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It the first snow since Sam left. Dean pushed open the Impala’s door and wrapped himself tighter in his old leather jacket. The weather was very unforgiving around the country once it got to December. Dean brought his hands to his mouth, blowing warm air on them pathetically in hope of staying warm. He was cold starting from the day Sam decided to turn his back on hunting, and on him. Spreading out his stone cold hand, Dean caught a snowflake in his palm. It slowly melted and left behind a small drop of water. It reminded Dean of he and Sam, their relationship, how it was gone in the blink of an eye.
Dean took a deep breath, one that made his lungs ached as the cold air filled his entire chest. He turned and got back into the car. As the Impala made the familiar dull noise, he gripped hard onto the steering wheel. It was like Sam took a little piece of the car’s soul with him, if the car ever had one. For Dean he would say it had, because they both look slightly deader with every day that passed by. He pulled the car away from the roadside and drove towards the south. No matter how many of his messages Sam left unread, he still had a promise to keep.
¶
Sam closed the thick book in front of him and pushed himself up. He has been staring at the same page for hours. He flipped open his phone and closed it with a little too much force when he saw there were not any new messages, or missed calls. He stretched and let out a frustrated groan as he started to pace in his room. He walked to the window and rolled up the blinds. It took him a few moments to adjust to the winter sun, but he could not find what he expected to see. He should have known he would not find the overly shiny black car around this block. But still he could not help hoping, because Dean never failed what he promised.
Jess insisted Sam should go to the party. She said Sam was slowly turning into stone with him locking himself in his small room every day and night. She was not wrong, Sam thought, and he did not want to be the jerk that kept turning down Jess. So he dropped his thick piles of notes in the evening of Christmas Eve and made himself somehow presentable for the party. Sam still hoped his phone would ring as they got into the car. He still hoped he would hear the familiar horn that made him jump ever since he knew his name. But there was nothing. There was nothing to stop him from going to a party, hanging out with friends and being social, and that, actually made his skin crawl. He felt like he was truly living in a separate universe.
¶
It was almost midnight. Dean cursed in his mind as he staggered his way back to the Impala. He should not have stopped by to deal with this hunt. It was a stupid move, but he had to, since the town was too close to where Sam was. He could not let anything happen to time, no matter how narrow the chance. He tripped on some shrubbery when he was just a few feet away and fell face down to the freezing, hard ground. He cursed out loud this time. There was not much time. He needed to get to Sam, or at least called him. But his phone was in the car, and the tear wound from the Rugaru was too deep. The phone was ringing. It must be Sam. The thought gave Dean a wave of new strength. He pushed himself up from the ground and crawled his way towards the car. If he was to die, he needed to hear Sam’s voice before he took his last breath.
¶
Sam knew he was piss-ass drunk, but he was never the kind that yelled and shouted and kicked when his system had too much alcohol in it. He sat at the doorsteps of the party house and he dialed Dean’s number without much hesitation. He was drunk, and the alcohol gave him the courage that he lacked in the past months. He did not care much about what he was doing, plus it was two minutes away from Christmas. He was allowed to act like a child. It was that time of the year. But the phone call remained at the dull, monotone dialing noise as Sam waited, hoping Dean would pick it up tonight. He knew it was his bad for not replying to Dean’s messages, but Dean had to pick up. He could not be mad at him tonight. He could be angry at him any other night, but not tonight, because it was Christmas.
It seemed the phone has been ringing for ages, but Dean was still some ten inches away from the car. He panted heavily and pressed harder over his bleeding wound. He already started to tremble, but he had to get to the phone. He had to make it, for Sam. The air pained him when he inhaled, and the gravels and stones on ground scratched his skin as he crawled forward. But centimeter by centimeter, Dean made it to the car and the phone was still ringing. He fumbled with the keys and he slapped his blood slicked palm over the car door, while mumbling “S’rry baby” softly. He yanked open the car door and clang onto the driver’s seat, catching his breath like he just ran a damn marathon. He reached for his phone, “You better thank me for that Sammy—”
“This is Dean’s other, other cell. You know what to do.” Sam felt like all the air was sucked out of his lungs when he got to Dean’s voice mail. He did not pick up. For a couple of seconds Sam did not know if he should leave a message. Yet still he took a deep breath before beginning in a shaky voice.
“It’s Christmas, Dean.”
Dean felt like he just got stabbed again, this time right at the heart.
“So…er… Merry Christmas.”
“..No—No! Don’t hang up--! Fuck! Sammy!” Dean groaned as he struggled to stand up quick. A rush of hot blood runs up his throat and out of his mouth uncontrollably. Dean’s vision started to blur and black spots started forming as he fought to see his surroundings better. But all he could think of was Sam. His Sam, Sammy, being alone, at Christmas. No. No, he could not let that happen. He could not—He promised—
¶
When Dean came to, he could not comprehend with his surroundings just yet. He only heard the constant and annoying beeping of the hospital machines. Then he slowly blinked open his eyes and is greeted by a bright white ceiling. He groaned and turned his head to the side, just to meet with his John Winchester’s impatient face.
“D-Dad…”
“Shut up. How could you mess up like that? You were dead if I didn’t get there in time.”
“’m sorry, sir.” Dean swallowed and averted his eyes.
John got up from his seat and turned around, “I’m leaving in two hours. I better see you in the car by then.”
Dean pushed himself up and blurted hastily before John disappeared by the door, “H-How long did I sleep?”
“One day. Today’s 26th.” Then John walked away without throwing a second glance.
Dean gasped and he searched for his phone frantically. He rumbled over the bed stand drawers and he found his phone together with his jacket. It was painted with his dried blood but it was still working when Dean flipped it open. But what made his heart dropped was that there was nothing. No missed calls. No unread messages. No voicemails. No nothing. He let out a shaky breath and he quickly dialed Sam’s number.
Sam got up from his seat when his phone vibrated. He walked over to a corner of the restaurant that he and Jess was having breakfast in. Once he recognized the number, he waited for it to ring for some more time before picking it up.
“Yea?’
“Sammy—” Dean took in a sharp breath when Sam’s voice went through the phone. “I—the night before, I—” He struggled to form a complete sentence but Sam cut him off.
“Don’t call me that. And it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t anything big.” Every fiber of Sam was screaming at him as his mouth let out the most ridiculous lie ever.
“…What—?” Dean’s breath was caught at his throat, “Look, Sam. Just, don’t be mad yet. Let me explain—”
Sam did not know where on earth came the courage for him to lie even further, “No, it really isn’t a big deal. It’s fine. I know you are busy.” He bit his lip when Jess asked him to hurry up from their seats.
Dean heard the Jess’ voice clearly. A young, happy, female voice. He knew it was over. He and Sam, over. But he tried again, “Sam—” Because that was what he did, he tried, every damn time.
“Forget it, Dean. I was the one being stupid. I mean, I shouldn’t expect—never mind. That—that was a childhood thing only.” Sam really did not know how he even managed to let these words out of his mouth, “It doesn’t matter as much anymore. Talk soon, okay? I got to go.”
Dean forgot if he even managed to say goodbye, because before he knew, there was only the mocking tone of a dead phone call bumping through his ear. He wondered if what he just he heard from Sam was just his imagination. He blinked a few times, thinking maybe he should grieve, or cry, or at least feel something. But there was nothing. He looked at the phone, which seconds ago sent Sam’s voice from the other end and his hands started to shake. Sam said it was a childhood thing, and it was Sam, not Sammy.
¶
“Dad was never here at Christmas.” He remembered the eleven-year-old Sam getting upset over not being able to see John during Christmas.
“But I will always be here.” He remembered what he said, like it was carved to his heart.
“Always?” He remembered those big hazel eyes that were so pure and bright, and they looked at him like he was the only person in the entire universe.
“Always, Sammy.”
Always.