BLUE

CHRISTMAS

By: Karen B.

Summary: A Very Supernatural Christmas Tag. Lots of angst, angry, drunk Sam and protective, angst Dean with a little fluff booted in.

Disclaimer: Not the owner. Not the owner. Not the owner. Only the dreamer.

Rated: Rich and chewy…ooey -gooey, angst on the inside. Golden, flaky, tender cakey fluff, on the outside. Wrap the inside with the outside -- and I hope you like it.

Thank you much for your time!

Sunshine, even in snowy weather,

Karen

Dean bolted awake, recognizing right away where he was. Motel room, on the couch, staring at the scrambled fuzz of the television set. Little too much eggnog swimming in his head, right arm -- numb -- unmovable. Had Dean not known better he'd say he'd gotten into a back alley street brawl with Holyfield, Tyson, and that creepy, little elf of a guy -- Hornswoggle -- and lost. Thankfully that was not the case, and even through the emo-pain, the night of brotherhood was warm, and heavy in his chest. They'd sat side by side. Content. Unspoken love flowing from one heart to the other. Drinking. Watching the game. A whoop here, an f - bomb there. Girlish, drunken laughter. Man, payback was a red-eyed bitch on a flying broomstick. Dean closed his eyes-- maybe his head would imploded. Grimacing, he rubbed at the back of his neck. The last time he sported a headache this bad was on his twenty-first birthday. Dad had taken him out for a few drinks, and the next thing Dean remembered he was waking up under a bridge, dirt covered -- all four limbs not responding -- a homeless person sleeping next to him. Drinking over half-a-gallon of tainted eggnog with your little bro -- not such a good idea.

Dean shook his head -- also not such a good idea. Holy crap his head hurt worse, was that possible? He scrunched his eyes up tighter, must have passed out long before the game had ended, couldn't even remember who won. If he felt this bad, Sam had to feel like reindeer shit. His brother had drank far more merry than he had.

"Wake up, bro." Dean raised a hand to prod Sam in the ribs, poking at empty air.

And where was kid Christmas?

Dean cracked open one eye -- glanced around -- Sam's drunken-self was probably curled up in the fetal position in some dark corner of the room -- fathead in the palm of his sasquatch hands -- literally.

Dean was up in a hurry. Shutting off the television, searching said corners, tottering to the bathroom, peeking inside.

No Sam.

Great.

Holding onto the bathroom door for support, he scanned the room -- quiet, but cheery. The meager tree lit the small space in a dream-like haze. Green, red, yellow, and blue lights twinkled, silver tinsel hung just so, wrapping paper and presents scooted together in a neat pile. It was heart-touching -- Sam's whole sleigh bells and glistening act. Pasting on a smile, even though Dean knew deep down his brother was dying inside.

And what was that? Coming from outside. Music. Christmas music?

I'll have a blue Christmas without you. I'll be so blue, thinking about you.

Elvis impersonating caroler?

Dean frowned, feet crisscrossing the room. He peered out the frosted window, holding onto the ragged curtains for support. Huge, white snowflakes fell slowly, heaping onto the Impala parked in a slot, only a few feet away from their room. Didn't take Dean more than that to find out where Sam had gone. Tossing on his leather jacket, Dean headed outside into the winter chill.

And when the blue snowflakes start falling. That's when those blue memories start calling.

The music blared.

"Son of a bitch," Dean grumbled.

All four windows of his baby were rolled down. Sam's giant, socked feet propped and hanging out the driver's window. Dean approached the car and bent to peer inside. Sam was lying flat on his back, head pressed against the passenger side door, wearing only jeans and a tee shirt. If not for the rise and fall of his chest, Dean would think the punch-drunk kid was dead.

"You idiot," Dean reached up, fisting the roof with loud bang.

"Only half an idiot," Sam muttered, not so much as flinching as he squinted up at Dean.

"You found my stash?" Dean growled. By the glow of the radio's light, he spied his hidden stash held loosely in Sam's dangling hand. A silver, whiskey-filled flask -- obviously empty -- open end pointing toward the floorboards . "And drank it all? On top of the spiked nog?"

"I'll make whatever I want to, Dean," Sam slurred.

"Bro, you mean you'll drink whatever you want to."

"Out of whatever I want to make it with," he garbled.

"I won't ask." Dean glanced around the car's interior, blustery snow blowing in through the open windows to soak the seats. "Why are my windows all rolled down?" Dean asked, crossly.

"Fresh air."

"Seriously, Grinch?" Dean shoved Sam's stocking feet inside the car and opened the driver's door.

"What's your problem, Bing?" Sam laughed. "Sick of Christmas, already?

"Man, you're going to wake the neighbors." Dean reached across the seat, flipping off Christmas radio. "Come on out of there!" Dean grabbed hold of Sam by the front of his shirt, pulling the floppy form to a sitting position and backing them both out

"No no no." Sam fussed, arms waiving. "You come on in." He grabbed a handful of leather and tugged Dean over and onto his lap. "Not Santa, Dean, but you can still sit on my lap," Sam snickered in that special way that only the intoxicated could.

"You are one sick drunk, Sam," Dean grunted, struggling to grab hold of the crank and roll up his baby's passenger side window. "Like any rational big brother…" Dean scrambled up to his knees. Huffing, he reached far over the bench seat. "… I'm going to assume, Sam, you were not in your right mind when you let old man winter screw up my ride." He finished rolling up all the windows. "Now, let's go." Dean snatched the keys from the ignition -- than snatched Sam.

Awkwardly wiggling backward, he tugged Sam across the seat. He panted with exertion, wrestling to guide the big oaf around the steering wheel, until Sam's socked feet pressed down into cold snow.

"Goin'… we… where?" Sam tangle his words.

"Room! Now!" Dean ordered.

"Nonono!" Sam stood, yanking away in drunk defiance, fingers latching onto the Impala's doorframe. "No, Dean!" Sam slammed the car door shut behind him. "Going to the bar." He waved an arm in a crazy attempt to point out his direction as he stumbled off toward road.

"That'd be a negative!" Dean grabbed hold of the flailing arm, shoving Sam back against the car's trunk. "It's four in the morning, you're drunk, it's freezing cold, and you have no shoes or jacket on," Dean explained. "Sam, you have to take better care of yourself than this. I'm not always going…"

"Going to be here!" Sam spat. "That's right, Dean. So…so… why am I supposed to care, when you don't?"

"What the…" Dean froze -- shocked, yet kept a firm hold of his brother, pressing him harder against the Impala. "Sam, of course I care!" Dean growled, his own drunken haze getting the better of him. "Why do you think I'm going to he…" he bit his lower lip so hard it bled.

"…Hell, Dean. You're going to hell!" Sam yelled in disgust. "You can't even say the word." He looked up at the sky. "Hell! Hell! Hell!" Looking back at Dean, Sam pointed a finger at the snow-covered ground. "You think you're saving me? Think I'm being tucked away nice and safe? Above ground. Gawd, do you really think you're the only one being thrown into a pit of fire?"

Dean cocked his head to one side -- confused.

"Here. Without you, Dean. You're going down, leaving me here…" Sam forcefully broke away from Dean's hold taking a few staggering steps from the car. Whirling back to face Dean. "All alone!" he yelled, arms spread wide. "In this shitty-shit hole. My hell, Dean. Doesn't that mean anything to you?" Sam's shoulders slumped, body shook, knees buckled.

"Sammy." Dean took a step toward him.

"No." Sam stepped backward, that 'killed puppy' look plastered all over his face . "Stay away from me."

Dean was shocked once again into stillness. "Bro," he whispered.

"Dean, don't you understand? You think it's all so easy?" Sam lowered his voice, but continued his rambling. "Happy trails. Riding off into the sunset. Going out in a blaze of glory. Bid me adieu. You're a real dick, you know that? Because, I won the lottery, Dean. Not you. Me. Because I'm the one who died…you got to buy the ticket to hell. You fucking hate me that much?" Sam slung the vulgarity, like a sledgehammer hitting Dean's heart.

"Goddamnit, Sam…you know I don't hat…"

"That's fucked up, Dean!." Sam riled on. "We are fucked… so… up!" He stumbled over his own tongue, body trembling, tears filming his eyes. "Mom's been gone, and I never knew her. Dad's gone, and he never knew me."

"Sam, stop."

"And now you…you're the only thing…the only one who ever lov…" Sam turned away. "Dean…you're all I…we're all we…and I…I have to live with that every single day. I have to...and I don't know if I can." Sam turned back. "Either way," Sam swallowed down on nothing. "I'll have to remember where you are…forever.. because of me. What if …things…sometimes I wish…Dean…how…" Sam pitched forward.

"Sam." Dean took one step, catching his brother. "I said stop. Just stop. I'm sorry." Dean's hand came to the back of Sam's head reigning him in. "I am, but..."

"…You think you did the right thing. Think you're so awesome." Sam rocked unsteadily back and forth, chin resting on Dean's shoulder. "My big brother. My hero. My white knight? "Em not your damsel in distress!" Sam raised his voice again, but only leaned his weight further against Dean.

"Dude, I piss excellence," Dean said, trying to sooth jokingly, but none of this was funny.

Sam was hurting. He was hurting. Their merry little Christmas earlier -- only for a minute easing the pain. What could he say?

"You're stupid." Sam said it for him, choking down muffled sobs. "It's all so stupid." He grew heavier in Dean's arms, the booze finally taking him down.

"I know. I know it is, buddy." Dean fought back his own sobs, there was no setting his brother's world right. In time maybe -- Dean shook that thought away. Sam was right, they both were 'fucked so up'.

"Too much eggnog latte for you, little brother," Dean gave a nervous, little laugh, rubbing a hand up and down Sam's back.

"D'n?"

"Yeah, pal?"

"My toes are frozen." Sam turned his head, cold nose rubbing against Dean's neck.

"You are such the bad-ass hunter," Dean said fondly.

There was no making sense of any of this. Dean knew Sam wasn't doing so well with the whole 'going to hell' bit. Hell, he wasn't either. Poking dead things with sticks. Kill or be eaten. That was how they'd lived their whole lives. And the emotional baggage was a damn friggin' heavy load.

They stood in the silence of the falling snow for a long time, the icy night air breezing around them. Just two brothers, reminding each other of their love.

"Hey." Dean finally patted Sam's back.

"Wha'?" Sam slurred.

"Think we've both had enough of this broke-ass mountain, routine." Dean gripped Sam's biceps, pushing him upward. Sam was taller than Dean, but right now he was so hunched up they were at equal eyelevel. "Feel like going inside?" Dean questioned, softly.

"Feel more like someone beat my brains with an electric mixer." Sam shivered.

"Come on, egg yolk for brains." Dean wrapped an arm around Sam's waist. Guiding him along, they trudged through the falling snow, back toward the motel.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Socked feet -- slip-sliding under Sam, making the going slow.

"Gaaa," Sam gagged, swallowed, gagged again.

"Dude, don't throw up." Dean chanced hunkering Sam closer to his side, fighting to keep the kid on two legs.

"Can't ask a drunk guy to do that, D'n." Sam's head bobbed about weakly.

Dean gave a booted kick to the slightly ajar motel room door. Hauling Sam inside, the kid nearly lost his balance heading toward the floor.

"Whoa!" Sam giggled. "Got me?" He giggled some more, wobbling about like a Weeble.

"As always, little brother." Dean tugged Sam back up. "Two rules, here," Dean panted, half-dragging Sam to the bed. "One. No munching carpet." Dean scuffled with the bedcovers. "Two. No decking the halls with vomit." He laid Sam down, pulled off his wet socks, towing the blankets up to Sam's chin.

Child-like eyes peered up at Dean. "I hate you."

"I know." Dean sat on the edge of the bed, not taking his eyes off Sam.

"I love you."

"I know that, too, Sam."

"Dean." Sam made a goofy face. "You look like…like I could use another drink," Sam snorted, hand raised -- searching.

"No more drinks." Dean took Sam's hand into his. "For either of us, fruitcake," he said, squeezing

A tear slid down Sam's cheek. "This stinks." He rolled to his side, dragging Dean's hand and arm over -- hugging the limb to him like his own personal teddy bear.

"Everything will be better when you wake up, Sam. You'll see." Dean leaned down close. "Promise," he whispered his usual brotherly lie into Sam's ear.

"Okay." As usual --Sam let himself believe.

The end