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Lebanon, Kansas doesn’t exactly have the kind of winters that kindle Christmas nostalgia. There were no evergreen trees with boughs iced in shimmering white snow. Her streets weren’t decked out in red and green ribbons, glinting golden bells, and twinkling lights. There were no rolling, snow packed hills where children would hike from miles around, carving icy troughs with their sleds until their faces and hands were frozen pink and the sun dipped low in the pale winter sky. December in Lebanon was frigid, grey-brown, and bleak. The cold front that had settled in over Thanksgiving still had its hold on the sleepy town even though there hadn’t been more than a dusting of snow and the only sign of Christmas was the temporary tree lot that had popped up overnight in the empty lot next to the American Legion.
At least inside the bunker it was warm and cozy, even if it was just as decidedly void of holiday cheer as the rest of Lebanon. Thanks to Dean there was good food and whiskey, at least, and even though there wasn’t a fireplace, Sam’s big screen HDTV made the Netflix yule log look and sound almost like the real thing. Still, Dean couldn’t help but feel like it was kind of a waste to finally have a place to call their own and not treat it like a home, a place they could take the time to celebrate the few things they actually had in this world. He’s been thinking about it for a few days now but hasn’t said anything to Sam. They were just getting used to one another again, finally starting to gel after the storm. The less turbulence Dean caused, the better. But, after spending the first few hours of their lazy Saturday teaching Sam the meaning of ‘Netflix and Chill,’ Dean is feeling more like himself again than he has in weeks so it just kind of slips out.
“Let’s go into town and get a tree,” Dean says mostly into the pillow, his voice still thick with sex and sleep.
“What? Why?” Sam puffs, letting his fingers stop clacking on the keyboard of his laptop for a moment.
“Why the hell do you think, Ebenezer?” Dean snips back, rolling over to face Sam. “Sue me for wanting to celebrate a little this year.” He shifts a little closer to his brother, softening his face, sliding his hand under the sheet to give Sam’s thigh a gentle squeeze.
“Sorry,” Sam says softly, sounding a little contrite. “You know Christmas isn’t exactly my thing, Dean.” He closes the laptop and puts it on the night stand, snaking his long arm around Dean’s bare shoulder and pulling him close.
“Come on, what’s the harm?” Dean coaxes. “We already agreed we wouldn’t grab another case until January.” He nuzzles into Sam’s side, breathing in his warm, comforting scent as Sam’s hand settles wide and firm over his lower back.
“Sure, yeah. Whatever you want.”
Sam agrees to go to the tree lot and manages to be minimally grumpy as Dean selects the tallest pine they have. He even grins and blushes a little when Dean refuses help from the lot attendant in strapping the impressive tree to the Impala’s roof. “No thanks, pal. Paul Bunyan here’s all the muscle I need.”
Dean feels Sam’s gaze soft on him as he fills their cart with decorations at Wal-Mart and picks out a ham to glaze for dinner. Christmas is still a few days away but Sam going along with Dean’s whims has him in a festive mood.
They put the tree up in the library, in front of one of the large alcoves of books, and Sam even helps pin one of the strings of white lights they bought over the arch of the shelf to frame out their tree.
“This is what I’m talking about, Sammy,” Dean says as he takes a break from draping the tree in silver strands of tinsel to step back and survey the scene. “Looks like a Norman Rockwell painting.”
Sam nods and smiles at Dean warmly, even if his expression looks a little like that of a dad who’s humoring his over-excited ten year old.
“Come on, Sam. Even you have to admit it’s nice.”
“Yeah, it’s nice.”
Dean retreats to the kitchen to get the ham roasting, looking forward to filling the bunker with the smell of cloves, brown sugar, and pork fat. He finds Sam in the library later, reading in one of the high-backed leather chairs across from the tree. He’d finished hanging the box of ornaments Dean had abandoned to start dinner and looks beautiful and relaxed in the soft golden glow of the Christmas lights. Dean sets a big, hot mug of spiced cider, spiked with a heavy dose of Old Crow, down on the table next to Sam’s elbow and settles down in the opposing chair with his own steaming brew. Sam folds his book in his lap, eyes shining like molten honey as he takes a sip and smiles back with gratitude.
“You want to drive over to Kearney tomorrow?” Sam asks after a few minutes of comfortable quiet. “Go to the mall for gifts?”
“Don’t need to,” Dean says, giving Sam a little wink as he puts the cider to his lips again. “I made you something.”
“You made me something?” Sam asks, his eyes widening a little before he smirks at Dean. “What are you, scrapbooking now?”
Dean deserves the sarcasm but it doesn’t stop him from giving Sam a silent little glare.
“I’m sorry,” Sam chuckles, the sound of his laughter fading as he realizes Dean’s serious. “I just… I didn’t realize Christmas was going to be so important to you this year.”
“Yeah, well I gotta lot to atone for I guess...” Dean’s voice catches a little as his words trial off. He clears his throat and takes a big swig from his cup, trying to play it off like maybe it was just the library dust getting to him again instead of the threat of tears. “I just know that it’s been tough. The last little while, being saddled with me… I know if it weren’t for you I’d be gone ten times over, Sam. Doing God knows what, for God knows who. I just feel extra appreciative this year, is all.”
“Dean…”
“Look, it’s not that big of a deal,” Dean says, trying to inject cheer into his words. “I mean it sure as hell ain’t going to make up for ‘black eyes’ me but… Look, you are kind of hard to shop for so it was just easier. Okay?”
Sam shakes his head and laughs warmly, his eyes a little glassy as he shifts them down to the floor.
“And I don’t need you to get me anything, Sammy. What you did, what you always do for me. It’s enough, really.”
Dean feels open and raw now, a little too close to all the bad shit they can’t ever seem to talk about productively. He couldn’t do this, not just when things between them had started to get comfortable again. So, even though he wants to get up and kiss whatever words are building on Sam’s tongue right out of his mouth, Dean settles for taking a deep breath and getting up to go check the ham.
~~~
They make pancakes together for dinner on Christmas Eve. Dad’s recipe. Well, it’s just Bisquick but, whatever. They’re still damn good. Crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside, drenched in melted butter and some of the real Vermont maple syrup that Dean bought to baste the ham he made on Saturday.
After they eat, Dean gives Sam his present at the table in the kitchen, an effort on Dean’s part to avoid making a big of a deal out of his silly gift. Instead of staying to watch, Dean clears the table, leaving Sam to open the small package he’d wrapped with the centerfold of one of his old skin mags and at least half a roll of scotch tape.
Sam doesn’t ask why they aren’t saving this for Christmas morning or at least sitting in front of the tree. He just stares at the package for a moment with a curious frown, gnawing on his bottom lip a little, like he’s waiting for Dean to explain. Dean just smiles to himself, elbow deep in the dish water as he hears Sam begin to try and tear his present open.
“…like breaking into the Pentagon,” Sam mutters as he struggles with the checkbook-sized package.
Dean just chuckles, turning to lean back against the counter as he dries his hands, watching Sam as he finally makes it through to the little coupon book Dean made using a template he found online. He’s already smiling so hard his cheeks ache a little. Sam quirks his eyebrow and looks up at him, his face lighting up with a wide, dimpled smile, the one he always seems to save just for Dean.
“Coupon Book for the Best Brother Ever?” Sam reads aloud from its hand-written cover. It wouldn’t be Sam if he didn’t roll his eyes a little as he laughs, flipping the book open.
“That’s right, each one redeemable for a custom service from yours truly.”
Sam starts reading the coupons one by one, grinning like a dork the entire time. “Dean Does Sam’s Laundry for the Week. Well, I like this already.”
“It gets better,” Dean says.
“Dean Makes Sam Breakfast in Bed. Dean Gives Sam A Lengthy Back Rub. Sam Picks The Music For The Day. Wow, seriously?”
“Stranger things have happened, Sam.”
“Sam Picks The Netflix Binge. Dean Makes Sam A Candlelit Dinner. Dean Washes Sam’s Hair with the Tingly Stuff. Dean Does That Thing With His Tongue. Hey, I thought this was a brotherly coupon book?”
“Yeah well, my brother happens to like it when I rim him until he forgets his own name.” Dean crosses the kitchen and leans down, pressing his lips to Sam’s temple. “I know it’s kind of a dumb idea but yanno, the gift that keeps on giving and all that.”
Sam looks up, his eyes soft and bright, and tips his head against Dean’s side. “Thanks, Dean,” he says, his voice a little trembly.
“You, uh, want to go to bed a little early?” Dean says, holding Sam close. “I’ll do that thing and you don’t even need to use the coupon.”
~~~
Dean doesn’t remember the nightmare that wakes him. It’s gone as soon as his eyes blink open, evaporating as he shakes out of his sleep in a cold sweat. What he’s left with is more of a looming sense of dread than images, like the feeling of a tornado bearing down behind him in the rearview mirror on the Kansas interstate. He knows Sam’s not beside him instantly but he’s locked in a post-dream paralysis, swallowing thickly and wetting his dry lips until his eyes adjust to the inky black.
The Sam shaped imprint in the bed next to Dean is still slightly warm as he runs his hand over it. The clock says it’s two-sixteen, Christmas morning. At two-twenty-six Sam’s still gone. Dean swings his legs off the bed and slips them into the grandpa slippers he’s taken a liking to, foregoing the matching robe, and shuffling out into the hallway to look for his brother in his t-shirt and boxers.
Sam isn’t in the bathroom so Dean takes a piss, the sound of his stream hitting the water reverberating off the tile walls too loudly to sound real. Dean’s cool with the idea of still being in a dream, so far it seemed to be going better than whatever was happening in his head when he’d woken up.
He sees the glow of the Christmas lights from the hallway, knowing damn well he’d shut them off before dragging Sam to bed. He pads into the library quietly and rendered almost breathless by the sight of Sam, standing in front of the Christmas tree and gazing up at the gilded star on top. His silhouette looks so soft against the white lights and shimmering tinsel of their tree, wearing the clingy sleep shirt and warm sleep pants he’d pulled on when he was all fucked-out smiles earlier. His feet are bare on the concrete and his hair is a fluffy mess, glinting and warm under the twinkling lights.
“Sammy?” It’s barely audible, Dean’s voice scratchy and low. Sam starts like a gunshot went off though, flipping around to look wide-eyed at Dean.
“Hey!” Sam scrambles, shoving his right hand behind his back. “Sorry – uh, sorry I woke you up. I just – I couldn’t sleep so…”
Dean’s still a little sleep-weary but the envelope of colored newspaper he glimpsed clutched in Sam’s big hand makes his heart leap in his chest. It reaches in and snatches at some deep, hidden corner of Dean’s mind and rattles something loose, releasing a bittersweet surge of nostalgia and heartache. It couldn’t be.
“I thought we agreed, no presents, Sam…” Dean mumbles, blinking as he steps closer, his eyes adjusting to the light, mind grappling with what he thinks he saw.
“I know, Dean. I just – ” Sam stammers, backing even closer to the tree and twisting his torso to keep whatever he’s holding hidden. “You know what? Forget it. It was a dumb idea, just go back to bed okay?”
Dean reaches for Sam, his heart thumping heavy and loud in his chest. He fakes left and snakes his right arm around his brother’s slender frame, gripping Sam’s hand and its contents and pulling their bodies flush in the process.
Dean can’t choke back the sob that escapes his lips when he feels newspaper under his fingertips and the pad of his thumb bumps over the small horned amulet underneath. His eyes flicker up to meet Sam’s.
"Sammy?" He croaks, his heart a massive lump pounding in his throat now. He lets go of Sam’s hand and takes a small step back. “Is that? Are you?” He stammers. “Sam… Please tell me I’m awake.”
Sam’s arm goes slack at his side, his long fingers tightening around the little packet, the little snippet of their past that Dean had reassured himself didn’t mean anything. He can’t help but look down at it, swallowing thickly as his mind flutters back over the violent cacophony of their lives. There at the center of it all was the diamond-hard devotion, the infinite burning love Dean had – would always have – for Sam Fucking Winchester. The object in Sam’s hand represents that love in some small way, bridges their past with the present, reminds Dean who he is, who Sam is, what they are together.
“I couldn’t let you just throw it away.” Sam’s words hang in the air, the pain in them like a crystal bell reverberating over Dean.
He can’t speak. Suddenly he’s a snot-nosed kid again, watching his beautiful, bright-eyed brother look at him like he hung the goddamned moon. Then he’s older, stupid, and callous. An expert at taking Sam’s love for granted, making that mistake again and again, pushing Sam away even when he was the only good thing Dean had in the entire world. Then he’s back in the library, standing with the love of his life in front of their Christmas tree, in their home, and he can’t even tell if he’s really awake, if this is just another trick of his fucked up subconscious.
“There’s been so many times I wanted to give it back to you, Dean. But the more time passes… I just don’t see the point. It’s just a stupid, sentimental trinket anyway, right? I know it doesn’t matter.”
It matters. Good lord it fucking matters, Sam.
Sam grits his jaw and pivots like he’s going to retreat to his room but Dean stops him, steps back in close, and folding his hand over Sam’s balled up fist.
“It matters,” he says, meeting Sam’s eyes. Sam’s fist relaxes a little under Dean’s fingers and he pulls it up to his chest, folding is other hand down over it too. “Throwing it away never meant throwing you away, Sam. Never.”
Sam swallows hard, his bottom lip tightening up and trembling as he lets the package go in Dean’s hand.
“I can’t believe you had it this whole time…” He looks down at it in wonder as Sam’s hand falls away, ripping it open and looking at the golden-headed god. It’s smaller than he remembers for some reason but it shines in the light of the tree like the hot, molten center of Dean’s heart, like the place where everything he feels for his brother comes together in a blinding, pure light.
He doesn’t try to stop the tear that streams down his cheek and he doesn’t hesitate to unfurl the leather cord and pull it over his head again. “Thank you, Sam. I love it.”
He reaches for Sam then, pulling him into a hug, sobbing softly against the curve of his shoulder as Sam’s arms surround him.
“Merry Christmas, Dean.”