Fic: Epiphany [9/9]
Sam bypasses invitations which relieves Dean to no end, preferring instead to let the invite go by word of mouth and a few phone calls. Dean doesn't expect a huge turnout since it's only a few days before Christmas, but the list of names Sam keeps by the phone keeps getting longer and not a few names have mysterious numbers next to them, indicating extra people who might come along. To Sam's credit, he does his best that week to get himself ready. He sleeps a solid twelve hours every night, testament to his exhaustion in keeping completely focused and present during the day. Dean can tell that the distractions are still running rampant but the reapers he doesn't know about until he asks.
"Still there," Sam confirms. "Farther, though. She's not following as close."
"She?" Dean asks.
Sam's face folds. "She looks like Jess," he admits.
Dean shakes his head, watching Sam's face. "Sam, are you sure we should be doing this?"
"I want to," Sam says again.
"I'm not risking you for a party, Sam. I mean it."
Sam nods. "Don't worry. You won't be."
-
The evening of the party Sam does a final run-through of the house, making sure their shabby decorations are exactly as they should be. Then he does it again.
Dean grabs him and keeps a grip on his arm the third time around, squeezing to get Sam's attention. "Sam."
"I get it, I know, I just remembered one thing."
"Well, fix that thing and then that's it." Sam nods distractedly and Dean squeezes tighter. "Hey, if we're doing this," he pauses, waiting for Sam to meet his eyes, "you're taking it easy. You hear me? I reserve the rights to pull the plug on this one. I see any trouble and that's it, party's over, everybody goes home."
"I'm fine. Seriously. I just want everyone to have a good time."
"Well, I'm telling you I can't have a good time if I'm worried you're going to do something stupid. So pay attention to the rules: no going crazy over things--we decorated, we cooked, we cleaned. There's no time to do anything else so having an aneurysm about it is not going to make it better. Second, you have to promise me you'll sit down and eat something. I mean, full plate, the works. If I have to embarrass us both by feeding you I will, but trust me, neither of us is going to enjoy it."
Sam puts his hands on his hips, raising his eyebrows. "Anything else?"
"Yeah, don't worry about cleaning up tonight. I see you with a dirty dish in your hand, I'll break it."
"The dish or the hand?"
"Both."
Sam's lips quirk like he wants to smile but he isn't folding that easy. "You done reading me the riot act?"
Dean considers for a minute. "Yeah, I'm done." He stops Sam from walking away with a hand to his shoulder. "Seriously though. If there's a...problem. If this gets to be too much, just say the word. I'll kick 'em out, no questions asked."
Sam's eyes are clear. "I'll be fine. I promise. I've got this."
The doorbell rings and a grin breaks over Sam's face.
"Showtime."
-
It's thirty minutes before Dean is able to excuse himself from the tangle of people and retreat to the kitchen with a cup of coffee. He's just taken a sip when Sam comes in from the other side, the door swinging in his wake.
He pushes a hand through his hair and gives a small laugh. "Wow. What do you think?"
"It's a lot of people."
"It is a lot of people," Sam agrees, lifting the lid of the one of the pots on the stove. "I didn't expect this many, actually. I think the whole town decided to show up."
Dean shrugs a shoulder. "If you build it..."
"They will come, yeah, I got that. You hiding from Joanne's sister or what?"
Dean snorts a laugh, watching Sam open the oven. "I don't know, man, I thinks she likes them tall, dark, and geeky."
"Very funny. I told Joanne to get everybody gathered around the table so we could eat. If we wait much longer, the turkey's gonna be dry."
"Want help getting stuff out of the oven?"
"I've got it covered," Sam answers, shrugging on an apron and oven mitts big enough to cover even his gigantic hands, and pulling out the turkey with the same look of concentration that he uses to strip rifles.
Looking back later, Dean has to admit that the whole thing was somewhat miraculous and wonders whether Sam was more in control of the situation than he let on: the cider is taken off the stove just before it burns, the turkey nearly slides from the roasting pan to the floor but detours onto the platter at the last moment, and somehow by the time they get all the food to the table it's still hot.
Joanne was as good as her word and everybody is crowded around the long row of tables and chairs brought in from who knows where. They join hands together and Sam gives a blessing. It's short, nothing too solemn or poetic, but Dean can't help the stinging in his eyes as he looks around at the bowed heads, smells the curls of steam coming from the food, and feels Sam's solid grip on his hand.
Sam is praying for them. He's saying stupid Sam things like bless the food and thanks for bringing everyone here and-- Sam is praying for them. For everyone there, like it's no big deal. And Dean swallows a few times because he is certain that God is hearing Sam's stupid prayer, hearing the prayer of the boy with the demon blood, listening to the boy with the gift that might never go away.
And maybe, Dean thinks--maybe Sam listens to God, too.
Sam murmurs amen next to him, giving his hand a squeeze before letting go, and then the spell is broken as everyone crowds around the table to find their places, jostling elbows and scraping back chairs. Sam can't stay still at his end of the table, gesturing wildly with his hands or passing the rolls after stealing one for himself or hopping up for cider and asking over the hubbub if anyone else wants more. Dean finds himself staring and only stops when Carol puts a wrinkled hand on his sleeve and nods to the food on his plate.
"I wasn't sure if you liked cranberries but I put some on there for you anyhow."
Dean blinks at his miraculously filled plate and then at Carol's gentle face. "Oh--yeah, thanks. That's great. Thanks."
"I know you worry about him." She offers an understanding smile and shares a look with her husband. "Dale has to put up with me worrying about him the same way."
"I always tell her I can choose my own vegetables." Dale shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. She puts them on my plate anyhow."
"Oh, hush." Carol smiles fondly. "Anyways, I was going to say, your brother looks like he's doing well. He's eating better." She gives Sam a small wave and Sam's dimples are out in full force.
"Yeah." Dean tries to clear the lump from his throat. "He's been...he's been doing good. Today's a good day."
Carol smiles. "Looks like."
She pats his hand again and Dean scoops up a forkful of mashed potatoes. Sam catches Dean's eye across the table and lifts his beer in salute. Dean grins back in response.
So. Guess it was worth it, then.
-
After dinner, everyone finds somewhere to sit in the living room, dragging chairs to clump in groups or piling on the couch and around the tree, laughing and drinking coffee and cider, the occasional beer. It's late before anyone gets up and even then it's only to clear the table. Carol insists on packaging the food for the boys and whoever else wants it, and Abby starts the dishes, groaning whenever Dean enters with another load of plates.
Sam is kept busy at the door, smiling and thanking everyone, helping to collect the right coats and hats. Dean pauses with a stack of plates outside the kitchen door, listening to the happy hum of conversation between Abby and Carol, a chorus of laughter from the few still in the living room.
But mostly he listens to Sam.
Nobody else can tell, probably, but Dean hears the scratch in Sam's voice that says he's tired. Sam's laughter is muted, eyes already dropping the way they seem to so easily these days. He's going to be wiped after this, probably won't even be able to get out of bed until Christmas. Dean can't say he regrets it, though. Sure, he'll be worrying his head off if Sam gets tangled in an episode he can't work his way out of, but he won't regret it. Not when it makes Sam so happy.
A heavy step from behind him makes Dean turn. Sam smiles. "Got enough plates there?"
Dean makes a face and shoulders his way into the kitchen, Sam behind him.
"There you boys are," Carol greets them. "I was just telling Abby that you don't have stockings hung."
"Are you kidding? I had to twist Dean's arm just to get him to put up the tree," Sam says, perching on a stool behind the counter.
Carol's eyes sparkle conspiratorially. She leans in and whispers, "I'll see if I can't find something up in the attic for you boys."
"I heard that," Dean says and Carol smacks his rear with a towel.
"You were meant to."
Abby picks up a foil-wrapped plate of muffins. "All right, you guys. I'd better head out."
Dean lifts a hand and Sam says, "As soon as you're done with that extra credit essay, send it over."
"Will do!"
Carol pokes Dean in the side once the front door closes. "You could do worse."
Dean makes an incredulous face. "Sammy has dibs on this one."
"Oh really?" Carol turns her attention to Sam, who ducks his head.
"I hate to say it but we really are just friends," Sam says. "And we're staying that way."
"I don't see why you shouldn't date her," Carol says. "She's smart, pretty. She likes you, that's plain enough."
"Yeah, well. Relationships tend to not end well with me." Sam fidgets a little on his stool. "I had a girlfriend. Jess. She died not long after we started dating and... I don't know, I think she was it for me."
"Oh, sweetheart." Carol puts a sympathetic hand on his knee. "I'm so sorry."
"She, uh, she was crazy about the holidays." A fond smile crosses Sam's face. "Every chance she could celebrate something she did, but Christmas was always her favorite. The last year we were together I told her to go have Christmas with her family. I'm glad she went and I'm glad her family got to have that time with her, of course, but...holidays bring up more memories than most, y'know? Sometimes I wish I had those memories with her too. I don't know, I guess--if someone was going to be gone soon, I think spending that time with them, making those memories, would make it easier. After."
Carol's watching Sam, looking at him like she's seeing something completely different. "I understand," she says, and she only looks away when Sam nods a little. "Well." She picks up two foil-wrapped plates and when she smiles her eyes are clear. "I'm off, boys. Dale is in the living room?"
"I think he's snoring on the couch," Sam says.
"That's my charming husband," she says but there's no bite to her voice. "I'd better get him to his own bed or he'll stay all night. Keep an eye out for the stockings, Sam!" she calls through the swinging door. "I'll leave them on the step if you're not home."
Sam stands to say his last goodbyes and Dean blocks his path, not backing down at Sam's confused, "What?"
"You know what," Dean says in a low voice. "All that crap you were feeding Carol about making memories and moving on."
Sam frowns. "That wasn't crap, I meant it."
"Yeah, I'll bet. So what am I supposed to do with it? Huh, Sam? You want me to slap a smile on my face and make memories with you to last me through the winter?"
A muscle clenches in Sam's jaw. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Oh, sure, try pulling that one on me. You look me in the face and tell me that you were talking about you and Jessica back there and only you and Jessica."
Sam fixes Dean with a look. "Fine," he snaps. "I wasn't talking about me and Jess. I was talking about Carol and Dale."
Dean's mouth drops and Sam shoulders past him.
-
There's a pile of bulging black trash bags by the door when they finish cleaning up. The living room furniture is still pushed against the walls, the folding chairs they borrowed from the church stacked in the hall by the front door. There's a heap of towels on the floor where someone spilled their cider and napkins are littered around the room. Sam is stretched across the couch, his forearm resting over his eyes, when Dean turns off the lights in the kitchen.
"I thought you already fought off Dale's reaper."
Sam doesn't move but Dean can tell by the tension in his body that he's not asleep.
"I bought him a few weeks," Sam says. His voice is thin like a thread. "Bought him some time."
Dean scrapes his fingernails through his hair and folds into one of the armchairs dragged behind the swinging door leading to the kitchen. "You had a vision," he says, half question. Sam shifts a little on the couch and Dean sighs. "You had a vision," he repeats to himself. He leans forward, fists held to his forehead. "How long does he have?" he asks.
Sam's voice is muffled. "A few weeks."
It's a minute before Dean asks, "How long do you have?"
Sam doesn't answer.
-
Dean's waiting for Sam's episode that night. He lies in his bed, looking up at the ceiling, listening to Sam's slow breaths, and waits. He must fall asleep because the next thing he knows he's opening his eyes and Sam's gone. He pounds down the stairs, calling for Sam, but the front door is closed this time.
"Shoot."
He runs back upstairs and grabs the flashlight from their room, then makes a quick tour of the house. All the doors are locked--except one. The back door is open, revealing heavy footprints appearing in the snow.
"Sam!"
Dean swears and follows the footprints from their house to the fields, cursing again when he loses the trail. He sweeps the flashlight's beam over the white expanse, stomach clenching at the sight of the dark woods bordering them. Sam's never made it that far, never even tried to go past the corner that he claims used to be a burial ground, but that doesn't mean that he couldn't. Dean swivels, cursing under his breath. The light snags on a dark huddle twenty yards from the house and Dean runs.
When he reaches his brother, Sam is curled forward, shivering violently.
"Hey, hey, hey. Sam." Dean crashes to his knees in the snow and grabs Sam's chin, pressing his thumbs to the waxy skin over Sam's cheekbones. Sam jerks in his hold and Dean shuffles forward, ignoring the snow seeping through the worn cotton of his sweatpants.
"Stop," Sam whispers, his lips blue. "Just stop."
"Sammy, listen to me. It's just an episode, it's not real, c'mon."
He reaches around Sam's back to help him up and Sam panics. He shoots out an arm and topples Dean, staggering five steps before he's tackled from behind, knocked facedown in the snow. For all Sam's apparent weakness, he's like wildcat once he's down, fighting like a cornered animal. He scrabbles forward, leaving furrows in the snow, and Dean lunges, pressing his weight down and shoving his hands underneath Sam to hug his brother to his chest.
"Sammy! Sam, stop it! Calm down, you're making it worse. Listen to me, it's not real."
Sam doesn't listen, though. A whine slithers from his throat and he bucks, legs shifting for purchase. Somehow he gets to his hands and knees, and Dean hooks a foot around Sam's calf and straightens his leg, pitching Sam into the snow again.
"Dean, let me go," Sam says.
"You done acting like a child?" Dean demands. He feels Sam try to gather himself again and lets his weight go slack. Sam collapses in the snow weakly.
"Dean. Please, Dean, this one thing. Listen to me, I'm not... Just let go."
"No," Dean says firmly. "Not happening, Sammy."
He waits until Sam stills, back heaving as he draws in shuddering breaths, then relaxes his hold. As soon as Dean does, Sam rolls, clawing at Dean and squirming out from under him. An elbow catches Dean in the sternum and he falls to the side with a grunt, still holding Sam who seems to have forgotten everything John taught them about combat. His fist catches Dean across the mouth and Dean tastes blood slick against his teeth.
"Hey! Hey!"
He straddles Sam, grabbing roughly at his brother's wrists and crushing them to his chest, wrapping Sam in his arms like a vice. His fingers bunch in Sam's jacket, Sam's boots bruising his legs, and Dean freezes, his grip loosening. Sam's not having an episode at all, he realizes. It's just Sam.
Sam butts his forehead against Dean's chest once, twice, before leaving it there, sobs rattling his chest. Dean can't make out the muffled words but the broken sounds his brother is making are enough.
"Sammy," he says gently, gripping Sam's nape and smoothing his thumb into the hair behind Sam's ear. "What's going on, huh? What are you doing out here?"
Sam shudders, rubbing his face into Dean's wet shirt.
"Hey, you with me? You gotta talk to me, I can't hear you, man."
Sam shakes his head, clumps of snow melting in his hair. His teeth are chattering so hard he can barely get the words out. "I m-made my choice. I made it."
Dean rocks them, the same agitated motion he used when Sam was a baby. "I know. I know."
"This thing, it's-- I can't-- I can't."
"I'm trying to help you, Sam. I am, you just gotta show me how. I swear I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. I'm not."
Sam shifts, pulling away, and Dean tightens his grip until he catches a glimpse of Sam's face--calmer, resigned. "I know," Sam says. "I know you won't." He takes a breath and drags a sleeve under his raw nose.
"All right. You okay now?" At Sam's nod, Dean gets a shoulder under Sam's arm and levers him up with a grunt. "There you go. You're good. Now can we go back to the house before I lose something vital to frostbite?"
Sam gives a wet laugh and leans against Dean as they head back to the house. "Yeah," he says. "Sounds good."
-
Dean keeps a close eye on Sam the next day, ready at any minute for the stress from the party to catch up to Sam and drag him back into one of the colds that he seems to catch so easily. But Sam seems fine. He sleeps late the next morning, then snags the truck keys and says he'll be back in a couple hours. When Dean asks where he's going, he wags his eyebrows and says, "Christmas presents," in a mysterious voice, then closes the front door behind him, ringing the doorbell obnoxiously until Dean yells at him to just go already. He's back by two, tosses the truck keys at Dean. Dean finds him passed out on his bed a few minutes later. He snaps a blanket out over Sam's body, then drags the quilt from his own bed to cover Sam's feet.
"Sure," he says quietly. "You're fine."
They bundle up that evening for a quick trip to the diner--miraculously open on Christmas Eve--where Beth brings Sam soup without him asking and puts extra bacon on Dean's burger. It's something they'll miss when they get back on the road, Dean thinks--being known like that.
Sam rips open a packet of crackers and crumbles them in his soup, looking up and catching Dean watching him. "Want one?"
Dean shakes his head, biting into his burger. "I was just thinking. You're doing better. With the whole...seeing things...thing."
Sam's hitches a shoulder. "I don't know that it's better. I think maybe I've just gotten used to it. Honestly, I don't even notice it anymore. It's easy to forget sometimes."
"Forget what?"
Sam taps his spoon against the bowl, a barely noticeable chink amid the sounds of other people. "What it was like to not see things like this," he says. He casts his eyes around the room, runs a fingernail across the formica tabletop. "I forget. This isn't what everyone sees."
Dean's swallows and sets down his burger. "We'll figure it out, Sam. We'll get you back to normal."
The corner of Sam's mouth lifts. "I don't think that's what I want anymore." At Dean's look, he continues, "The rest of it, yeah, that'd be great. But seeing things the way I do--it's like seeing through a window into a world no one else knows about. Having a flashlight," he shakes his head, his smile growing, "in a dark room. I understand. Some things, I understand."
"What is it you understand? Huh?"
"I can't tell you," Sam says regretfully. "I wish I could but I can't."
"Try," Dean says shortly.
Sam tilts his head, looking at Dean. "Okay," he finally says. "But not today."
-
The bell rings over the door of the diner as they leave. Sam looks up at it and barks a laugh, breath steaming in the air. His hands are dug deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. His jacket is zipped up all the way but Dean can still tell he's thin, the way he used to be when he was sixteen and growing like a weed, all his carefully packed-on muscle fading away.
"We going home?" Sam asks.
Dean watches Sam pull his beanie down over his hair. "Where else would we go?"
"I don't know." A few snowflakes are making their lazy way down from the night sky and Sam cups one in his palm. It melts almost instantly. "I don't think I'm ready to go home yet."
Dean jingles the keys thoughtfully, then jerks his head to the truck. "C'mon."
Sam follows readily enough, raising an eyebrow when Dean pulls onto the road, his speed well below the limit. He turns off the main street into a neighborhood and watches Sam's expression as they stop in front of the first brightly lit house. Sam's mouth quirks as he takes in the candy-cane-lined walk, the plastic reindeer in the yard.
"Thought we could drive around a little, check out the lights like Dad did when we were kids. You remember that?" Dean asks, idling in front of the next house, one with twinkle lights edging its eaves. Sam nods. He's tucked himself into the corner of the cab, dark hair spread across the window. Dean bumps up the heat and turns the vents toward Sam, then pulls ahead to the next house.
They're on the fourth house when Sam says, "We used to argue about which lights were better."
"Regular or colored." A smile crosses Dean's face at the memory. "You liked the white ones."
"They all fit in." Sam's voice is thick and sleep-hazed. His breath fogs the glass, and through the window the lights are blurred, indistinct smudges haloed around his head. His eyes are open, though, watching Dean in the dim, so Dean keeps driving. He drives through cozy neighborhoods of what look like gingerbread houses dusted with powdered sugar, humming under his breath until Sam falls asleep. Until, one by one, the houses dim and there's nothing but him and his brother and snow falling like feathers from the sky.
-
Christmas dawns bright and early and, thank God, neither of the Winchesters are awake to see it. When Dean opens his eyes the clock on their nightstand says 10:23 and Sam is still snoring in the other bed. He considers going downstairs for snow to hold to the soles of Sam's feet but decides it's too much effort and rolls over to sleep for another hour.
When he wakes up the second time, Sam's bed is empty, the sheets rumpled, and the smell of coffee wafts up the stairs. Dean pulls on a sweatshirt and socks and follows. Sam's in his pajamas on the couch, half reading the newspaper, half watching the TV.
"Coffee?" Dean grunts.
"Kitchen," Sam replies, voice raspy.
Dean pours himself a cup of coffee and sits on the couch with a groan. Sam wordlessly holds out the plate of cookies.
"Dude, did you actually put out cookies last night?" Dean asks. Sam shrugs around the cookie in his mouth and Dean swipes two from the plate. "What are we watching?"
"Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer."
Dean grunts, then shifts around so he can nudge Sam with his foot. "Hey."
"Mmm."
"Isn't this the part where we do presents or something?"
A slow grin spreads over Sam's face. "I thought you weren't into this whole Christmas thing."
Dean looks away. "Sue me."
"No, no, you're right. Present time. Let me go get it." Sam jogs up the stairs and Dean goes into the kitchen for more coffee.
When he comes back in, Sam has plugged in the tree lights and is sitting cross-legged in front of the tree, a red and green striped package with an obnoxious gold bow resting in front of him.
He smiles broadly when Dean eases himself to the ground next to him. "Open it."
Dean eyes it warily. "Are you sure it's safe?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Just open it."
The wrapping crinkles and crunches like none of the newspaper or paper bags they've wrapped presents in before.
"It's a car kit," Sam explains once he pushes away the last of the wrapping paper. "For the Impala. Rick helped me put together a few things to get her in shape for spring."
"Wow." Dean passes a hand over the cloths and bottles of sealant. "This is great, man."
"Yeah?" Sam says, grinning. "Good."
Dean sets aside the kit and scoots his present over to Sam. "It's not much, but... Well, you'll get it."
Sam deftly opens the wrapping and lifts an eyebrow. "A box of razors?"
"In the box."
Sam picks at the tape covering the lid, then slides out a white iPod with a laugh. "No way."
"You remember that?"
"I thought you trashed this."
"Thought about it. Figured you'd cry too much if I did, though, so I kept it, added a few new songs to it. As soon as we get the Impala back on the road, I solemnly swear to give you one day of picking the music."
"One day a week," Sam counters.
"You can't bargain with Christmas gifts."
"One day a week."
"Sam."
"One--"
"Okay, fine!" Dean grumbles. "One day a week you get to pick the music."
Sam's grin lights up the room.
-
The rest of the day is spent sleeping, eating the leftovers of the Christmas party, and attempting to sled on the small slope at the end of their street built up from all the shoveled snow. They eat dinner at the Finleys, stuffing themselves with peanut brittle and fudge, then play Rummikub until the moon is high over the snow and Dale is nodding off in his chair. Then Sam nudges Dean and they say their goodbyes, trudging back through the snow where Dean falls asleep on the couch, Sam clicking away on the laptop in the armchair by the tree.
Dean jerks awake an hour later, hands flying out on either side of him, disoriented until he remembers why he's downstairs on the couch instead of in his bed. Groaning, he blinks at his watch until it comes into focus. 11:13. A quick glance around the room reveals no Sam but the laptop is open on the kitchen counter which means he's probably not far.
Dean eases off the couch, dragging the blanket with him, and settles on his back near the tree, close enough to look up through its branches. The house is dark but for this pyramid of lights and ornaments, harmless things with no reason for existing but to make his brother happy. He snorts at the toy drums depicting the Twelve Days of Christmas, but his mouth quirks in a smile when he sees the tiny Matchbox Impala that Sam tied a ribbon around and hung on a drooping bough. There's a long string of popcorn winding like a highway across the branches, weaving through the shining red and gold balls, and if Dean squints his eyes, it looks like the Impala's moving along it. The whole thing is kind of majestic, he reflects, even with the candy canes hooked on the end of just about every branch.
"I like to do that too."
Sam's deep rumble comes from somewhere near his shins and Dean lifts his head to find Sam holding a blanket around his shoulders, feet bare on the wood floor.
"Go put some socks on," he says but Sam ignores him in favor of folding to the ground next to Dean's hip, eyes fixed on the tree.
"Should've put an angel on top."
Dean snorts. "Like we need anything else angelic around here."
Sam grins, bumping his knee against Dean's side. "Want more eggnog?"
Dean blows out a slow breath. "Not unless you want me to start drooling on the couch again."
Sam laughs. The logs on the fire shift, reduced to embers and blackened hollows, sending up a shower of sparks. Dean nudges Sam's foot for his attention, then says, "You got your Christmas."
"Yeah, I did."
Dean returns his gaze to the tree, listening to Sam breathe, slowly measuring his own breaths until they're breathing in unison. Now's the time, a small voice in the back of his head presses. Now's the time for last words. But Dean doesn't have any. Instead he sits up and fists his hand in the back of Sam's shirt, wrist pressed against the back of Sam's neck. He feels the warm skin there and he doesn't say anything.
Sam's mouth lifts, and he nods a little to himself. Then he says, "Come on," and tugs Dean to his feet.
"Where are we going?" Dean asks, but Sam doesn't answer. So Dean follows like he's always done, trailing his brother to the front door with Sam's fingers curled in his sleeve.
They stand in the snow out by the maple tree, and Sam says, "I have one more present for you," and fits his palm over Dean's eyes. Dean's world is narrowed down to darkness, the press of Sam's hand against his face, and the sound of their breathing muffled by falling snow. Sam's hand tightens briefly and Dean catches a quick flash of something before Sam's breath catches. Then Sam's hand is pressing on him harder and Dean feels the tremble of Sam's muscles through his arm.
"Sam, what are you doing?" he asks, trying to push Sam's hand away. It drags down his face to cup his ear but at least he can see Sam--whose face is lined with pain. "Sam, stop."
Sam's eyes are screwed shut, his thumb digging into the hair at Dean's temple. Dean makes to pull away but Sam grits out, "No, wait," and then--
Dean's world is lit.
The night is just as dark as before but streaks of light trace over everything. Sam is glowing; Dean lifts his hand and he's glowing too.
"Can you see?" Sam gasps.
Dean has to swallow before he can answer. "Yeah. Yes."
Sam huffs a laugh and his breath hits Dean's face like a cloud. He can feel the pulse in Sam's wrist, his own blood moving through his veins, nerves zinging up and down his spine. Their footprints leading from the house are filled with what look like fireflies. He can see the designs in the falling snow, every snowflake a name of affection, a promise, a touch, accumulating in drifts with answers too many for the questions of the world. All the questions he's wanted to ask, all the times that he raged for answers when Sam was sick, when Sam didn't recognize him, when Sam's mind was gone, taken by the gift embedding itself in his body.
But now that he's faced with the answers, he can't ask the first question that comes to mind. Instead, he asks the second.
"What is it?"
"I can't... I can show you. I told you I'd show you," Sam says. Dean can feel Sam looking at him, sense his warm presence in a way he never could before, but he can't look back quite yet. "See," Sam says.
So Dean does. He breathes and looks, takes in the snow-covered pines, the stories inscribed on the wood of their house, the truth behind the scars his own skin holds. He could strip down tastes to their elements if he tried, he knows. He can separate the sharp scent of pine, the heavy smell of burning wood, the bright snap of snow. He could pick the stars apart, look up at them and see forever, see their depths and their surfaces, their moons and paths. He understands, he knows in a way he never could before, in a way that no human could understand. It's too big, too much, but he can't help trying to absorb it all, grasping at it and pulling the knowledge closer. He wants more, he wants--
He turns to look at Sam and a palm closes over his eyes.
"No," Sam's hoarse voice says. "You can't. Not at me."
Sam's fingers tighten on his face briefly, then he moves his palm.
The world is flat, featureless. Dean blinks swiftly, surprised at the tears on his cheeks. Sam looks drained, exhausted, his face white but his eyes clear. He leans forward, hands on his knees, as if catching his breath.
"Wanted you to see," he pants.
"I didn't get to ask..." Dean's eyes flick back over the moonlit landscape, desperately searching. His ears are ringing, like he could hear before and now there's only silence. "My first question. I want to know why."
"I know." Sam's eyebrows knit as he straightens. "You can't."
The answer doesn't hurt like Dean thinks it should. "I know," he says, surprising himself. "I mean... I don't have to know. I understand."
They retrace their steps slowly, the world dark in a way that Dean's never known. He can't help pressing his hand to the door before going in, but nothing happens and he steps inside, stopping when Sam says, "Wait."
Slowly, he turns and faces Sam on the threshold, the brink between two places, and Sam reaches out and places his hands on either side of Dean's face, his thumbs lightly touching Dean's eyelids until they flutter closed. A moment later he feels the dry press of Sam's lips on his forehead, a soft, "Merry Christmas," whispered over his skin, and then the warmth is gone, Sam crossing the threshold and leaving Dean in his wake. He stands at the door a minute more, his eyes still shut.
It felt like a benediction. It felt like goodbye.
-
New Years is spent with Sam asleep on the couch. The ball drops in New York on the TV and Dean watches from the kitchen doorway. He'd gotten up to get a beer, keeping an ear cocked to the TV to wake Sam up for the big event, but in the end he spends the turn of the new year watching Sam sleep, watching the rise and fall of Sam's ribs, staring as if he can look deep enough to see his bones and the sigils carved on them that, in the end, didn't keep Sam safe after all.
He takes out the trash, bottles clinking softly as he tips them into the bin by the garage. When he gets back in, Sam's awake, eyes puffy like he hasn't slept in days. He's sitting by the window, attention fixed on the Christmas lights shining through.
"You wanna leave 'em up?" Dean offers. "We could, y'know. Be those people who leave their Christmas lights up all year, never take 'em down."
Sam shakes his head. "It's not the same." He sits in silence for a little while longer. "I hate to see it go. Christmas. It's like it's gone before you even get to know it."
Dean's stomach clenches. He shoulders his way between Sam and the window, pulling Sam's eyes to him. "I know you." He crouches in front of Sam, pulling him in by the front of his shirt. "Sam. I know you. And you're not going anywhere."
The corner of Sam's mouth tugs up in a sad, twisted smile. "Yeah, I am. The only thing we don't know is when."
"When you're eighty," Dean says firmly. "Not before then and not without me."
Sam shakes his head. "I can't do that."
Dean shrugs as if he doesn't care but his voice is like iron. "It's not your call to make. I mean, come on. We don't just die. We don't just go out like the rest of the world, not after what we've been through. And when we die, I want us to choose to die, dammit. I want us to pick a day and let go, walk into the light and all that crap, and I want it to be our choice."
Sam's fingers close over Dean's wrist. "That's not how death works."
"That's how it should work."
"Dean," Sam pinches Dean's bones together, "we don't go together."
"Says who?"
"Whatever happens, you don't get to follow me, Dean. You can quit the life, you can keep hunting if that's what you want, but you do not get to follow me."
"Little brothers don't call the shots."
"This time they do."
Dean twists his fingers tighter in Sam's shirt, his voice low and cracked. "If you don't want me to follow you, then you'd better stay alive."
Sam's mouth lifts. "I'm trying."
"I know, Sammy." He curls his fingers into the hair at the back of Sam's head and lets Sam press his forehead into his shoulder. "I know."
-
Dean calls Bobby a few days later.
"I think you need to come. Sam's not going to make it much longer."
Echoing silence meets his statement, stretching so long that Dean thinks the call was disconnected, then Bobby says, "All right," in a thick voice. "All right. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Are you coming from Sioux Falls?"
"I wish I was," Bobby says, "but I'm clear across the country. Carlin, Nevada. It'll take me a few days."
"Make it less."
-
Midnight is good for making deals. It's another threshold, another doorway between what was and what will be, and that's when Dean tells Castiel to come.
-
He waits until Sam's asleep, then gets up and pads his way downstairs, past the Christmas tree, through the front door hung with one of Sam's bells, and out into the yard. The moon is bright on the snow, but even the memory of Sam's gift, of being able to see what Sam sees, dims it.
Dean squares his shoulders and lets out a breath. "Cas."
The angel blinks into being in front of him, wings limned with light for a moment.
"That something new?" Dean raises a hand to where Castiel's wings had been and the angel's eyebrows lift.
"Sam showed you."
"Yeah, he showed me all right. By the way, nice of you to actually show up. I'd almost forgotten what it was like."
"You expect me to have answers," Castiel says. "I thought it would be easier that you don't see me than to see me and expect me to act when there's nothing I can do to help."
"There is something you can do to help."
"Dean--"
"I want to deal for Sam," Dean says. "Whatever it is Heaven wants, we can work it out. They want a supernatural warrior, that can be arranged."
"This is exactly what your brother doesn't want," Castiel says.
"Sam is barely running on his own steam right now. He's had a damn reaper shadowing him for weeks," Dean growls. "He's not exactly up for making big decisions."
"I think Sam is making more decisions than you think." At Dean's look, Castiel squares his shoulders. "Arrangements have already been made between me and Sam. There's nothing else to be done."
Dean's head rears back at the firmness in Castiel's tone. "You really are just going to let him die."
"I'm doing what he asked," Castiel says. "I believe that's customary--granting a last wish," and then his wings spread and he's gone.
-
Dean goes back to work on January 6th for the first time in almost a month. He calls the house on his lunch break and Sam picks up, sounding fine, telling him about his morning: cereal for breakfast, a call to Bobby, replacing the porch light. Nothing to worry about. All's well. The rest of the day passes quickly.
His phone buzzes when he leaves the garage that evening. He pulls it out as he gets in the truck. Abby C. shows up on the screen and Dean flips it open.
"Is Sam with you?" Abby asks.
Dean's hand tightens on the phone. "No, why?"
"We were going to hang out tonight, but he just texted me and said there was something important he had to do and he wasn't going to make it. Is everything okay?"
"Damn it, Sam," Dean mutters.
"Dean," Abby repeats, worry in her tone. "Is everything okay? Where is he? Do you know what he's doing?"
"Yeah," Dean says. "I think I do."
"Do you need help finding him?"
"No. I know where he is."
"Call me when you find him," Abby says.
"I will," Dean promises, and hangs up.
He sits in the truck a few minutes, his phone held loosely in his hand. Then he leans forward and starts the engine.
A light snow starts to fall, a thin layer of delicate flakes dotting his windshield, floating past as he pulls out of the parking lot. He rolls down his window and holds out a hand, the cold air threading them through his fingers like lace. Later, he remembers every inch of that drive, every detail crystal clear, like he's watching himself pull the truck into their driveway, get out, stand in the silence. The Christmas lights are lit, red and green and gold glowing on the blue-shadowed snow. He doesn't search the house.
Instead he goes out to the wide space behind the house, snow crunching under his boots, where he picks up Sam's footprints and follows them to the back field until, halfway to the pines, they disappear. Slowly, he places his feet in the last set of footprints and tilts his head back to the dark sky. Snowflakes catch in his eyelashes, dropping on his nose and cheeks like kisses. He breathes deep and then opens his eyes to watch the last flakes of snow fall from the sky. The snow is gone.
And so is Sam.
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