his head, repeating, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Dean reflected the gentle smile, turning back toward the television.
Now, Dean still couldn’t be sure Sam would survive another year. Though he was gradually improving, Dean knew it’d only take one unsupervised stumble, one bad trigger, and Sam would exact his own end. But he wanted Sam to get better. And he wanted him to feel better, too. To feel safe and loved and happy. And, though he wasn’t sure how to accomplish that… he’d do his best to try.
“Cas.” When the angel diverted his attention from the screen, Sam continued, but this time in Enochian.
Dean looked to Castiel for the translation, but the angel only gave a short reply in the holy tongue, rising to his feet.
“What?” Dean leaned forward, his gaze flicking between the two. Cas raised a hand to stay Dean’s worry, disappearing down the hall. Dean glanced at Sam for an explanation, but he also only signaled for patience, though his lips still curled faintly.
Dean craned his neck to watch Castiel carry a bundle of blue wrapping paper, flecked with silver snowflakes, into the living room. The angel proffered it to Sam, who murmured his thanks, adjusted his grip, and extended it toward Dean.
After a moment’s hesitation, he accepted, blinking at the package in surprise, then glancing back toward Castiel in silent question.
The angel leaned forward a few inches as though to preserve Dean’s dignity despite the Winchester’s apparent ignorance as to basic holiday practices, “You’re supposed to unwrap it.”
Dean snorted a chuckle, then flipped the present so as to tear at the taped seam. His eyes flicked upward to Sam as he ripped open the paper, then his brow furrowed momentarily. He drew away the wrapping, unfolding the plush fabric in an attempt at identification.
It was a blanket, plaid in a forest green and river blue. It was soft, thick—cozy. Dean couldn’t help the confusion that wrinkled the corners of his face, but he smiled nonetheless. Sam was cold constantly, and to him, the cold carried another meaning. Perhaps he wanted to protect Dean from that, Dean imagined.
“Thanks, Sam,” he murmured, his quiet smile sincere.
Sam shook his head, reaching slowly forward as though to take the blanket between pinched fingers. Dean nodded and went still, trying to avoid accidentally brushing against him as he maneuvered so close. Cautiously, Sam shook out the blanket and draped it gently over Dean’s shoulders.
Dean’s smile waxed into sorrow. Maybe Sam was slipping, backsliding. Operating in a world exclusive to one who had survived what he had, where his actions only found reason within his mind, independent of the turn of the world.
Sam shook his head again, a faint thread of amusement lighting his eyes. When the blanket was firmly secured around Dean’s shoulders, leaving little but his head exposed, Sam leaned back, eyes skating over his work in evaluation. He met Dean’s gaze and seemed to inhale and hold his breath. Then, Sam wrapped his arms around his brother.
Dean froze in shock, then slowly relaxed into the embrace—not daring to return it, but hazarding a breath. He closed his eyes, breathing in the fresh, clean scent of the floral shampoo he’d bought Sam—because he thought flowers were about as far from hell as one could get. Sam’s grip was gentle, but tight—strong. Not an inch of their skin touched, but he hadn’t been closer to his brother in years.
“Merry Christmas, Dean,” Sam’s words were coherent, although somewhat rigid, as though rehearsed a dozen times to cement the pronunciation. He withdrew gradually, and Dean quickly wiped his cheeks and eyes against his sleeves, sniffing to clear his nose.
“Merry Christmas, Sam,” he echoed, shrugging the blanket down from his torso. He met his brother’s gaze again and spoke softly, “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” He didn’t want Sam to feel pressured to appease Dean’s frustrations by forcing proof of ‘progress.’ Dean wasn’t frustrated with Sam—he was just furious at how badly he’d been messed up, at what had been done to his little brother. “We go at your pace. However long you need.”
Sam nodded, tapping his temple twice to signal his understanding and smiling lightly to convey his appreciation, “I know.”
“We also made pie,” Castiel interjected from the kitchen, revealing what looked to be a crisp apple pie from where it had apparently been hidden in the oven, cloaked in foil.
Dean’s grin widened, and he swung to his feet, crossing quickly toward the kitchen. Castiel placed the tin in Dean’s hands, “Merry Christmas, Dean.”
“Merry Christmas, Cas.” Dean returned, taking in the cinnamon edge of the warm apple. He set the pie on the table and snatched a kitchen knife from a nearby drawer, easing it through the flaky crust. Dean pointed toward a cabinet, then curled a finger in beckoning and Castiel obliged, withdrawing a few plates from the cupboard.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had warm apple pie on Christmas, but it might as well have been. He looked at his brother—safe. Sam met his gaze and offered a slight nod, as though he understood and shared the sentiment. Maybe he was even… happy, if he could build the courage to allow himself such a blessing. Dean prayed he would. After everything, Sam deserved to taste joy again.
Dean’s gaze dropped with a gentle smile. He wasn’t sure how many more Christmases they’d share, and he wasn’t sure what to expect for any future. But for now… here, with his brother and best friend… this would be enough.