Fic: Amulets for Ornaments
Title: Amulets for Ornaments
Characters: Sam, Dean, Cas
Genre: h/c, gen
Rating: T
Word count: ~3k
Summary: Sam’s trying to decorate a Christmas tree for Cas. It’d be easier if he and Dean were talking. It’d also be easier if he could find some real ornaments. Set after 9x13 “Sharp Teeth."
Author’s Note: Yay, my first time to posting fic to LJ! Here’s hoping I don’t blow anything up… Also, merry belated Christmas! I started writing this last spring, and told myself I would polish it up and post before Christmas. Obviously, I’m a bit late, but I figured better late than never. Christmas lights are still up, right? Anyway, writing complicated season 9 boys was a fun challenge for me and I hope I did it justice. Hope you enjoy!
What kind of store doesn’t have Christmas ornaments? Sam pulls up to the bunker, returning from a crappy shopping run. He just wasted three hours of his life driving an hour out to the nearest Walmart, scouring the store, and shouldering his way past the massive throngs, to discover sorry sir, we are completely sold out of ornaments. He knows he’s hitting the stores on December 23rd, but still. At least he found some overpriced lights and a tree stand. He grabs the bags out of the back seat, bunching the plastic handles around one hand.
Forgetting the whole Christmas thing is sounding awfully appealing. It’s not like he’s cared about Christmas - not really - since he was a kid. Dean tricking him into being possessed by an angel and then lying to his face for months while Sam did all kinds of terrible crap… kinda puts a damper on the Christmas spirit.
This is for Cas. Lately the guy has been interested in all the human stuff and when he started asking questions about holiday traditions, Sam figured putting on a little Christmas is the least he can do after Cas’s crappy stint as a human.
He fumbles with the door, fingers stiff from the cold, before stepping inside, immediately feeling the temperature difference. No place like home, he thinks, as he's greeted with the long conference table and war map and silence. His stomach growls and he pulls a face. He hadn’t expected to be gone so long and now he's really feeling it. At least he’s hungry. It beats the constant nausea he felt during the trials.
He heads straight for the kitchen, and nearly decides to come back later when he sees Dean’s half-eaten lunch sitting on the counter. It’s probably what Dean would do, but he refuses to stoop to that level of pettiness and hefts his bags to the counter.
He's digging around in the fridge for sandwich stuff when Dean walks in, eyes hitting Sam before studiously zeroing in on whatever Dean was in the process of eating. It's more than just the usual silence though, and Sam gets the distinct feeling it's an I’m-pissed-that-you-left-without-telling-me silence. Or maybe it’s an I’m-pissed-that-you-left-with-my-car silence. Either way, Sam ignores it, piling turkey and lettuce onto wheat.
Except, it’s kinda hard to celebrate Christmas if he and Dean can’t even talk to each other. Dammit.
“So-“ he starts, ready to make some stupid civil small talk.
“Where were you this afternoon?” Dean’s voice comes out hard and clipped. There's probably some worry in there too, but seriously?
“What the hell, Dean? I don’t see myself checking up on you when you go out every night.”
”Yeah, it’s not like you almost died and got your insides liquified recently."
"Dude, I can handle myself. And Cas said he healed all the damage. I’m fine.”
“Sorry for caring,” Dean shoots back, another non-apology.
“Sure you don’t mean controlling?” He’s seething, and this really wasn’t how he meant for this conversation to go. Ugh. It’s not his fault Dean’s being an ass.
Dean’s fist clenches open and closed, and Sam’s seen that gesture way too much the past few weeks, ever since Dean showed up with the mark of Cain on his arm. Sure, Sam shouldn’t follow through with God’s instructions on closing up hell, but Dean can take on a mysterious mark that belonged to an ancient guy who committed fratricide.
Dean’s plate of half-eaten leftovers should probably be ashes with the glare he’s giving it. “I’m going out,” Dean grits out, stalking out of the room.
Probably heading out to a bar again. Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
Just great.
- - -
On the bright side, with Dean out of the bunker and Cas… well, also somewhere not in the bunker, it’s the perfect opening to decorate. He heads to the spare room where Cas had stashed the Christmas tree yesterday. Shortly after an interrogation about the types and purposes of trees, Cas had shown up with a live tree in hand, taller than he was. Sam hadn’t asked, but he was pretty sure it hadn’t come from a tree lot.
Sam drags the tree into the library, pine needles trailing the ground, and half-props it in the corner. Finagling it into the tree stand is kind of a pain as a one man job, but he’d rather surprise Cas with the finished product. Obviously asking Dean is out of the question. So what if the tree's a little crooked? Not like any of them have high standards to judge this by. Lights go on next, then a star for the topper, also mysteriously the courtesy of Cas. He plugs in the lights, and surveys his work.
Hmmm. It would really look more like a proper Christmas tree with some ornaments. Maybe he can fix something up here as a substitute. He doesn’t expect to find a box of Christmas stuff lying around the Men of Letters bunker, but he’s got some ideas stirring.
- - -
He returns after a brief excursion to the depths of one of their storage rooms, dustier, but arms full of a box of old amulets. Scooping up a leather cord, Sam loops it around a branch experimentally. It basically looks like a pretty bauble on a string, so more or less an ornament, right? Not exactly your typical Christmas look, but it’ll give Cas the right spirit of things at least.
He’s pretty proud of his solution, though it feels a little ironic hanging symbols of good luck and protection all over their tree. As he hangs up a couple anti-possession charms, he hopes Dean doesn’t take the tree as a blazing message of passive-aggression. Sam’s still pissed about Gadreel, but the last thing he needs is Dean getting more defensive about his actions.
The next amulet he grabs has horns, and even though it's clearly, painfully different, he feels everything lurch as it hits a little too close to home. He fingers the horned amulet in his pocket. What would Dean do if he found it on the tree? He stupidly entertains the notion for a couple seconds before he decides he’s actually not sure that he wants to know. Besides, he’s obviously not bringing this up now. He’s the one who just said they couldn’t do this as brothers.
As hangs the look-alike on a low branch, his stomach flips over and he really hopes it’s not expired turkey again. He's told Dean to keep an eye on the dates.
He picks up another amulet, but before he can hang it up, his stomach knots around itself, leaving him nauseous. Not moving sounds really appealing, but maybe he’d better get to the bathroom. The last thing he needs is to puke all over their tree.
Oh. Crap, crap, crap. He's really cramping now. One hand uselessly clutching his stomach, he half-tosses half-drops the amulet to the ground and tries not to jostle his insides as he heads down the hall.
He’s made it almost to his bedroom doorway when a sudden surge of dizziness hits, the hallway tilting one direction and his head the other. He stumbles, hand fumbling at the wall for support. His stomach clenches, and he just stands there, awkwardly hunched against brick. He’s pretty sure moving is a straight ticket to puking or ending up on his ass.
Another wave of hot pain rolls through his gut and this time he lets his legs go down with his stomach, his knees hitting the ground hard. He has just enough time to think this isn’t from bad turkey before his stomach decides enough is enough and he loses his lunch all over the floor. Ugh, gross. He opens his clenched eyes to bright… red? splattered across wood. Definitely not his turkey sandwich.
Uh... Not good.
He feels like he’s sick from the trials all over again, blood cupped in his hand, hidden in crumbled tissues. Except that Cas has completely healed him, and it never got this bad. Something's seriously wrong. Obviously, this isn't food poisoning or some virus. He tries wracking his mind but it’s a little hard with the way his stomach is clenching. Witches, maybe? He and Dean took out that coven last week. But he was almost positive they’d gotten them all, and besides, how would a witch get a hex bag inside the bunker. Maybe… cursed object? He’d been sifting through some old junk to find the amulets, but he’d been careful to stay away from all the dark stuff. Actually… oh crap. That lurch he’d felt when-
Acid churns in his gut, eating through his insides and his teeth clench so hard the sounds scrapes through his head.
Dean. He needs to call Dean. It’s probably too late; too late to get help, too late for him and Dean to ever make up, but Dean at least deserves a goodbye, something more than a crappy final memory of fighting with his brother.
He groans and curls up tighter, one hand clutching feebly at his stomach, while the other goes for his pockets. Huh. Nothing. He tries the other. No phone. Crap. The hallway's spinning lazily, going white at the edges.
White like the lights on the tree… The tree. He hadn’t finished with the tree. And his death was going to put a real damper on Christmas. Damn it. He couldn’t ever make up for the stuff he’d done, but now... he can't even make a nice Christmas. Sorry, Cas, he thinks fleetingly as the world tips out.
- - -
He drifts in and out, fuzzy with pain. At least he thinks he’s drifting in and out. He can’t really keep track in the fog. He just wishes if he were going to die, it would happen quickly. It feels like it’s taking a while, and he can feel his insides churning, turning to liquid. Even if Dean got came back early from the bar - which, when did he? - he wouldn’t be able to do anything. Better Dean came back to a dead brother than a too late to save brother. Especially since… since...
His thoughts float away, lost in some fog. He tries to remember what he’d been thinking about. Something important? Something about… Dean?
He can’t help but drift except something’s pulling him back, distracting him. Which means… his brain feels like it’s trying to churn cotton… it wasn’t him; he wasn’t distracting himself. So something's out there. He kinda forgets the world is still going on outside of him. A noise?
The slam of a door.
Sammy?!
Sounds like a pissed off Dean.
Dean. Oh. Dean’s voice equals Dean is here. Dean’s here calling him.
He tries to will his thoughts into order. Something shifts and pulls his hand tighter around his stomach.
“Dean.” It comes out weak and breathy. No way Dean could hear.
He fights with the silence and realizes he can’t hear Dean anymore. No, no, no. Was he even here?
“Dean!” It comes out desperate, weak and crackly. It sounds loud and thick in his ears and he hopes it’s enough, that Dean’s really here, that he gets to say goodbye...
“Sam!” He feels the thuds tremor through the floor before the boots come into view. Then Dean’s face is there, wavering, but there, and his hands are touching, cold on his face, asking if he’s okay, asking what’s wrong.
His words garble into a moan.
“Whoa, easy there Sammy.” More cold fingers on his face, and he hates it, but he can’t because it’s Dean. And he knows if he lets himself feel the cold enough, it burns until it almost doesn’t feel like anything, just nothingness, floating along.
“Sam, you with me?”
Um, right. Words. Telling Dean. He licks his lips, but everything just feels dryer. “Amulet, cursed,” he slurs out, hoping it’s enough of an answer, and the right one. “S’okay,” he adds, cause he needs Dean to not beat himself up over the fight, over the silences, over the fact that he’s probably arrived in time to witness the end of Sam Winchester.
“Sam. Hey, hey, hey-stay with me.” Dean’s voice cuts in and that’s when he realizes his eyes are closed. But he's tired and Dean’s here and then he’s already gone, fading out again.
- - -
Sam wakes up to a soft bed but feeling like he’s trying to close the gates of hell. He kinda forgot how much it sucked.
Oh yeah. He had been sick - dying, he'd thought. His hand twitches to check his stomach. It seems intact and surprisingly pain free.
“Sam?” There's a rustling next to his head, the scraping of wood on wood. “You in there? Stop playing sleeping beauty and open your eyes for me, bro.”
Right. Eyes. He’d kinda rather go back to sleep, but he heard the shakiness behind Dean’s ribbing. His eyes crack open, sticky and tired. “Dean?” His voice is croaky enough that Dean’ll probably tease him about sounding like a frog and needing to kiss a princess or something, but he sounds, and feels, a lot better than last time he’d tried to speak.
“You’re alright. Here you go.” A hand's under him, helping him prop against the pillows. Dean holds out a glass, and Sam takes it, water cool against his throat. It feels a little sloshy in his stomach, but not like he’s gonna expel his insides.
“Dude, new rule: no digging through bunker crap unattended.” Dean runs a hand through his hair, aggravating the spikes.
Sam sets the glass back on the nightstand. “What happened?”
“Your bright idea to use amulets to bring the joy of Christmas? Might've worked better if you hadn’t hung the cursed one.”
“I checked before I started. They all looked okay.” He feels like a kid, pulling out a feeble explanation for a stupid play.
“Yeah, just… next time buy some damn ornaments.”
“I tried.”
He sees it in Dean’s face when he connects the dots to the mystery outing this morning. “Oh.” The silence hangs for a moment, but it doesn’t feel as suffocating as usual. “I just-“ Dean scrubs a hand over his eyes. “It was too damn close, Sam. I’m lucky you called Cas. Much longer…”
Sam frowns. “Cas? But I didn’t-”
“Sorry, Cas ring any bells? Cause that’s kinda a freaky message to get passed on. Luckily I was at the close bar and Cas was already on his way back. But maybe next time leave more of a clue about what I’m supposed to be looking for.” Dean’s hand flexes in and out of a fist, but there isn’t any anger in his words. "I finally touched the damn thing and figured it out, but it was a close shave. “You’re lucky Cas got here when he did.”
“You-you touched it?”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but I’m smart enough to destroy a cursed object right away. Unlike you, I was fine.”
“You puked blood.” Castiel’s gravelly voice cuts in from the doorway.
Dean mutters something about angels being unable to keep their damn mouths shut.
Sam’s mouth turns up, glad for the easy banter. He hates how good it feels that Dean’s worried, that Dean stupidly charged in and fixed the problem, cause that’s the same attitude that makes Sam’s stomach turn over at the thought of what Dean would’ve done if he had been too late.
“How are you feeling, Sam?” Cas asks, all grave concern. “I healed the damage, but you may still be feeling the aftereffects.”
“Uh, I’m good. No pain. Thanks Cas.” His brain circles around to the reason he touched a cursed amulet in the first place. “Actually, I’d really like to see the tree. Um, show you properly, Cas. Unless if you already…” He trails off, feeling suddenly uncertain of the whole venture.
“I would like that,” Cas affirms, and he’s almost as bad about hovering as Dean as they make their way to the library, Sam trying not to walk like his bones belong to an eighty-year old man.
Judging by the number of pine needles on the floor, the tree took a beating from Dean’s frantic search for the cursed amulet, but Christmas trees are evidently blessed with an obscene amount of greenery because the tree still looks full and bright.
“I vetoed the amulets for ornaments idea,” Dean explains for the complete absence of charms hanging on the tree. The box isn’t even still in the room.
Sam just nods. He’s really okay with that.
The lights are off, so at least Sam can pull out the classic tree lighting moment for Cas. He crouches next to the outlet. “Ready to light this thing up?” he asks, before shoving the plug into the wall.
The tree lights up, casting yellow shadows over Cas’s admiring look and his brother’s amused smirk.
“So?” Dean prods, eyeing Cas.
“It’s so simple… yet…” Cas glances over at Dean before trying out the word. “Awesome.” The angel quirks a grin. “Thank you, Sam.”
“Yeah.” He smiles easily. “Merry Christmas, Cas.” The next words come with hesitation and taste awkward, even as they’re reminiscent of years of them feeling right. But the tug at the corner of his mouth feels genuine. "Merry Christmas, Dean.”
Characters: Sam, Dean, Cas
Genre: h/c, gen
Rating: T
Word count: ~3k
Summary: Sam’s trying to decorate a Christmas tree for Cas. It’d be easier if he and Dean were talking. It’d also be easier if he could find some real ornaments. Set after 9x13 “Sharp Teeth."
Author’s Note: Yay, my first time to posting fic to LJ! Here’s hoping I don’t blow anything up… Also, merry belated Christmas! I started writing this last spring, and told myself I would polish it up and post before Christmas. Obviously, I’m a bit late, but I figured better late than never. Christmas lights are still up, right? Anyway, writing complicated season 9 boys was a fun challenge for me and I hope I did it justice. Hope you enjoy!
What kind of store doesn’t have Christmas ornaments? Sam pulls up to the bunker, returning from a crappy shopping run. He just wasted three hours of his life driving an hour out to the nearest Walmart, scouring the store, and shouldering his way past the massive throngs, to discover sorry sir, we are completely sold out of ornaments. He knows he’s hitting the stores on December 23rd, but still. At least he found some overpriced lights and a tree stand. He grabs the bags out of the back seat, bunching the plastic handles around one hand.
Forgetting the whole Christmas thing is sounding awfully appealing. It’s not like he’s cared about Christmas - not really - since he was a kid. Dean tricking him into being possessed by an angel and then lying to his face for months while Sam did all kinds of terrible crap… kinda puts a damper on the Christmas spirit.
This is for Cas. Lately the guy has been interested in all the human stuff and when he started asking questions about holiday traditions, Sam figured putting on a little Christmas is the least he can do after Cas’s crappy stint as a human.
He fumbles with the door, fingers stiff from the cold, before stepping inside, immediately feeling the temperature difference. No place like home, he thinks, as he's greeted with the long conference table and war map and silence. His stomach growls and he pulls a face. He hadn’t expected to be gone so long and now he's really feeling it. At least he’s hungry. It beats the constant nausea he felt during the trials.
He heads straight for the kitchen, and nearly decides to come back later when he sees Dean’s half-eaten lunch sitting on the counter. It’s probably what Dean would do, but he refuses to stoop to that level of pettiness and hefts his bags to the counter.
He's digging around in the fridge for sandwich stuff when Dean walks in, eyes hitting Sam before studiously zeroing in on whatever Dean was in the process of eating. It's more than just the usual silence though, and Sam gets the distinct feeling it's an I’m-pissed-that-you-left-without-telling-me silence. Or maybe it’s an I’m-pissed-that-you-left-with-my-car silence. Either way, Sam ignores it, piling turkey and lettuce onto wheat.
Except, it’s kinda hard to celebrate Christmas if he and Dean can’t even talk to each other. Dammit.
“So-“ he starts, ready to make some stupid civil small talk.
“Where were you this afternoon?” Dean’s voice comes out hard and clipped. There's probably some worry in there too, but seriously?
“What the hell, Dean? I don’t see myself checking up on you when you go out every night.”
”Yeah, it’s not like you almost died and got your insides liquified recently."
"Dude, I can handle myself. And Cas said he healed all the damage. I’m fine.”
“Sorry for caring,” Dean shoots back, another non-apology.
“Sure you don’t mean controlling?” He’s seething, and this really wasn’t how he meant for this conversation to go. Ugh. It’s not his fault Dean’s being an ass.
Dean’s fist clenches open and closed, and Sam’s seen that gesture way too much the past few weeks, ever since Dean showed up with the mark of Cain on his arm. Sure, Sam shouldn’t follow through with God’s instructions on closing up hell, but Dean can take on a mysterious mark that belonged to an ancient guy who committed fratricide.
Dean’s plate of half-eaten leftovers should probably be ashes with the glare he’s giving it. “I’m going out,” Dean grits out, stalking out of the room.
Probably heading out to a bar again. Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
Just great.
- - -
On the bright side, with Dean out of the bunker and Cas… well, also somewhere not in the bunker, it’s the perfect opening to decorate. He heads to the spare room where Cas had stashed the Christmas tree yesterday. Shortly after an interrogation about the types and purposes of trees, Cas had shown up with a live tree in hand, taller than he was. Sam hadn’t asked, but he was pretty sure it hadn’t come from a tree lot.
Sam drags the tree into the library, pine needles trailing the ground, and half-props it in the corner. Finagling it into the tree stand is kind of a pain as a one man job, but he’d rather surprise Cas with the finished product. Obviously asking Dean is out of the question. So what if the tree's a little crooked? Not like any of them have high standards to judge this by. Lights go on next, then a star for the topper, also mysteriously the courtesy of Cas. He plugs in the lights, and surveys his work.
Hmmm. It would really look more like a proper Christmas tree with some ornaments. Maybe he can fix something up here as a substitute. He doesn’t expect to find a box of Christmas stuff lying around the Men of Letters bunker, but he’s got some ideas stirring.
- - -
He returns after a brief excursion to the depths of one of their storage rooms, dustier, but arms full of a box of old amulets. Scooping up a leather cord, Sam loops it around a branch experimentally. It basically looks like a pretty bauble on a string, so more or less an ornament, right? Not exactly your typical Christmas look, but it’ll give Cas the right spirit of things at least.
He’s pretty proud of his solution, though it feels a little ironic hanging symbols of good luck and protection all over their tree. As he hangs up a couple anti-possession charms, he hopes Dean doesn’t take the tree as a blazing message of passive-aggression. Sam’s still pissed about Gadreel, but the last thing he needs is Dean getting more defensive about his actions.
The next amulet he grabs has horns, and even though it's clearly, painfully different, he feels everything lurch as it hits a little too close to home. He fingers the horned amulet in his pocket. What would Dean do if he found it on the tree? He stupidly entertains the notion for a couple seconds before he decides he’s actually not sure that he wants to know. Besides, he’s obviously not bringing this up now. He’s the one who just said they couldn’t do this as brothers.
As hangs the look-alike on a low branch, his stomach flips over and he really hopes it’s not expired turkey again. He's told Dean to keep an eye on the dates.
He picks up another amulet, but before he can hang it up, his stomach knots around itself, leaving him nauseous. Not moving sounds really appealing, but maybe he’d better get to the bathroom. The last thing he needs is to puke all over their tree.
Oh. Crap, crap, crap. He's really cramping now. One hand uselessly clutching his stomach, he half-tosses half-drops the amulet to the ground and tries not to jostle his insides as he heads down the hall.
He’s made it almost to his bedroom doorway when a sudden surge of dizziness hits, the hallway tilting one direction and his head the other. He stumbles, hand fumbling at the wall for support. His stomach clenches, and he just stands there, awkwardly hunched against brick. He’s pretty sure moving is a straight ticket to puking or ending up on his ass.
Another wave of hot pain rolls through his gut and this time he lets his legs go down with his stomach, his knees hitting the ground hard. He has just enough time to think this isn’t from bad turkey before his stomach decides enough is enough and he loses his lunch all over the floor. Ugh, gross. He opens his clenched eyes to bright… red? splattered across wood. Definitely not his turkey sandwich.
Uh... Not good.
He feels like he’s sick from the trials all over again, blood cupped in his hand, hidden in crumbled tissues. Except that Cas has completely healed him, and it never got this bad. Something's seriously wrong. Obviously, this isn't food poisoning or some virus. He tries wracking his mind but it’s a little hard with the way his stomach is clenching. Witches, maybe? He and Dean took out that coven last week. But he was almost positive they’d gotten them all, and besides, how would a witch get a hex bag inside the bunker. Maybe… cursed object? He’d been sifting through some old junk to find the amulets, but he’d been careful to stay away from all the dark stuff. Actually… oh crap. That lurch he’d felt when-
Acid churns in his gut, eating through his insides and his teeth clench so hard the sounds scrapes through his head.
Dean. He needs to call Dean. It’s probably too late; too late to get help, too late for him and Dean to ever make up, but Dean at least deserves a goodbye, something more than a crappy final memory of fighting with his brother.
He groans and curls up tighter, one hand clutching feebly at his stomach, while the other goes for his pockets. Huh. Nothing. He tries the other. No phone. Crap. The hallway's spinning lazily, going white at the edges.
White like the lights on the tree… The tree. He hadn’t finished with the tree. And his death was going to put a real damper on Christmas. Damn it. He couldn’t ever make up for the stuff he’d done, but now... he can't even make a nice Christmas. Sorry, Cas, he thinks fleetingly as the world tips out.
- - -
He drifts in and out, fuzzy with pain. At least he thinks he’s drifting in and out. He can’t really keep track in the fog. He just wishes if he were going to die, it would happen quickly. It feels like it’s taking a while, and he can feel his insides churning, turning to liquid. Even if Dean got came back early from the bar - which, when did he? - he wouldn’t be able to do anything. Better Dean came back to a dead brother than a too late to save brother. Especially since… since...
His thoughts float away, lost in some fog. He tries to remember what he’d been thinking about. Something important? Something about… Dean?
He can’t help but drift except something’s pulling him back, distracting him. Which means… his brain feels like it’s trying to churn cotton… it wasn’t him; he wasn’t distracting himself. So something's out there. He kinda forgets the world is still going on outside of him. A noise?
The slam of a door.
Sammy?!
Sounds like a pissed off Dean.
Dean. Oh. Dean’s voice equals Dean is here. Dean’s here calling him.
He tries to will his thoughts into order. Something shifts and pulls his hand tighter around his stomach.
“Dean.” It comes out weak and breathy. No way Dean could hear.
He fights with the silence and realizes he can’t hear Dean anymore. No, no, no. Was he even here?
“Dean!” It comes out desperate, weak and crackly. It sounds loud and thick in his ears and he hopes it’s enough, that Dean’s really here, that he gets to say goodbye...
“Sam!” He feels the thuds tremor through the floor before the boots come into view. Then Dean’s face is there, wavering, but there, and his hands are touching, cold on his face, asking if he’s okay, asking what’s wrong.
His words garble into a moan.
“Whoa, easy there Sammy.” More cold fingers on his face, and he hates it, but he can’t because it’s Dean. And he knows if he lets himself feel the cold enough, it burns until it almost doesn’t feel like anything, just nothingness, floating along.
“Sam, you with me?”
Um, right. Words. Telling Dean. He licks his lips, but everything just feels dryer. “Amulet, cursed,” he slurs out, hoping it’s enough of an answer, and the right one. “S’okay,” he adds, cause he needs Dean to not beat himself up over the fight, over the silences, over the fact that he’s probably arrived in time to witness the end of Sam Winchester.
“Sam. Hey, hey, hey-stay with me.” Dean’s voice cuts in and that’s when he realizes his eyes are closed. But he's tired and Dean’s here and then he’s already gone, fading out again.
- - -
Sam wakes up to a soft bed but feeling like he’s trying to close the gates of hell. He kinda forgot how much it sucked.
Oh yeah. He had been sick - dying, he'd thought. His hand twitches to check his stomach. It seems intact and surprisingly pain free.
“Sam?” There's a rustling next to his head, the scraping of wood on wood. “You in there? Stop playing sleeping beauty and open your eyes for me, bro.”
Right. Eyes. He’d kinda rather go back to sleep, but he heard the shakiness behind Dean’s ribbing. His eyes crack open, sticky and tired. “Dean?” His voice is croaky enough that Dean’ll probably tease him about sounding like a frog and needing to kiss a princess or something, but he sounds, and feels, a lot better than last time he’d tried to speak.
“You’re alright. Here you go.” A hand's under him, helping him prop against the pillows. Dean holds out a glass, and Sam takes it, water cool against his throat. It feels a little sloshy in his stomach, but not like he’s gonna expel his insides.
“Dude, new rule: no digging through bunker crap unattended.” Dean runs a hand through his hair, aggravating the spikes.
Sam sets the glass back on the nightstand. “What happened?”
“Your bright idea to use amulets to bring the joy of Christmas? Might've worked better if you hadn’t hung the cursed one.”
“I checked before I started. They all looked okay.” He feels like a kid, pulling out a feeble explanation for a stupid play.
“Yeah, just… next time buy some damn ornaments.”
“I tried.”
He sees it in Dean’s face when he connects the dots to the mystery outing this morning. “Oh.” The silence hangs for a moment, but it doesn’t feel as suffocating as usual. “I just-“ Dean scrubs a hand over his eyes. “It was too damn close, Sam. I’m lucky you called Cas. Much longer…”
Sam frowns. “Cas? But I didn’t-”
“Sorry, Cas ring any bells? Cause that’s kinda a freaky message to get passed on. Luckily I was at the close bar and Cas was already on his way back. But maybe next time leave more of a clue about what I’m supposed to be looking for.” Dean’s hand flexes in and out of a fist, but there isn’t any anger in his words. "I finally touched the damn thing and figured it out, but it was a close shave. “You’re lucky Cas got here when he did.”
“You-you touched it?”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but I’m smart enough to destroy a cursed object right away. Unlike you, I was fine.”
“You puked blood.” Castiel’s gravelly voice cuts in from the doorway.
Dean mutters something about angels being unable to keep their damn mouths shut.
Sam’s mouth turns up, glad for the easy banter. He hates how good it feels that Dean’s worried, that Dean stupidly charged in and fixed the problem, cause that’s the same attitude that makes Sam’s stomach turn over at the thought of what Dean would’ve done if he had been too late.
“How are you feeling, Sam?” Cas asks, all grave concern. “I healed the damage, but you may still be feeling the aftereffects.”
“Uh, I’m good. No pain. Thanks Cas.” His brain circles around to the reason he touched a cursed amulet in the first place. “Actually, I’d really like to see the tree. Um, show you properly, Cas. Unless if you already…” He trails off, feeling suddenly uncertain of the whole venture.
“I would like that,” Cas affirms, and he’s almost as bad about hovering as Dean as they make their way to the library, Sam trying not to walk like his bones belong to an eighty-year old man.
Judging by the number of pine needles on the floor, the tree took a beating from Dean’s frantic search for the cursed amulet, but Christmas trees are evidently blessed with an obscene amount of greenery because the tree still looks full and bright.
“I vetoed the amulets for ornaments idea,” Dean explains for the complete absence of charms hanging on the tree. The box isn’t even still in the room.
Sam just nods. He’s really okay with that.
The lights are off, so at least Sam can pull out the classic tree lighting moment for Cas. He crouches next to the outlet. “Ready to light this thing up?” he asks, before shoving the plug into the wall.
The tree lights up, casting yellow shadows over Cas’s admiring look and his brother’s amused smirk.
“So?” Dean prods, eyeing Cas.
“It’s so simple… yet…” Cas glances over at Dean before trying out the word. “Awesome.” The angel quirks a grin. “Thank you, Sam.”
“Yeah.” He smiles easily. “Merry Christmas, Cas.” The next words come with hesitation and taste awkward, even as they’re reminiscent of years of them feeling right. But the tug at the corner of his mouth feels genuine. "Merry Christmas, Dean.”