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Sam wakes up to Dean’s side of the bed being cold. They’re outside of Saratoga, Wyoming, squatting in one of the empty houses at the town’s outskirts. There’s no heating or water, and they have to use the old fireplace in the living room to get a bit of warmth and fetch water from the small river to take a shower, heating it up on a camping cooker before they dump it over one another in the bath tub.
The bed, if you can call it that, is a pile of old, dusty blankets and a pair of sleeping bags next to the oven in one of the bed rooms.
Sam already decided two weeks ago that this would be the worst Christmas in a long time.
Dad dumped them here, off on a hunt with Caleb that seems to take longer than planned. He called yesterday to let them know he wouldn’t make it home in time for Christmas morning, and the money he left them with is already as good as gone, a few bucks left for a couple packages mac’n’cheese and cereals.
Sam sighs, long-suffering, and contemplates getting out of bed. He’s got no idea where Dean went off to, but he’d hoped to wake up before his brother and be able to surprise him with the little wrapped gift he’d been hiding in his duffel for the last month.
It’s a pitiful-looking thing, wrapped in sparkly pink wrapping-paper with silver snowflakes printed on it, that he’d managed to steal from the art department of the last school he went to. There’s even a small star-shaped green bow glued to it.
Inside is a silver knife with a horn handle, the blade extra-sharp and the handle polished until it’s smooth and almost looks like ivory. He’d had to sell his homework for six months straight to get the money for it, and bought it in an antique store in Sioux Falls when they went to visit Bobby.
He’d had it all planned out, this Christmas day, trying to make the best of it by kissing Dean awake—because even if he denies it loudly, Sam knows Dean likes that kind of stuff—and then handing over the carefully wrapped knife, watching as Dean’s eyes widen in surprise because Sam’d remembered Dean looking at it through the shop window. Then they would’ve kissed again, and it would get more heated, and there would’ve been wandering hands, and—
Well, that’s not gonna happen now, not exactly like he panned anyway, so Sam just decides to get up, fighting his way out of the sleeping bag and blankets to slip quickly into the thick pullover he left next to the bed last night because it’s always fucking cold in this shitty house.
He spends five minutes on finding a pair of socks, and by the time he’s finally made it out of the bed room, he’s in a bad mood and angry with Dean because he’d chose this of all days to get out of bed early.
"Dean," Sam says when he opens the door to the living room, all his other complains dying in his throat when he takes in the room before him.
There’s a Christmas tree.
There’s an honest-to-god Christmas tree in their otherwise almost empty living room—a small, crooked thing, only reaching to Sam’s chin, with tiny branches and tiny needles that are strewn all over the floor, forming a path from the front door to where the tree is leaning against the wall. It’s decorated with seemingly everything colorful Dean’s been able to find; bottle caps and cut out cereal box mascots, discarded flyers from the school a town over announcing their Christmas play, red and green threat, and at the top a star shaped from aluminum foil.
It’s beautiful, and Sam can’t help but gape and stare.
Next to it, Dean’s standing, fidgeting, his hands red, skin cracked from the chilly air outside, tree sap staining his palms. There are green needles in his hair and the seams of his jeans are wet, and Sam can’t believe that Dean went out to cut down a Christmas tree just for him, collecting the decoration and hanging it up.
Just for Sam.
"I—uh—I know it’s not much, but." Dean’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing his neck as if embarrassed, not quite able to meet Sam’s gaze.
"Dean, I—" Sam doesn’t know what to say, and Dean’s face falls, toes of his boots digging into the rotting floor boards.
"Yeah, I know it’s stupid, but I thought—"
"Stop," Sam interrupts him and crosses the distance between them, wraps his arms around Dean’s middle and holds on. "Don’t say that, Dean. It’s perfect."
His eyes are big and maybe a bit wet when he looks up, and Dean’s face slowly changes, loses the uncertain expression to make room for a cocky smirk as he ruffles Sam’s hair.
"Knew you’d like it," he says and puffs out his chest. "You’re sappy like that."
Sam doesn’t even protest and smiles instead, nuzzling Dean’s neck before kissing it softly.
"Yeah, I guess," he says and turns his head, rests it on Dean’s shoulder to look at the small tree again, Dean’s hand rubbing his nape, the other pushing beneath his pullover to rest on the small of his back, warm and comforting.
"I didn’t get you a present," Dean finally admits, silently, and Sam shakes his head.
"This is already enough," he answers, and pulls Dean down with him onto the pile of blankets serving as a makeshift couch in front of the fire, kissing him softly while he pushes the old leather jacket from Dean’s shoulders.
"This is better than any present, anyway," is added, whispered into skin as Dean settles between his spread legs, and Dean smiles before claiming Sam’s mouth in a kiss.
The present, Sam decides, can wait for later. Now, he’s got other plans.