Christmas Spirits: 'Supernatural'

By Scullspeare © 2008

Christmas Past

Dean woke suddenly, unsure what had pulled him from a fitful sleep. He pushed himself up with a groan, blinking his vision back into focus as he looked around him at this week’s version of the usual crappy motel room. He couldn’t for the life of him remember what town it was in.

He frowned when he saw the bed beside him was empty.

“Sammy?”

The fogginess in Dean’s brain dissipated quickly when there was no answer.

“Sam.” This time his voice was louder, more insistent, but there was still no answer.

The light in the bathroom was out so no Sam there. Dean threw back the covers, shivering as he left the comfortable warmth of the bed, and padded across the room. He threw open the door and scanned the motel parking lot. The Impala that should have been parked outside the door was nowhere in sight.

“So not cool, Sam.” Dean ignored the blast of cold air that pushed past him and into the room. He turned quickly, slammed the door behind him and surveyed the room until his eyes fell on his phone on the bedside table.

He leaned over the bed, grabbed the phone, keyed in speed-dial for Sam and hit send. The call went straight to voicemail. “What the hell, Sam?" he growled into the phone as soon as the beep sounded. "Where are you? And where’s my car? Call me as soon as you get this - and your ass better be on its way back here when you do.”

Dean threw the phone down on the bed and sat down beside it, eyes darting back and forth as he tried to remember what had happened before he fell asleep, what had happened to make Sam take off.

“Not a pleasant feeling is it? Knowing your brother might be in trouble and not being able to do anything about it.”

Dean jumped, startled by the strangely familiar voice coming from the other side of the room. He pushed himself to his feet, eyes widening as he saw the source of the voice. “Pastor Jim?”

Their old family friend smiled, walking across the room toward Dean. “I’d say ‘In the flesh’ but that’s not quite true.”

Dean backed up slowly, eyeing Pastor Jim suspiciously. “Okay, by that little joke, I’d say we’re both aware of the fact you’re, um, dead. Much as I’d like to say ‘Nice to see ya, how ya been?,’ you shouldn’t be here. What gives?”

Pastor Jim sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at Dean. “We heard about the deal you made.”

Dean’s suspicion deepened. “Who’s we?”

“You know who I work for, Dean; and we'd rather you not go to Hell.” Pastor Jim shook his head at Dean’s all-too-familiar avoidance tactics. “Now, the deal?”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “What about it?”

“Why don’t you want to get out of it?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “If you know about the deal, you know the answer to that. I break the deal, Sam drops dead. And no way is that happening.”

“You don’t think you can find a way around that clause, especially if you and your brother work together?”

Dean folded his arms stubbornly. “Doesn't matter. I’m not taking the risk.”

Pastor Jim stood slowly. “The real risk, Dean,” he said quietly, “is leaving your brother alone, unprotected.”

Dean swallowed. It was the part of the deal that bothered him the most; that by sacrificing himself for Sam, he’d ultimately left his brother vulnerable. He shook his head as his eyes met Pastor Jim’s, trying to convince himself as much as his old friend. “Sam’s smart, he’s strong. Hell, he’s a better man now than I’ll ever be. He’ll be fine.”

Pastor Jim smiled sadly. “That attitude, Dean, is why I’m here. You and Sam are flip sides of the same coin. If we’re going to win this battle, we need both of you. We're all foot soldiers in the war against evil: each with a different role to play, all with the same goal.”

Dean shook his head, allowing a small smile to escape. “Dead or alive, always a preacher, huh?” His brow furrowed again. “So that's why you’re here? To convince me to fight, make me change my mind?”

“Something like that.” Pastor Jim stood up and walked over to Dean. “Although, with you, I’ve always found that show works better than tell.”

He reached out and clasped Dean by the shoulder. The room around them twisted and distorted. A wave of dizziness washed over Dean. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision and when it did, he was in a different motel room. It seemed vaguely familiar, but they’d been in so many, he couldn’t be sure. He was about to ask Pastor Jim to explain when his eyes settled on a small figure seated on a stool at the bar counter of the motel room’s tiny kitchenette. The figure had his back to Dean but it was unmistakably his brother.

His brother at around the age of seven.

“Sammy.” Dean smiled softly as he walked up to his brother, his little brother when he was still little.

Pastor Jim placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “He can’t see you, Dean. We’re just here to observe.”

“Why?” Dean asked the question of Pastor Jim but his eyes never left his brother. Sam sat on the tall stool, long legs dangling and kicking the stool rhythmically, long hair flopping over his eyes as he hunched over a piece of paper. His tongue was stuck out as he concentrated on his work. Sam paused to study the stub of black crayon in his fingers, sighed, then returned to his coloring. "Why are we here?"

"So you can see what's really important." Pastor Jim gave Dean’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Because, sometimes, especially when something is right under our nose, we stop seeing it until it’s gone, until it’s too late.”

The door to the motel room flew open suddenly, the blast of cold air that moved through the room threatening to send Sam’s piece of paper flying. He slammed his hand down on top of it, frowning as he turned to face his brother who now stood in the doorway.

“Dean, close the door. It’s cold.” Sam was still frowning, holding tightly to the piece of paper.

“Keep your shorts on, runt. I need to get something inside first.”

Dean’s eyes widened at the cocky smile his younger self displayed as he dumped the paper sack he was carrying on the chair by the door. Young Dean then went back outside, leaving the door wide open. The gusts of wind that came into the room brought with them large flakes of snow. Sam watched them fall and disappear as they melted quickly on the faded brown carpet before his attention was pulled back to his brother. Dean was now struggling to get through the door while carrying a three-foot tall fake Christmas tree, already fully decorated.

Sam’s face lit up. “Dean, you got us a Christmas tree!” His frown returned when he suddenly recognized the unbreakable ornaments and multi-coloured lights. “That’s the tree from the motel office. You stole it?”

Dean grinned. “Relax, Sammy. I didn’t steal it. Mabel said we could have it in our room tonight and tomorrow, as long as we bring it back Boxing Day.” His grin widened. “I think she has a crush on you. Didn’t want ‘that cute little thing’ waking up on Christmas morning without a tree to look at.”

Sam frowned again as he thought about the large woman with the bright red cheeks who worked in the motel office.

Adult Dean snorted at Sam’s expression, glancing at Pastor Jim. “I don’t think Sammy knows what a ‘crush’ is, although he’s pretty sure if it involves Mabel, it can’t be a good thing.”

With the tree now fully in the room, young Dean slammed the door shut. He banged the snow off his boots before toeing them off and kicking them into the corner behind the door. He then shrugged off his jacket and dropped it on the chair beside the paper sack.

“Whaddya think, Sammy? Where should the tree go?”

It was a small room and there were few real options, but Sam considered the decision carefully. He pointed to the dresser against the wall opposite the beds. “I think we should put it on top of that. Then we can both see it when we wake up?”

Adult Dean smiled. For all the times he’d accused Sam of being selfish, at heart the kid was anything but.

Young Dean just shrugged, hauled the tree over to the desk and picked it up, the tree’s ornaments swinging wildly as he dropped it into place on top of the dresser. He grabbed the cord dangling from the bottom of the tree, snaked his arm down behind the furniture, just managing to reach the outlet there, and plugged in the tree.

As the tree lit up, so did Sam’s face. But with his bright smile, adult Dean’s spirit dimmed a little more. Seven-year-old Sammy still had much of the innocence Dean had fought so hard to preserve, even as the life they led fought ever harder to take it from him. Sam was a good kid who’d grown into a good man; Dean just wished he’d been able to protect him from a lot more, a lot longer.

Mission accomplished with the tree, young Dean returned his attention to the paper bag he’d first carried into the room. “You hungry, squirt?”

Sam eyed the bag Dean held and sighed. “Burgers or Chinese?”

Dean looked offended. “Sammy, come on. It’s Christmas Eve – you don’t have burgers on Christmas Eve.” He pulled a square Styrofoam container from the bag, popped open the lid and held it up in front of Sam. Sam’s eyes widened at the contents – turkey with stuffing and gravy, mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables and even a dollop of cranberry jelly. “Dean, where’d you get that?”

“I told you, Mabel has a crush on you.” He shook his head at Sam’s confused expression.. “I'm kidding, Sam. God you're an easy mark. Her church group does a big Christmas dinner each year. They did all the cooking today so she put together two dinners for us. There’s even pumpkin pie for dessert.”

He pushed the container of food toward Sam, then motioned to the papers his brother had spread over the countertop. “Clear away that crap, Sam, then we can eat.”

Sam’s frown returned. “It’s not crap, Dean. I’m working on …..on somethin’.”

“On what?”

“Can’t tell you.”

Dean’s eyebrows arched in surprise. It wasn’t like his brother to keep secrets. He moved in closer to look at the papers. “Come on, Sam. Fess up. Whatcha doin’?”

Sam leaned over the paper closest to him, hiding it from Dean. “You can’t see it - yet. It’s, um, it’s…….” Sam deflated visibly as he realized there was no way his brother would let it drop unless he said something. “It’s your Christmas present, Dean. But I’m not done yet.”

Young Dean and his adult counterpart both felt like crap for ruining Sam’s surprise. Young Dean backed away, hands held up in surrender. “Hey, whatever it is, it’ll be great. . Just, um, finish up what you’re doing and I’ll put this food on real plates.” He shrugged. “It’s Christmas, right? We shouldn’t be eating out of takeout boxes.”

Sam nodded, a small smile threatening to break through his crestfallen expression. He picked up his crayon and turned back to his work as Dean busied himself in the kitchen. A few minutes later, Sam slid excitedly off the stool, grabbed the paper he had been working on and ran over to his bed. He dropped to his knees beside his small duffle bag, reached inside then very deliberately turned his back on Dean so his brother couldn’t see what he was doing. Dean heard the rustle of paper then the zipper being pulled shut.

Sam bounded back to the kitchenette counter, and clambered up onto the stool; grinning widely, just as Dean put the plate of food down in front of him.

“All finished?”

Sam nodded.

“Good. Then get started on your dinner.” Dean slid a glass of apple juice in front of Sam’s plate, a can of soda in front of his own and a paper plate holding two dinner rolls and two pats of butter in between the two.

Sam nodded happily as he picked up his knife and fork and tucked into his dinner hungrily. Dean shook his head when he realized Sam had gone for the vegetables first. Sam noticed the disapproving shake.

“What?” he asked, his mouth full of food.

“You’re weird, Sammy. What kid eats vegetables first?”

Sam shrugged. “I like vegetables.” He grinned. “And if I’m weird, it’s coz I hang out with you. You’re Captain Weird.” He snorted with laughter at his own joke.

Dean snorted back. “If I’m captain, what does that make you? First Mate? Gilligan to my Skipper?”

Sam shook his head but kept eating. “Uh-uh. I’m smarter than Gilligan and you’re not fat enough to be Skipper.” He paused for a moment, trying to think of the best way to describe their relationship. “I’m, um, your lieutenant. The one you tell your plans to, to make sure they’ll work. Then I help you carry them out and you make sure I stay safe while we do it.” He nodded, satisfied with his answer, then returned to eating.

Adult Dean’s eyes widened. Even at age seven, Sam saw things with a clarity that amazed him. He wondered, for only the millionth time, where Sam’s brains and insight might have taken him if circumstances, if life, had been different.

Pastor Jim nodded, smiling softly. “Pretty smart kid. You should listen to him more often.”

Adult Dean smiled sadly at the bittersweet tableau playing out before him: the two brothers, playfully teasing back and forth as they ate their dinner. The missing piece was obvious – Dad. As often happened, the hunt he was on had taken longer than planned. John had hoped to be back before Christmas, but would not show up until the following night, battered, bruised and emotionally spent. Backed up by Dean, he would put on a brave face for Sam’s sake and say he was fine. Sam, playing his part, would accept the explanation and the three of them would move on like nothing happened.

But Sam was growing tired of his role. Dean could see him struggle each time he was required to rein in his natural inquisitiveness and swallow the questions that came so quickly to mind. With the gift of hindsight, Dean recognized that struggle as the seeds of rebellion already taking root.

When the brothers finished eating, Dean rubbed his tummy, smiled at his brother and belched loudly. Sam threw his head back, laughing hard, and promptly fell off his stool. Dean shook his head as he climbed off his own stool and offered a hand down to his still snickering brother on the floor. “Nice co-ordination there, kiddo.”

“Your fault,” Sam shot back, still giggling.

Dean tousled his brother’s hair affectionately. “Get your PJs on Sammy, then you have a decision to make.”

Sam stopped laughing. “Whaddya mean?”

Dean waggled his eyebrows mischievously. “You wanna open your present now or in the morning?”

Sam’s eyes widened in surprise. “I have a present?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, Sammy. You have a present.”

While Sam’s face again lit up, adult Dean cringed. No kid should have to wonder ‘if’ they got a present.

Dean had only vague memories of Christmas when his mom was still alive, of helping her put sprinkles on freshly baked cookies, of helping his Dad put together the train track that ran around the base of the tree – but Sammy had never known that kind of holiday. Their mom had died, been killed, a month before what would have been Sammy’s first Christmas.

The day after Halloween that year, Christmas merchandise had suddenly flooded local stores. Mary had found a silver rattle ornament, engraved with the words ‘Baby’s First Christmas.’ She showed it to Dean and told him it was his job to hang it on a branch for Sammy when they put up the tree just after Thanksgiving. He had nodded and carefully carried the ornament around the store. The cashier had smiled at him when he reluctantly gave up the box for her to ring through, then placed it quickly in a small bag and returned it to his care.

Once home, he had taken it out of the bag to show Sammy, who had stayed behind with their dad. Very seriously, he had told Sam that it was his job as big brother to put Sammy’s ornament on the tree until he was big enough to hang it up himself. Dean insisted that his mom put the ornament on his dresser, where he could keep an eye on it, keep it safe, until it was time to put it on the tree.

That time never came. A day later Mary was gone, and with it all vestiges of their normal life.

John was not a bad father, just a flawed one, and Christmas to him represented all he had lost. For the boys’ sake, he’d tried to make an effort the first couple of years but, as they got older and John became more immersed in the hunting world, Christmas ceased to become a big deal. In some years it had been little more than another day on the calendar.

As Dean got older, he did his best to give Sam some kind of happy Christmas memories to hold on to, but the holidays best resembled his vague memories of what Christmas should be like when they stayed with Pastor Jim. Jim would make sure each of the boys had a present or two, something small in deference to their nomadic lifestyle, and a Christmas dinner with all the trimmings, served family-style from large, well-worn dishes laid out down the middle of the long table in the rectory kitchen.

The boys would also attend church services with him although, on the rare occasion John was with them for Christmas, he would not. Pastor Jim was usually a plain-spoken man but if he and Dad ever had it out over John’s refusal to attend church, Dean never heard it or heard about it.

But John never stopped the boys from attending. Dean hated wearing a tie, hated the old ladies who insisted on pinching his cheeks as they waited for Pastor Jim at the end of the service, but Sammy seemed to like church. He loved the music, the stories, the pageantry. When, as an adult, he would confess to Dean he prayed every day, Dean realized he’d loved the spiritual comfort too.

Dean’s attention was drawn back to the scene playing out before him when young Sammy walked slowly out of the motel bathroom, now dressed in the shorts and T-shirt that served as pajamas, and sat down on the edge of his bed. He turned to face Dean, his little face very serious. “I’ve decided I want to open my present tonight.”

Dean had moved their dishes into the sink while Sam was getting changed. His eyebrow quirked slightly at Sam’s decision to open his present before their father got back. “You sure?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

To adult Dean, the decision was a momentous one. Sam somehow knew their Dad would not be back that night or even the following morning. Waiting, in the hopes he might show up, would just end in more disappointment. Sam wanted to hold on to what he had, not what might be.

Young Dean nodded, accepting Sam’s decision. He crossed from the kitchenette to his duffle bag at the side of the bed, reached in and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in the Saturday comics. “Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

Sam nodded as took the parcel, smiling as he looked from the package to his big brother. “Thanks, Dean.”

He moved to put down the package and get his present for Dean from his duffle bag.

Dean shook his head. “No, Sammy. Open your present first.”

Sam looked at Dean, his eyes wide. “You sure?”

Dean smiled. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m sure. Open your present.”

Sam picked up the parcel, carefully unfolding the paper and pausing to look at the comics. Dean rolled his eyes impatiently. “Sammy, you can read the comics later. Open your present.”

Sam grinned mischieviously. He knew Dean liked to rip open his presents and opening them slowly drove him nuts. Sam returned to opening his present – slowly. Unfolding the last layer of comics revealed a shiny black car. Sam’s face lit up. “It’s our car!”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, Sammy. Dad always said the Impala would be mine when I’m old enough to drive it. But now you have one too.”

Sam’s eyes sparkled. “Thanks, Dean. I love it.”

“No problemo, dude.”

Sam carefully put down his new toy on the bed then jumped off and walked over to his duffle. He reached inside, pulled out his present for Dean and passed it to his brother. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

A single sheet of white paper was rolled up and slipped inside an empty toilet paper roll. Sam had decorated the cardboard tube, using his crayons to draw a Christmas tree on one side and write ‘To Dean, From Sam’ on the other.

Adult Dean recognized that as yet another momentous occasion – while he was sure it had more to do with available space on the cardboard tube than sudden rejection of his childhood nickname, it was the first time Sammy had referred to himself as Sam.

Dean pulled the sheet of paper from inside the tube and unrolled it. He smiled at the picture Sam had drawn: it was the Impala, with Dean and Sam standing beside it, Dean’s stick figure arm thrown protectively around Sam’s shoulder.

“Notice Dad’s not in the picture,” adult Dean muttered, knowing his younger self also noted the omission but said nothing.

Young Dean smiled at his brother. “It’s awesome, Sammy.”

Sam smiled, then shrugged. “Wish I could have bought you somethin’ Dean but…”

Dean cut him off. “I don’t. I’m glad you made this. Makes it special.”

Five-year-old Sam would have taken that as gospel. Seven-year-old Sam wanted to believe Dean meant it, but was slightly more suspicious. “Really?”

“Really, Sammy. Thanks.”

That was enough. Sam smiled. Really smiled, then turned to play with his car.

The spirit of Pastor Jim turned to face adult Dean. “Seen enough?”

“Enough for what?” Dean snapped back. “To know we had a crappy childhood?”

“To know how much Sam needs you.”

Dean shook his head. “No. Sammy the kid needed me. Sam, the grown man, can take care of himself. He’ll be fine.”

Pastor Jim sighed. “Just because he can take care of himself, doesn’t mean he doesn’t want you in his life.”

Dean’s stomach roiled. “Yeah, well he wouldn’t have a life if I hadn’t done what I did.”

“Such selflessness. Kinda brings a tear to your eye, don't it?”

Dean whirled to face the new voice. Now standing on the far side of the room was the Yellow-Eyed Demon, wearing the janitor’s ‘meat-suit.’ He smiled, yellow eyes flashing. “Call me the ghost of Christmas Present. How’d ya like the wrapping?”

CHRISTMAS PRESENT

Dean’s eyes widened as the Yellow-Eyed Demon smiled back at him. “What the hell…..?”

The demon laughed. “Gotta love the irony in that greeting. Beats ‘Howdy’ any day of the week.”

“No. No way are you here. I killed you.”

“What can I say?” Yellow Eyes shrugged. “One of the perks of the job; one minute, you’re down and out, the next, back in the line-up.”

He walked up to Dean, smiling broadly as he clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Whaddya say, Dean? Our No. 1 draft pick ready to play in the big leagues? Odds makers in Vegas say we’ve got a real shot at taking the world title this year.”

Dean angrily batted away the demon’s hand. “Get the hell off me, and get out.”

Yellow Eyes held up his hands in mock surrender. “Dean, I’m hurt. I just got here. Your attitude it’s…it’s downright inhospitable.”

Dean’s eyes darted round the room, searching for the nearest weapon. Standing there in the T-shirt and sweatpants that served as pajamas, he had nothing. As he scanned the room, he realized he was in a different motel room, one he and Sam had stayed in a couple of weeks back, and there was no sign of Pastor Jim or the younger versions of himself or his brother. The room was empty.

Noting Dean’s realization, Yellow Eyes shrugged. “Needed a little change of scenery to make my point.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I’m interested in anything that comes out of your lying cakehole?”

The demon sighed. “That attitude is exactly why I had to crash this little Christmas pageant. The dude in the dog collar from Act 1? Not exactly objective when it comes to yours and Sammy’s best interests.”

Yellow Eyes leaned in conspiratorially. “You gotta remember who Pastor Jim’s boss is Dean. He’ll do anything to stop you from going to Hell; he has to – it’s in the job description, even if that means hurting Sammy in the process.”

Dean’s eyes blazed angrily. “Pastor Jim would never hurt Sam.”

The demon shrugged. “As they say, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.” He chuckled. “Gotta love it when the good guys steal a page from our playbook.”

He sat down on the end of the bed, crossing his arms as he looked up at Dean. “The bottom line, Dean, is this: By encouraging you to find a way to weasel out of the deal, he’s condemning Sam to a life of misery.” His eyes glittered as he reveled in the emotional torment he was about to inflict. “Misery and pain all caused by you, his supposedly loving brother. How screwed is that?”

Dean blanched. The demon knew exactly which buttons to push. Since the age of four he’d had one main goal in life: protect Sam. His biggest fear had always been that he would fail, and that fear had been realized in Cold Oak.

Yellow Eyes smiled coldly. “You know I’m right, don’t you Dean. You screwed up. You let Sammy down. Thanks to us, he got a second chance. But you stick around long enough, and you’ll screw up again, and again, and again…with precious little Sammy paying the price every single time. How many times are we supposed to clean up your messes, Dean?”

Dean suddenly found it hard to swallow, the truth of what the demon was saying sticking in his throat.

Yellow Eyes raised his eyebrows. “What, no patented Dean Winchester snarky comeback? I’m disappointed.” He sighed as he pushed himself off the bed and walked over to Dean. He smiled coldly. “If, by your silence, I take it you agree me, what say we toss aside our little deal and you come with me right now. Get this party started early.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. Unconsciously, he took two steps backwards, opening up the space between himself and the demon. “Get away from me. I don’t want to see you or hear from you, or any of your kind, until my bill comes due.”

Yellow Eyes tilted his head in mock surprise. “So, you’re gonna fight us, huh?” He shook his head, tut-tutting as he did. “Never were the sharpest knife in the drawer, were you Dean? See, that’s why I’m here. To show you the error in that way of thinking."

His face softened in mock concern. “Of course, there is another way. If you’re just gonna end up hurting your brother over and over again, it might be more humane if we just put him out of his misery right now. I mean….”

Dean grabbed Yellow Eyes by the lapels, fury running roughshod over fear and common sense. Nose to nose, he glared at the demon as he twisted his shirt in his fists. “You stay the hell away from Sam. ….” Dean was livid and on the verge of losing control. “You don’t touch Sam. You don’t even say his name.” He tightened his hold on the demon’s shirt. “If you so much as glance in Sam’s direction, deal or no deal, I will salt and burn my way through every circle of Hell until I destroy you and every member of your soul-sucking family - past, present and future. You hear me?”

“Whoa there, Dean.” Once again the demon’s hands rose in mock surrender as his eyes feigned surprise. “That’s a little over the top, even for you.” His face morphed into that familiar, sickening grin. “But we both know I’m not the villain in today’s melodrama.”

He grabbed Dean’s wrists, pulling them from his shirt but holding on tightly. “If you want to know who the real Black Hat is,” he leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper, “take a look in the mirror.”

Dean’s jaw clenched as he wrenched his wrists from the demon’s hold.

The demon’s smile turned smug as he saw that the barb had the desired effect. His eyes narrowed. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it Dean? But, hey, don’t take my word for it. See for yourself. Let’s have a look what’s behind Door Number Two….”

The door to the motel room flew open and Dean whirled around to see another version of himself stumble into the room supporting a barely-conscious Sam.

He recognized the circumstances immediately. They had been in a bar fight about two weeks earlier. One guy had attacked Sam from behind. A punch to the kidneys had made him unsteady then, as he turned to face his attacker, the guy had smashed Sam across the head with a beer bottle which shattered on impact. The jagged edge of the broken glass had opened a deep cut along Sam’s temple, the blood flowing freely down the side of his face and dripping down the front of his jacket. With the blow to the head, Sam had crumpled to the floor, where he stayed until the bartender and a bouncer ended the fight by tossing Dean and Sam out the front doors.

Sam regained consciousness in the bar parking lot, but only barely. He was able to move to the Impala and from the car to their motel room only with Dean doing most of the work.

Entering the motel room, Dean had Sam’s right arm thrown over his shoulders, Sam’s right wrist locked in his own right hand. His left arm was wrapped tightly around Sam’s waist. Sam was leaning heavily against Dean, his head flopped forward, chin on chest, and lolling side to side with each stumbling step.

Passing observers might think he was drunk, until they took in the dried blood that covered the side of Sam’s face and his clothing.

Pulling Sam into the room, Dean took a deep breath. “Come on, Sammy,” he grunted, straining to support his brother’s considerable weight. “Just a few more steps.”

But those last few steps were the most difficult. Sam was barely able to move one foot in front of the other. Dean was fairly sure Sam passed out completely about three steps from the bed, forcing him to drag his brother the short distance remaining before lowering him, as gently as possible, so he was sitting on the edge of the mattress. The minute Dean relaxed his hold, Sam began to keel over.

“Whoa, just hang on a bit longer, 'kay Sam? Let’s get you cleaned up, then you sleep.”

Sam’s eyes slid open but there was no focus in the blue-green irises beneath.

“Sam?”

Icy fingers wrapped themselves around Dean’s heart and squeezed. He’d seen that distant, vacant look in his brother’s eyes before. He flashed back to the muddy street in Cold Oak where Sam had died, his stomach lurching at the memory. Dean had held on as tight as he could, promising Sam everything would be fine, he’d take care of him, but Sam had still slipped away.

“Sammy?” Dean’s stomach roiled as Sam once again became a dead weight in his hands.

Dean’s breathing became shallow and rapid, his lungs suddenly fighting to take in air as he saw his brother begin to slip away from him yet again.

“No, no, no no no……” Once again he was supporting his brother’s head in his hands, running his hands through his hair, searching desperately for some kind of response to tell him Sam was still there. “Not again, Sammy. Not again…..”

“S’okay, Dean….” The words were barely audible but Dean heard them clearly. He inhaled sharply, and slid one hand down Sam’s chest, seeking reassurance. He found it there in the soft but steady thumping of Sam’s heart. Relief washed over Dean, leaving a tired smile in its wake. Sam was alive; battered, bruised, barely conscious – but alive.

In another nauseating déjà vu, Dean supported Sam’s head with his shoulder as he pulled off his brother’s blood-stained jacket and long-sleeved shirt before slowly lowering him sideways onto the pillow. He then grabbed his brother’s legs, hauling them up onto the bed before pulling off his shoes.

He looked down at Sam and shuddered involuntarily. He used to find his brother’s sleeping form comforting, reveling in the fact that while Sam slept, he was safe. The nightmares that plagued his brother after Jessica’s death irreparably damaged that notion. The experience in Cold Oak destroyed it completely. Now, whenever Dean saw his brother sleeping, his eyes immediately fell to his chest, needing to see the shallow rise and fall to know he was still breathing, still alive.

Sam groaned, shifted slightly and one arm flopped limply off the bed. Instinctively Dean moved to lay Sam’s arm across his chest but stopped himself as yet another déjà vu ripped through him. That’s what he’d done after Sam died, after he and Bobby had carried him back to the cabin. Dean now placed Sam’s arm gently at his side.

Dean patted Sam on the shoulder, pushing himself to his feet with difficulty. “Stay put, Sammy,” he muttered wearily. “I’ll get the first-aid kit to clean you up.”

The adrenaline rush that had kept Dean going in the wake of the bar fight dissipated suddenly, bone-weary tiredness taking its place. He stumbled and fell onto his own bed, sitting there for a moment trying to recharge his batteries. A few deep breaths later, he pushed himself up and made his way slowly to his duffle, grabbed the first-aid kit and returned to his brother’s bed, flopping down at Sam's side..

“Sam?” There was no response to Dean’s query. Little brother was out cold. Probably easier anyway, Dean thought, as he realized the cut along Sam’s temple would require at least a couple of stitches.

He grabbed an alcohol wipe from the kit and began gently cleaning away the dried blood from around the cut and down the side of Sam’s face.

“See, this is why I’m here,” Yellow Eyes said, sighing dramatically over the shoulder of Dean’s spirit form as he watched himself tend his brother. “Your friends, the few you still have left that is, they’d ooh and aaah over this little scene, tell you what a good big brother you are for taking care of not-so-little Sammy.

“But the truth of the matter is, Sam wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for you. Wouldn’t have got hurt if you hadn’t started the fight.”

“I didn’t start the fight,” Dean muttered. “Just finished it.”

The demon shrugged. “Potato-Potahto. Doesn’t matter. Heck, little Sammy Do-gooder here wouldn’t have even been in the bar if you hadn’t insisted on going in for a drink. He’d have been sitting here in this crap-tastic motel room, eyes glued to his computer, drinking his soda and figuring out what dude or damsel needs saving from the likes of me.

“Then the two of you would head off to play Batman and Robin, swooping in to save the day.” His eyes hardened as he looked at Dean. “But you’d screw up, and Sam would get hurt - again."

Yellow Eyes’ voice was a venomous whisper. “Hell, Dean. You don’t even need the supernatural world to get your brother in trouble. Look what happened here? And that’s just courtesy of some dumb-ass bikers.” He moved to stand beside Sam. “You’re just a first-class screw-up, Dean. Trouble follows you around like a bad smell and Sammy pays the price, time and time again. That’s gotta make you real proud!”

Dean took a step forward, grabbed Yellow Eyes by the jacket and hauled him away from the bed, away from Sam. His voice was shaking. “You stay away from him.”

He glared at the demon, not trusting his voice to say anything without betraying how deeply his words had cut. Dean roughly shoved Yellow Eyes away, turning back to watch himself finish stitching up the cut on Sam’s head. His brother stirred as Dean taped a gauze bandage over the wound, gently pressing it into place.

“Dean?” Confusion was evident in Sam’s voice as he blinked to bring the room into focus. Dean answered his unspoken question.

“We’re back at the motel, Sam. I think I’ve got you patched back together. Just lie still for a while, okay. It’s one house call per customer and you just used up yours.”

Sam grimaced, reaching a hand up toward his forehead. Dean intercepted his hand, pushing it gently back onto the bed. “Leave it alone, Sam. You’ve got a black eye and a couple of stitches but, in a few days, you’ll be as pretty as ever.” He grinned. “Not as pretty as me but, hey, I’m one-of-a-kind.”

Sam snorted at Dean’s joke, then groaned at the reverberations it sent through his aching head. His brow furrowed as he fought to remember what had happened. An audible exhale signaled he’d found the memory he was searching for. “Bar fight, right?”

Dean gathered up the medical supplies from the bedside table. “Yup.”

Sam opened one eye and assessed Dean worriedly. “You okay?”

“Me?” Dean waved a hand dismissively. “I’m peachy. I’m not the one with stitches in my head.”

“No, but…” Sam groaned again as he struggled to sit up, “last time I checked, your eyes were green – not black, purple and red.”

Dean frowned then twisted round to check out his reflection in the mirror hanging over the dresser opposite the bed. His tired face stared back at him sporting one hell of a shiner. “Huh, whaddya know.” He turned back to Sam, grinning. “But you should see the other guy.”

“Original, Dean. Never heard that one before.” Sam groaned again as he slid his legs off the bed. He stayed sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment, elbows resting on his knees as he held his pounding head in his hands, before pushing himself slowly to his feet.

Dean looked on worriedly. “I don’t think getting up is such a good idea, Sam. You….”

Sam waved his hand at Dean dismissively. “S’Okay, Dean. I just….”

Dean moved in instinctively as he saw Sam begin to teeter. He caught him as Sam's knees gave way, lowering him back onto the bed and gently pushing him to lie down. Sam rolled his head across the pillow and looked up at Dean with bleary eyes. “What was I getting up for, anyway?”

Dean frowned. “Not a clue, Sam. But whatever it was can wait. Just stay put.” His frown deepened as he leaned in closer. “Got it? Stay. Put. Either of those words penetrating that thick skull of yours?”

The sound of applause pulled spirit Dean’s attention from the scene replaying before him.

Yellow Eyes smiled as he clapped slowly. “Gotta give you credit, Dean. You’re a master at cleaning up your own messes. Course, you’ve had a lot of practice. Screw up as much as you do, and you’re bound to get good at putting things back together.” He sighed dramatically. “It’s just too bad Sammy there is the one who keeps paying the price.”

“I think it’s time you crawled back into the hole you came from.”

Dean whirled at the sound of the new but familiar voice. His chest tightened and his breathing rate sped up.

“Mom?”

Mary Winchester smiled gently at her eldest son before stepping protectively in front of him, placing herself between Dean and the demon. Her eyes flashed angrily as she turned to face Yellow Eyes. “Get out, and leave my sons alone.”

The demon grinned. “Long time, no see Mrs. Winchester. How ya been?”

Mary’s face hardened. “I said, get out. You stay away from my sons.”

Yellow Eyes sighed, looking from Mary to Dean with disgust. “Dean, you are such as disappointment. On top of everything else, you’re a Mama’s boy?”

Mary took a step closer to the demon. “No, you’ve had your chance. Now it’s my turn. Just leave.”

Yellow Eyes sighed. “You Winchesters, you’re like a broken record. Don’t you ever get tired of that tune?” He threw up his hands in mock disgust. “Whatever. But stick in fork in the road, this story is done.” He pointed to Dean. “I win. He’s already made his choice. Now he has to live with it.” He grinned. “Or not live with, as the case may be.”

He stared from Mary to Dean and back again. “Sugarcoat it all you want, Mrs. Winchester, but your boy here knows the truth. He’s a world-class fuck-up and no amount of coddling from his late lamented Ma is going to change that. Spin your web of pretty lies if you must but, inside, in his heart, Dean knows the truth. Don’tcha, Dean? The only way to keep Sam safe is for you to stay away from him. Stick to your end of the deal.”

“Speaking of which….” Ignoring Mary, Yellow Eyes walked right up to Dean. “We never really discussed how you want to go. Any preferences?”

“Bite me,” Dean growled.

Yellow Eyes grinned wickedly. “Interesting choice, but can be arranged.”

Mary pushed her way between the demon and Dean, her eyes flashing. “You keep trying to hurt my sons but keep failing because they’re stronger than you, stronger than you could ever hope to be. Accept that and move on.”

The demon rolled his eyes. “Proud Mary…This blind loyalty you have for your kids is admirable, but not doing them any favors. Sooner or later, kids have to know the truth – and, cruel as it is, truth hurts.”

Sighing, he shook his head. “Whatever. Take your best shot. This has been swell but a great actor never outstays his welcome.” He bowed theatrically, then pointed at Dean “’Til next time……”

Dean shuddered involuntarily as the demon faded from sight. Mary caught the reaction, moved to his side and grasped his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “He twists everything, you know that, right?”

Dean stared at his mother’s hand holding his own then lifted his gaze to meet hers. Emotion suddenly overwhelmed him and he pulled his mom into a tight hug. He closed his eyes, relaxing slightly as he felt her wrap her arms around him and return the embrace.

His breath caught as he exhaled. “But he’s right, Mom. I pulled Sam back into this life. I let him down.” Mary, holding her son tightly, felt him shatter in her arms. “I let him die.”

Mary pulled from the embrace, gently grabbed Dean’s face and looked him squarely in the eye. “Don’t you buy into his lies. You hear me. I wish that Sam had never been stabbed, that you had never been forced to make that deal, but it happened.” She grasped his chin firmly but gently, forcing him to meet her eyes. “What’s important now is you find a way to break it. For your own sake as much as Sam’s.”

“But the demon was right, Mom. Sam keeps getting hurt. If I’m not around, maybe he’ll finally be safe, he’ll….”

“Dean, don’t you get it?” Mary interrupted. “The two of you balance each other. Sam shores up your weaknesses, in the same way you shore up his. Together you are far stronger than either of you alone. Evil knows this and wants nothing more than to split you up.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Divide and conquer, huh? Not exactly an original strategy.”

Mary smiled sadly. “Doesn’t have to be, if it works. You accept this deal, walk into Hell without so much as lifting a finger in your own defence, they get you, and Sam is left alone and vulnerable. They win – twice over.”

Dean blew out a breath of frustration. “Look, I know demons lie but Yellow Eyes said, if I go along with the deal, they’ll leave Sam alone. What if...”

Pain was reflected clearly in Mary’s eyes as she shook her head. “He’s twisting the truth, honey.” She cupped Dean’s face in her hand, stroking her thumb across his cheek as if to try and erase the pain and anguish so clearly etched there. “Trust me, you do nothing and the future in store for Sammy is worse than anything you could imagine. Far worse. ”

CHRISTMAS YET TO BE

Dean blinked away the dizziness that suddenly washed over him, then realized his surroundings had changed yet again.

He was no longer in a motel room but in what looked to be an old factory or warehouse. Litter and dust blanketed the floor of the room which was empty save for cans and boxes piled in one corner and an old stacking table and single chair. The door on the far side of the room, Dean noted with interest, was barricaded from the inside. Large windows lined one wall, the peeling paint of the frames and thick layer of grime on the glass telling him the place had long been abandoned. The room was silent except for a slight hissing sound he couldn’t quite place.

Glancing around the room, Dean’s eyes widened when they came to rest on the tall figure slumped against the wall in the corner.

“Sammy?”

It was unmistakably his brother but this hunched figure was barely recognizable as the Sam he knew. Sam had let his hair grow even longer and now wore a scruffy beard and mustache much like their dad’s.

“What’s with the Serpico-look, Sam?” Dean muttered as he moved toward his brother. “You’re way too tall to double Pacino.”

As Dean got closer, Sam’s appearance was even more shocking. His eyes were dull and lifeless as he stared through a small, cleared patch on the grimy glass. Exhaustion painted dark shadows underneath his eyes and etched deep lines in his no longer youthful features.

Dean turned to Mary, who walked up beside him. “How old is he?”

His mother smiled sadly. “He turned 30 on his last birthday.”

Dean blanched. The past seven years had taken their toll on his brother. He looked a decade or more older than he actually was.

Sam pushed himself wearily from the corner. Dean noted with alarm how stooped he was. Of all Sam’s insecurities growing up, his height was never one of them. He’d been thrilled when he’d outgrown Dean – an honest-to-God first for the Winchesters’ second son. But this man, this stranger, seemed determined to hide from the world by folding in on himself.

Sam stared down at the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels swinging from his fingers, twisted off the cap and took a swig straight from the bottle. If he felt the burn of the alcohol, it didn’t register on his face. He dropped the bottle cap absentmindedly as he crossed the room toward the table, a clear indication there would be nothing left to re-cap by the end of the night.

Dean’s chest tightened as he realized Sam was wearing Dean’s old leather coat, a coat that now seemed far too big for this worn-down version of his little brother.

Sam sank wearily into the small chair beside the table, took another swig of JD then banged the bottle down on the table in front of him. He stared unseeing at the bottle as he allowed the alcohol to dull his pain and his thoughts.

Dean’s eyes blazed angrily as he turned from his brother to Mary. “What the hell happened?”

He waved his hand at the room they were in. “This was not supposed to be his future. He was supposed to find himself a hot wife, raise a couple of cute kids and tell’em bedtime stories about their hell raiser Uncle Dean instead of that Humpty Dumpty crap.” His voice broke as took in Sam’s haggard appearance. “I didn’t save him for….for this…….”

Confusion clouded his green eyes as he looked to his mother for answers. “Why...why would he just ….just give up.”

Mary shook her head. “He didn't, honey – he fought back for a long time; trying to save you – trying to get you out of Hell. But evil fought him every step of the way, and there was no one to back him up. He’s tired, Dean. He’s had enough.”

Dean clenched his jaw as guilt washed over him. “But they said they’d leave him alone, they said…” His stomach roiled at his own naiveté. Demons lie. He knew that better than anyone.

Mary walked over to Dean, grasping his hand in hers as she turned to face Sam. “They did leave him alone, Dean. Completely and totally alone. One by one, they took away everyone he ever loved, every friend he ever made.”

Dean’s stomach lurched again at Mary’s words.

“Everyone’s gone?” he asked quietly. “Bobby?...”

Mary nodded, her grip on Dean’s hand tightening. “Bobby was killed shortly after they took you. Then Ellen. Then Missouri. Jo disappeared about six months after her mother.”

Dean’s voice was barely audible. “What about his friends from Stanford? He stayed in touch with them. Why didn’t he….”

Mary shook her head. “You remember Rebecca Warren and her brother Zack?”

Dean nodded as he thought back to meeting the Warrens, and the shape shifter that had left Zack charged with murder and Dean dead in the eyes of the law.

“They were killed driving home to visit their parents in St. Louis. Other hunters, other friends - different circumstances, same result. Everyone Sam could turn to was taken from him violently.”

Dean’s mind was reeling. How had everything got so fucked up? He had given up his life to save Sam, not condemn him to a different kind of hell.

“It’s my fault. I should….”

“Don’t you dare.” Mary grabbed his chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “That is exactly what evil wants; to mess with your head until you’re so crippled by doubt and self-loathing that you are no longer a threat, that you’d throw yourself into Hell willingly believing it’s the right thing to do.

“It’s not, Dean. And it never will be. That’s why I’m here. To tell you to fight. Fight to stay with Sammy. Fight to save him from this kind of future.” She ran her hand gently down the side of Dean’s face, worry breaking through her anger. “There’s a way to break this deal, Dean. Working with Sam you can find it. You just have to be willing to fight.”

Without warning, the window where Sam had been standing just moments earlier exploded, sending a shower of glass fragments into the room. Dean instinctively jumped in front of Mary, wrapping himself around her to protect her from the jagged shards.

“It’s okay, Dean.” Her voice was muffled against his chest. “It can’t hurt us. We’re just observers here.”

Dean nodded, relaxing his hold on his mom and quickly turning his attention to Sam. This was Sam’s reality and the explosion could most definitely hurt him.

But Sam was still seated on the chair, eyes fixed on the bottle of JD on the table in front of him. There was little outward evidence he’d even heard the window shatter let alone be hurt by the explosion of glass. Dean walked over to Sam, crouching beside him as his eyes darted over his brother, looking for any sign of injury. Sam was virtually untouched, a faint scratch across one cheek, just above his beard, the only evidence he’d been anywhere near the breaking window.

Dean smiled softly as realization hit. Luck had nothing to do with Sam escaping injury; Sam was expecting company, knew they would come in through the window and had moved himself out of harm’s way.

Dean slipped easily into hunter mode, scanning the room expertly. Thick lines of salt lay in front of the barricaded door and every window - except the one that had just blown out. Sam had left his expected visitors only one possible entry into the room The table he sat at had been placed just outside the blast radius to avoid any shrapnel when whatever or whomever he was expecting came bursting through.

Dean’s smile widened. “Nice to see you haven’t lost your touch, Sammy. You’re still….” His voice died out when movement near the broken window caught his attention. He turned to see a tall redhead standing on the sill.

She jumped easily into the room, long hair falling in front of her face as she landed with catlike grace. Broken glass crunched underneath her leather boots as she walked across the room toward Sam. She smiled at him, blue eyes glittering coldly. “If you were anyone else, Sam, I’d say you were getting sloppy, leaving one window unprotected like that.” She perched herself seductively on the edge of the table. “But you knew I was coming and just wanted to make things difficult, didn't you? You do realize we’re six stories up and there’s no fire escape?”

Sam took another swig of JD. “The room has a door. You could’ve knocked.”

The woman’s eyebrows arched in surprise, casting a glance at the heavily barricaded entrance. “And you’d have answered?”

Sam studied the last inch of liquid remaining in the bottle. “You’ll never know.”

He lifted the bottle to take another drink but the woman angrily smacked it from his grasp. The bottle flew through the air, exploding on impact when it hit the far wall, the whiskey inside creating an abstract pattern in the thick dust that coated the cement blocks as it trickled down toward the floor.

Sam was on his feet with a speed that surprised even Dean, especially given how much alcohol he’d recently consumed. He pulled the Colt from inside his jacket and had it pointed at the woman before he was even fully standing. He smiled, but it was not the warm, goofy smile Dean knew and loved. This smile was hard and cold.

Sam cocked the gun, slowly, deliberately, keeping it trained on the redhead. Dean’s eyes widened at his greeting. “Howdy, Meg.”

She exhaled dramatically as she stood, arms raised in mock surrender. Her blue eyes suddenly turned coal-black as she shook her head at Sam. “That name is so last-decade. Keep up, Sammy. I’m Tess now.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t give a damn what you call yourself. This ends tonight. No more cat and mouse. No more innocent lives stolen. You die. End of story.”

Meg pouted. “But what about pretty little Tess here? She’s an innocent victim in all this. The Sammy Winchester I know and love couldn’t take an innocent life.”

Sam’s words were flat and cold. “Keep up, Meg. That Sam died at Cold Oak.”

Dean’s knees almost buckled. He would have fallen had Mary not wrapped her arm around his waist, offering support.

Meg sighed, shaking her head at Sam. “Such a drama queen.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she looked around the room. “You really should find better accommodations, Sam. It stinks in here.” Her eyes widened as she suddenly recognized the overpowering smell. “This place smells like gas.” She tilted her head suspiciously. “What did you do, Sam?”

Sam’s voice was steady. “I told you. This ends now. You and I have stayed at this dance far too long.”

Dean couldn’t smell gas but his hunter’s eyes had earlier seen two gasoline cans thrown amongst the trash in the corner of the room. He now traced the slight hissing he’d heard earlier to a broken pipe on the wall just behind Meg. He wasn’t sure which version of ‘gas’ the demon was referring to but neither led to any pleasant outcome he could think of. He looked from Meg to his brother to Mary. “What the hell is he planning?”

Meg’s frown deepened when she noticed white stains on her leather boots. Slowly, mindful of the gun still trained on her, she bent down to brush off the white powder. She looked up at Sam, an admiring smile spreading across her face. It wasn’t just broken glass crunching under foot. It was rock salt.

“Why Sam. Aren’t you a clever boy. You set this whole room up as an auto-pilot salt and burn. One little spark and ‘boom.’” Her eyes narrowed. “But since we both know you don’t salt and burn a demon - that would be me - I can only surmise you plan on blowing yourself up at the end of tonight’s festivities.”

Dean had quickly arrived at the same conclusion. His brother had no intention of walking out of that room alive. The Colt would take care of Meg. But the minute the gun was fired, any spark from the old gun would ignite the fumes from whatever gas was leaking into the room. The resulting explosion would engulf the whole room in a purified fireball, obliterating Sam and leaving no body for evil to co-opt, no spirit to wander aimlessly. Sam would simply cease to exist.

Meg shook her head at Sam. “This is a little extreme, don’t you think? Not to mention suicide is a sin that condemns your soul to Hell.” She tilted her head quizzically. “You think you can handle Hell, Sammy?

Sam smiled coldly. “You think Hell can handle the Winchester brothers reunited?”

To Dean, it was like all the air had suddenly been sucked from the room. His heart pounded against his chest, his throat constricting to the point he could barely breathe. He stared horrified at Mary, searching her face to see if she had known what Sam was planning.

She had. That was the very reason she had brought him here; to show him where Sam’s life would end if he didn’t fight to get out of the deal.

Dean’s plea to his mother was barely a whisper. “Don’t let him do this.”

Mary cringed at the desperation in Dean’s voice. “I don’t have the power to stop him, Dean. Not here.” She grasped his face gently in both hands. “But you do. By finding a reason to live, to fight, you save yourself and you save your brother. The future is not set. You can still change things.”

Dean’s eyes widened as he saw Sam’s finger begin to squeeze the trigger on the Colt. He broke from his mother’s hold and ran towards his brother. “No, Sam…Don’t….”

The crack of a single shot from the Colt disappeared inside a much bigger explosion.

“SAM!”

Dean heard himself scream his brother’s name. What he didn’t expect was to hear his brother’s voice answering him.

“Hey, hey, hey. Dean! It’s okay. You’re safe. Relax.”

Dean’s eyes snapped open. His heart was hammering against his chest with a ferocity that threatened to break his ribs. Sam’s face hovered above him, swimming in and out of focus. As his vision cleared he realized he was lying in bed in their motel room. Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed beside him.

Dean sat up quickly, grabbing Sam’s shirt, hands fisting in the worn flannel and pulling him close. His breathing was rapid and shallow as he fought to get the words out. “Don’t do it, Sammy. Don’t. I’ll fight this.”

“Dean, please.” Worry mixed equally with confusion in Sam’s voice. “You’re hyperventilating. If you don’t relax, I’m gonna have to put a paper bag over your head.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to be confused but he instinctively followed his brother’s instructions. His breathing gradually slowed and deepened.

Sam smiled, patting Dean’s arm. “Good. Now you wanna give me my shirt back?”

At Dean’s puzzled expression, Sam nodded his head toward Dean’s hands. They were still holding tightly to the front of Sam’s shirt. Dean swallowed. Images of the Sam from the future tumbled through his head; the dull and lifeless eyes, the weary, slumped posture. He tried to reconcile that man with the one now sitting beside him, eyes burning bright with concern.

Dean didn't let go of his brother's shirt. He pulled his brother closer and locked him in a tight hug.

“Dean, I…..” Sam stiffened, surprised by the unexpected show of affection, but then relaxed and returned the hug, patting his brother on the back. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

As Sam felt Dean relax, he pulled gently from the hug, again looking worriedly at his brother. Dean offered a small, embarrassed smile in return.

Sam reached over to the bedside table, grabbed a glass of water there and offered it to Dean. Noting the slight shaking in Dean's hands, Sam steadied the glass as his brother took a few sips. Dean nodded gratefully when he was done.

Sam returned the glass of water to the nightstand then gently pushed his brother back onto his pillows.

Dean again nodded his thanks. “You okay, Sammy?”.

Sam smiled, puzzled. “I’m fine, Dean.”

Dean stared at him suspiciously. “Really?”

“Yeah, Dean. You’re the one whose been out of your mind with fever for the past two days. You scared the crap out of me.”

Dean frowned. “Huh?”

Sam smiled patiently. “You’ve had a really high fever. I’m guessing you picked up some bug when you got thrown into that swamp in Georgia. Took a few days to germinate then grew into a full-blown fever two days ago. You’ve been in and out of consciousness, mostly out, since. Delirious most of the time too.”

Dean's frown deepened. “I say anything I shouldn’t?”

Sam grinned. “If you did, I have it on tape and safely stashed away for future use as blackmail material.”

Dean smiled tiredly. “Bitch.”

Sam clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder.” You’ve been through a lot. You’re exhausted. Get some sleep. We’ll talk again when you wake up.”

After the dream, or whatever it was, he’d just been through, Dean wasn’t sure he ever wanted to sleep again but his body had other ideas. He was asleep before Sam even stood up.

Sam’s worried expression returned as he watched his sleeping brother. The fever had been bad. Only the thought of his brother waking up in shackles had stopped Sam from calling 911. He’d slept little over the past two days, forcing fluids and pills down Dean’s throat whenever he was conscious enough to take them; he’d dragged Dean from one bed to the other as he stripped off sweat-soaked sheets and replaced them with fresh linens he’d begged from motel housekeeping; and he’d lost count of the number of trips he’d made to the motel ice machine for ice to use in cold compresses to try and bring down Dean’s temperature.

But most frightening was the delirium that left Dean in a terror-fuelled panic and Sam feeling completely helpless. The delirium was at its worst just before Dean’s fever broke, when he’d screamed out “No, Sam…don’t...” Sam wondered if Dean would remember anything if he asked him about it.

“Probably not,” he mumbled to himself as he flopped on his own bed and fell into a long overdue and much-needed sleep.

But Dean did remember. He clung to the memories of that Christmas when they were kids, while trying desperately to purge the Yellow-Eyed Demon’s taunts and the sickeningly brilliant way Sam had planned his own death.

When Dean woke again, hours later, Sam was already up. Dean lay quietly watching his brother move about the room. It was busy work, bundling up the soiled sheets and damp towels, collecting up food and drink containers and other garbage scattered about the room, but order gave Sam purpose, made him feel like he was accomplishing something. He’d nursed Dean through this illness but the bigger task still lay ahead: breaking the deal without either one of them ending up dead. Sam didn't know it yet, but Dean was about to become a lot more co-operative in making it happen.

Dean wrestled with his guilt over the burden he'd unwittingly handed to Sam; his fever-induced nightmare had allowed him to feel first-hand the kind of terrifying helplessness his brother must have felt every day since he made the deal. His own devastation over Sam’s death had led to the deal in the first place but somehow, in the twisted logic of Dean’s mind, it was different when Dean was the only one dying because he wasn’t supposed to be here. Now he wasn’t so sure. Not if his fall into Hell led to the hellish future he’d seen for Sam. He couldn’t live, or die, with that.

“How ya feelin’”

Dean suddenly realized Sam was watching him intently. The emotional armor Dean wore daily slid quickly back into place.

“Better. More like crap than road kill.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Nice Dean. Think you can handle something to eat?”

Dean’s stomach lurched at the thought. He shook his head.

“Fine, then at least try and keep this down.” Sam twisted the cap off a bottled sports drink and dropped in a straw. He put it down on the bedside table while he helped his brother sit up, adding the pillows from his own bed to Dean’s so he was fully supported. Once Dean was comfortable, Sam handed him the sports drink. “Drink it slowly, but finish it. You need the electrolytes.”

He grabbed a bottle of pills from the bedside table, dumped out two and handed them to his brother.

Dean looked down at the pills. “What are these?”

Sam shrugged. “Just ibuprofen, man. The way you keep squinting and rubbing your temple, I’m guessing you’ve got one mother of a headache.”

Dean nodded, swallowing the pills. “You force anything else down me?”

Sam frowned. “Just a couple of broad-spectrum antibiotics we had in the first-aid kit, hoping they’d kill the bug you picked up. Why?”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “Just had some really weird, um, dreams, that’s all.”

“Like what?” Sam sat on the end of Dean’s bed waiting for his answer.

Dean’s eyes narrowed as he tried to decide what to tell Sam. It had likely been a dream and nothing more. And God, he wanted it to be a dream, one that could be explained away as fever playing havoc with deep-seeded fears and memories. But in the bizarre world they lived in, he couldn’t be sure. And the alternative was far more terrifying

Dean smiled at Sam, shrugging off his brother’s concern. “I kinda had a visit from the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future. Really bizarre shit, ya know?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “That’s hardly surprising, Dean You were watching A Christmas Carol right before your fever spiked. Why you insist on watching it every time it’s on TV I'll never know. You can practically recite the lines along with the actors.”

The Alistair Sim classic had been one of Dean’s favorite movies. Had been. Past tense. Dean cleared his throat. “Don’t worry, Sammy. I think I’m cured of that nasty habit.”

Sam stood up and stretched. “Good, cause when you’re feeling better I think I’ve got another gig lined up for us, something right up your alley.”

Dean was intrigued. “What?”

Sam grinned. “How does serial-killer chimney sweep sound?”

“Like a surefire B-movie blockbuster.”

Sam laughed. “Good. It’s up in Michigan so, um, just let me know when you feel up to it and we’ll hit the road.”

Dean frowned as he got his first really good look at Sam since waking up. He shuddered at the early stage beard and mustache Sam currently sported. “Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

“You need a shave.”

Sam’s brow furrowed as he stared at his brother incredulously. “Dude, cut me some slack. I’ve been looking after you for the past two days. Shaving has not exactly been at the top of my priority list.”

Dean shrugged weakly. No way could he tell Sam the real reason for his intense dislike of Sam’s facial hair. “I know, it’s just, uh, this Miami Vice thing you’ve got goin,’ it’s not a good look for you.”

Sam shook his head. “Whatever, dude.” He studied Dean intently. “I would like to clean up though. You think you’ll be okay for 10 minutes while I jump in the shower?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, dude. I think I can handle laying down on the bed all by myself without getting into too much trouble.”

Sam grinned, grabbing his duffle to pull out fresh clothes and toiletries. Absentmindedly, he ran his fingers through his hair, briefly revealing the still healing scar where he’d been hit by the broken beer bottle in the recent bar fight.

Dean swallowed, the Yellow-Eyed Demon’s words still weighing heavily on his conscience.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

Dean shuffled guiltily. “How’s your head?”

“What?”

Dean huffed impatiently. “Your head, Sammy. The one those meathead bikers almost bashed in. You okay?”

Sam frowned. “That was almost two weeks ago, Dean. I’m fine. It’s you we need to worry about – especially if you keep asking weird questions like that.”

Dean’s eyes followed Sam as he crossed the room toward the bathroom. “Sam?”

“What, Dean?”

Dean chewed on the word for a moment. “Sorry.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, complete befuddlement painted across his face. “Sorry for what?”

“That you got hurt….”

Now it was Sam’s turn to sound impatient. “What the hell, Dean? That wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, it was,” Dean interrupted. “I’m the one who insisted we go to that bar. I’m the one who challenged those bikers to a game of pool….

“Because,” Sam cut in, “we had a grand total of five dollars and 29 cents cash between the two of us and just a little more than that available on our one active credit card. When we need cash, you hustle pool. That’s what you did.”

“Yeah, but….”

“But nothing. You won fair and square.” Sam grinned. “And for once you didn’t even rub their faces in it.”

Dean shrugged. “Well, they were pretty big…”

Sam snorted. “And that’s all it was, Dean. Too many guys, too much to drink. I zigged when I should have zagged. End of story.” He smiled. “Like a wise man once said, ‘It’s a dangerous gig.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow. “I think I was referring to the supernatural bad guys when I said that, Sammy.”

Sam shrugged. “We need money to live or we can’t fight bad guys, supernatural or otherwise. All part of the same deal from where I’m standing.” He scratched his chin then pointed to the bathroom door. “We done here? ’Cause you’re right, this beard is starting to itch. I need a shower and a shave like yesterday.”

Dean smiled, waving his hand dismissively. “Go make yourself pretty, Samantha. Just save me some hot water. You’re not the only one who reeks around here.”

Sam returned his smile. “I was gonna mention you were a little ripe, but it’s not nice to kick a man when’s he’s down.”

Dean threw off the bed covers. “If you’re gonna keep yappin’, I’m takin’ the first shower.”

Sam’s “Not gonna happen” was muffled as he disappeared into the bathroom and the door slammed shut.

Dean smiled, scrubbing a hand over his face. He slid off the bed so he was sitting on the floor next to his duffle bag. When he heard the shower start running, he pulled the bag closer, unzipped it and reached inside. He pushed his clothes out of the way to get to one of the small, zippered inner pockets. Sliding open the zipper he pulled a small, folded piece of paper from inside. It was yellowed and creased with age and the edges tattered but when Dean unfolded it, the image still made him smile. It was the picture Sam had drawn for him as a present when he was seven years old, the picture showing Sam and Dean and the Impala.

Dean traced his finger over the stick figure image of himself, his arm thrown protectively over Sam’s shoulder. He glanced from the picture to the bathroom door and back again.

“Don’t worry, Sammy,” he said quietly. “We’ll figure this out. I won’t leave you alone.”

The End...

 

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