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The drive from the hospital to Bobby’s place usually takes an hour. Today, on Christmas Eve with Dean sitting in the passenger seat and slush slipping under the old Grand Caravan’s worn tires, it’s closer to two before the salvage yard comes into view.
The van’s tape deck is broken and Sam can feel Dean’s eyes on him as the blocks of houses and brightly coloured Christmas lights give way quietly to the evergreen blur of the South Dakota forest. He’s grateful for the silence, for the fact that Dean doesn’t comment on how slow he’s driving or the way his knuckles have turned white where he’s clutching the steering wheel.
After a while, Dean’s gaze moves away from Sam and out the window, to the endless rolling haze of snow-covered trees bordering the highway. He hasn’t said much at all since they left the hospital—finally, after almost three months of inpatient treatment and rehab. He’s tucked up in the passenger seat with his hands folded in his lap, tugging absently at the fraying cuffs of the zip-up hoodie under his coat. He’s pale, and quiet, shifting his shoulders against the seatback every few minutes like he can’t get comfortable. The van’s rattling heater is cranked up to high, but Sam can hear him shivering anyway. Some combination of cold, and nerves, and pain despite the meds he takes diligently twice a day.
At last, they reach the turnoff to the salvage yard and Sam pulls carefully off the highway and up the drive, coming to a stop in front of Bobby’s house. Dean stares blankly out the front windshield.
Sam pops the latch to the trunk. “Hang tight,” he says, opening his door to the cold.
By the time Sam makes it back around, Dean has his seatbelt unbuckled and the passenger door open. Sam unfolds the chair and sets it down on the ground parallel to the passenger seat, checking twice to make sure the brake is on. He holds up the transfer board. “Just shift your hip up so I can—”
“I can do it,” Dean says.
“Come on, man,” Sam says, hating the desperate edge in his own voice. “Let me help.”
“Sam.” The word comes out flat, angry. More than anything, Dean sounds tired. “Back off. I got it.”
Sam shrugs. “Fine.” He takes the board back to the trunk and grabs Dean’s duffel bag. Meanwhile, Dean reaches down and lifts his right, then his left leg out of the footwell and over the lip of the door, so his toes are just brushing the snow. Then he grips the seat edge with both hands and uses his arm strength to maneuver his butt to the very edge of the seat. The next part is a little trickier. Dean’s injury is high enough that he has no control over the muscles in his abdomen and lower chest, which means that in order to reach forward and grab the seat of his chair, he has to let his own momentum carry him forward. The sensation of falling without the aid of the board still freaks him out a little, but the transition is smooth as he leans forward, grips the edges of the seat and pulls himself out of the car and into the chair. He lifts his feet into the footrests and then moves out of the way so Sam can shut the door behind him.
Sam holds his breath and watches Dean catalogue the exterior of the house. All the rusted car parts and spare tools and broken window panes that once littered the drive and front porch are gone. The stairs are gone too. In their place is an L-shaped ramp constructed of plywood and two-by-fours and painted the same pale blue as the rest of the house. Sam and Bobby built it months ago, after the accident, when Dad was already gone and burned and the doctors said Dean would live but not walk, probably not ever. Last week, when Dean was given the all-clear to come home, Sam wrapped strings of Christmas lights around the railings. They gleam bright even under the layer of fresh snow coating the bulbs. The decking is clear of snow—Bobby must have swept it in anticipation of their arrival.
Dean stares at the spectacle for several long moments, pale and blank, then squares his shoulders visibly and pushes forward onto the ramp.
When they make it up to the porch, the door swings open and Bobby ushers them inside. In the entryway, he hugs Sam and then Dean, keeping his touch carefully equal even though Sam saw him just this morning and it’s been a few days since he’s been to visit Dean.
“Hey, Bobby,” Dean says, quiet.
“You look good,” Bobby says gruffly, cuffing Dean gently on the shoulder.
The corners of Dean’s lips turn up in something approaching a sardonic smile. When he speaks, his tone is dry. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”
It’s clear what he means. Bobby’s house has always been a ramshackle mess of dusty cabinets and crowded furniture, the floors in every room cluttered with books and papers and empty glass bottles. Now, for the first time ever, the floor is swept clear, grimy carpets removed to expose polished hardwood underneath—a maneuverable surface. Then there’s the matter of the Christmas decorations: the lights strung up on the ramp, the festive wreath on the door, the sparkly tinsel wrapped around the bannister of the foyer staircase.
“Figured I’d take advantage of the opportunity to decorate.” Bobby shrugs. “Don’t usually have much cause, but seeing as you’ll be spending the holidays…”
“Yeah, ‘deck the halls’ and all that,” Dean mutters. He shrugs out of his coat and reluctantly passes it to Sam, who hangs it on the hook by the door.
“Right,” Bobby says, a little awkwardly. “Let me show you where you can put your stuff.”
Dean’s eyes flick anxiously to the staircase, but his unease turns to visible confusion when Bobby turns and heads down the hallway in the other direction instead. The brothers follow him to the set of french doors that used to be the entrance to his study.
Dean shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Bobby…”
Bobby opens the doors and leads them in. When it was his office, you couldn’t take a step on the well-worn patch of carpet between the door and the desk without knocking over one of the piles of books or boxes of artifacts stacked haphazardly on every surface. Now, the floor is spotlessly clean. The monstrous desk and cabinets are gone, replaced by a simple double bed, low dresser and bookshelf.
“Your office,” Dean says, crestfallen, his shoulders curling inward.
“Moved it upstairs,” Bobby says. “Was high time I got rid of most of that crap anyway.”
“By ‘got rid of,’ he means he made me move it all to the crawlspace under the porch,” Sam says, setting Dean’s duffel bag on the dresser.
Bobby glares at him. “Sam helped,” he allows. “Now that’s out of the way—either of you boys hungry? I can make up some early supper.”
Sam is. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and the hospital didn’t release Dean until well after lunchtime. “Yeah, Bobby. Thanks.”
“Nah.” Dean shakes his head, although he hasn’t eaten in at least as long as Sam. “Thanks, but I’m pretty tired. Think I’m gonna crash for a while first.”
“Right,” Bobby says. “We can reheat some when you’re feeling better.” Then, just before he leaves them alone, “Good to have you home, son.”
Sam hovers, making a show of unpacking the few items of clothing from Dean’s duffel into the topmost dresser drawer. He sets Dean’s toiletry bag on top of the dresser and starts pulling books out of the duffel’s side compartment.
“Sam.” Dean has pulled his chair up next to the bed. He’s taken his shirt off. Dean’s shoulders and pecs are strong and well-defined, but the muscles in his abdomen have wasted away, softening his middle. And he’s covered in scars: ugly twisting scars from the emergency surgery to stop massive internal bleeding after the crash, the one like a slash on his throat where the tracheostomy tube was and, though Sam can’t see it, the one high on his back where they fused his spine in place at the point of injury—the one that makes it so he’s always in pain.
Sam swallows down the guilt rising in his throat like bile and meets Dean’s even gaze. “Yeah.”
“I think I can take it from here,” Dean says, cold. “Go eat.”
His tone brooks no argument. Sam sets the books down on the dresser.
+
“I need to run out on an errand tonight,” Bobby says, hanging the phone in the cradle on the kitchen wall and sitting back down at the table. He scrutinizes Sam over his beer and bowl of canned chili. “You doin’ all right, boy?”
Sam swallows his mouthful of chili and wipes his lips with a paper napkin before speaking. “Me?”
Bobby regards him evenly. “You seen anyone else moping around my house and eating all my food lately?”
“I guess.” Sam sets his spoon back in the bowl. “I guess I thought Dean would start acting like himself again once we got him home. But he’s still…” He gestures vaguely.
“I know you’ve been through a lot these past months,” Bobby says, a little softer. “Hell, we all have. But you have to give him more time to come to grips with all this. He lost his legs and his father on the same day, and he wasn’t even awake to say goodbye. It’s a damn miracle he even woke up at all. This is a big adjustment for all of us, but especially for him. Remember that.”
“How could I forget?” Sam says, so low it’s almost a whisper. “I was the one driving, Bobby.”
“Hey, now.” Bobby’s tone is stern. “Both you and Dean know damn well no one’s to blame for what happened but that yellow-eyed son of a bitch. And I won’t have your self-pity in my house. Got plenty enough of that on my own to last me a lifetime. So straighten up, eat your damn chili and finish decorating that tree for me before I get back.”
Sam blinks. “Sure.”
Bobby stands. “Good.” He ruffles Sam’s hair on his way out the door.
+
Hours later, it’s dark out and Sam is in the living room putting the finishing touches on the Christmas tree when Dean finally emerges. Despite the nap he still looks pale and drawn, shadows like bruises under his eyes, but he whistles low when he sees the tree, wrapped in lights and garlands with a silver star sparkling at the top.
“Really went the whole nine yards, huh?”
Sam scoffs and slumps back onto the carpet against the couch to admire his handiwork. He’s had several glasses of eggnog, plus a few more shots of rum straight from the bottle.
Dean rolls closer and holds out a hand. “Pass it.”
Sam clutches the half-empty bottle to his chest. “No.”
Dean rolls his eyes. He pulls the brake on his chair, then lifts his legs out one by one, scoots to the edge of the seat and falls forward off the edge. Sam panics, throwing an arm out instinctively to catch him, but then Dean’s palm meets the floor and he transfers smoothly down to the carpet, grimacing at the strain on his back and shoulders. He props himself against the couch next to Sam and takes advantage of his momentary panic to swipe the bottle of rum and take a generous swig.
“Hey!” Sam protests weakly, heart still pounding in his throat.
Dean grins at him and takes another sip. “Christmas Eve tradition, little brother.” Then he points toward the tree, at something near the bottom. “What the hell is that thing?”
“It’s a reindeer,” Sam says. Dean sputters around his next mouthful of rum, then coughs for a while. Since he has no muscle control in his abdomen, the coughs are high in his chest, weak. Sam clamps down on the urge to offer an assist, knows it wouldn’t be welcome. Instead, he says, “Shut up. I made it.”
“Aww, all by yourself?” Dean mocks as soon as he recovers. “Congrats, Sammy.”
“When we were kids, jackass,” Sam says flatly. He goes to throw a half-hearted punch at Dean’s shoulder and—stops himself short. His hand falls to his lap.
Dean flinches and looks away. The spark of him going out. He takes another drink.
After a short and awkward silence, Sam struggles to recover. “That was, uh. That was the year dad broke his leg, remember? We spent almost a month here, during the holidays. Bobby helped us build that giant snow fort out of old car parts.”
“Best Christmas ever,” Dean says. It sounds hollow.
He doesn’t seem inclined to say anything else, so Sam turns on the ancient TV. In true Christmas Eve fashion, It’s a Wonderful Life is playing on every one of the three channels Bobby gets out here. Tired and a little drunk, Sam drifts, Dean’s presence quiet but solid at his side.
+
Sam wakes up alone with a crick in his neck. The house is lit only by the low twinkling light from the Christmas tree. Someone has covered him with a soft flannel blanket. On the TV screen, Clarence the angel tries to convince George Bailey his life is worth saving. Christ, this is a long movie. Outside, it’s snowing again.
“Dean?” Sam calls out, quiet in the dark of Bobby’s house.
Upon investigation, he finds Dean’s room, the washroom and the kitchen all empty. That’s when he starts panicking, overcome with images of Dean alone in the snow, helpless and freezing to death while Sam slept inside.
He sprints for the front door and down the ramp without putting a jacket on. “Dean!” It’s dark outside, and the fresh snowfall has covered any tracks that might have been left by Dean’s chair. He jogs farther down the drive. “Answer me, Dean!”
Dean, alone out here with no way to get through the snow. It wouldn’t take long for hypothermia to set in because his body can’t regulate temperature properly anymore. He’d die cold and afraid and alone and it’d be Sam’s fault, just like with dad—
The garage light is on. Sam almost starts bawling when he sees it, relief sweeping through him.
Inside, Dean is sitting in front of the twisted hulk of black metal that takes up most of the space in the garage. For the life of him, Sam can’t figure out why he and Bobby had even bothered bringing her in. She’s battered beyond recognition or hope, warped around the point of impact that shattered both their lives in the space of a millisecond.
Dean’s head turns toward him. His expression is blank, unreadable.
Sam clears his throat, panic still clawing at his chest. “I wanted to fix her. But I don’t know how. Not without you and dad.”
“Yeah.” Silence hangs between them, heavy with unasked questions about why Sam never asked for Bobby’s help fixing the car, or why he hasn’t taken a case in months.
Sam hears more than feels it when his teeth start clattering together. The sound seems to shake Dean out of whatever daze he’s been fading in and out of for months now. “Christ, Sam. Didn’t think to put on a damn jacket before going out in subzero weather?” He shrugs out of his coat and holds it out to Sam.
Sam shakes his head. “I thought,” he begins, but his voice shakes and he clamps his lips shut.
“I know what you thought, asshole,” Dean says, rolling toward him. “I’m not going anywhere. Take the damn jacket.”
Sam does. He slips his hands into the arm holes and zips up the front. It’s warm from Dean’s body.
“I’m gonna rebuild her,” Dean says, after a while spent studying the wreck together side-by-side.
“Yeah?” Sam can’t quite squash the hopeful note in his own voice.
Dean nods. “Might need your help with the grunt work though. Heavy lifting and such.” He pats his midsection delicately. “My core strength isn’t what it used to be.”
Sam snickers. When he looks away from the wreck at last, Dean is watching him sidelong, the corners of his mouth quirked up in amusement.
“Okay,” Sam says. “Okay.”
It’s after midnight. Outside, the snow falls thick and fast, burying the rusted-out shells of old things in a layer of gleaming, immaculate white—the quiet beginning of a new day.