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Sammy overdid it on the eggnog, Dean notes with amusement. Over the course of the evening, Sam’s migrated from his side of the couch over to Dean’s, spine slowly collapsing into a lazy sprawl. He splays over the cushions in such a way that he’s actually managing to look up at Dean. Sam catches him staring and grins, all teeth and earnestness, and shakes his empty cup under Dean’s nose.
“‘S good,” he says, self-satisfied. “Why aren’t you drinking?”
“Because you drank it all, you slush,” Dean points out, plucking the cup from Sam’s fingers. The absence of a drink has Sam looking bereft, a small frown marring his features. “Want me to go out and get more?”
Sam shakes his head viciously. “No. ‘Sides, it’s Christmas. Everywhere’s closed.”
“Pretty sure the guy running the gas mart is Jewish,” Dean says and Sam laughs, a little too loud and open. Oh, yeah. Not totally sloshed but tipsy and definitely making merry. “Game’s over, pal. You wanna hit the sack?”
Again, Sam tosses his head from side to side. “Nah. Let’s just watch--” He gestures at the TV. Something black-and-white’s just coming on. Dean grimaces when recognizes the scene--
“A lot of people are asking for help for a man named George Bailey.”
--and he looks away. Down at his brother who’s gazing at the screen with dumb-struck eyes.
“We should find Rudolph instead,” Sam says, as if in a daze, “or the Grinch.” But he makes no move to get off the couch and touch that dial. Sam blinks up at Dean through the curtain of his hair and the urge to brush it aside nearly overwhelms him. “Sorry.”
“Nah, it’s fine,” Dean says. “It’s a classic, right?”
Sam nods. Then, he sidles just a hair closer, not quite touching but not quite not touching either, close enough that an electric tingle sweeps down Dean’s right side. Sam’s eyes go half-lidded as he watches the life and times of George Bailey unfold before him and Dean’s eyes go half-lidded watching his brother.
A Christmas miracle right here, he thinks. Witnessing a bonafide Christmas miracle.
Sam, soft and tipsy. Sam, embracing the holiday spirit. Sam, alive. Christmas friggin’ miracle.
Sam futilely blows at the strands of hair obscuring his vision. Dean gives in to his impulse, brushing the rogue hairs aside and tucking them behind Sam’s ear, no muss no fuss. Sam mumbles his appreciation and finally presses himself securely against Dean’s side, the top of his head bumping under Dean’s chin.
“You’re like one of those Great Danes that doesn’t realize it’s not a puppy anymore,” Dean comments wryly as Sam squirms to get comfortable.
“Not my fault you’re tiny,” Sam counters once he settles down. “Is this okay?”
Sam hasn’t curled up with him like this since they were children. Dean can’t quite place when it stopped though he looks back and suspects it must have been around the same time Sam decided to leave. Not something as sure as, I am going to Stanford University and never looking back, of course, but something similar in intent if not in detail. There must have been a particular day, maybe unusual, maybe ordinary, when Sam gazed upon his life and decided, No more. Then, he stopped being something that Dean could fit in the circle of his arms. Not because he grew tall but because he pulled away.
Now, Sam fits again but Dean won’t be able to hold on for much longer. “Yeah,” he says, throat tight. “This is good.”
Sam hums under his breath. For a long while, they sit in silence as the movie continues. Dean tries not to pay too much attention. He knows how the story goes and doesn’t want to be bitter about it, not on a night like tonight when optimism and angels are almost real. Eventually, a sly finger hooks on the leather string of the amulet around his neck and tugs. “I gave you this,” Sam mumbles. “Christmas. A long time ago.”
“Yeah,” Dean confirms softly.
“You ever take it off since?”
“Nah.”
“Even when I was at school?”
Surely Sam already knows the answer. Yet, the question somehow feels like a trap, as though the answer, no matter how obvious it seems, will reveal too much. He replies anyhow, mouth dry and words tasting like ash. “No, Sammy,” he whispers. “Not once.”
When his eyes meet Sam’s, he’s startled to see they’re wet. “Should have,” Sam chokes out. “S’not like it works.”
“What?”
Sam’s breath hitches. “It’s supposed to be special,” he explains. “Supposed to protect you. But it’s useless. It can’t protect you.”
“Sammy--”
“I can’t protect you,” Sam concludes. He wraps his hand around the bull-headed pendant, squeezing hard. “You’re going to... and I can’t...”
“Sam,” Dean sighs, trying to pull his hand free, mindful of Sam’s injured finger. “That’s not why I wear it you know.”
Sam shakes his head and refuses to let go. “I’m sorry. I wanted to give you a good Christmas. I wanted to--”
“You did, Sam, you did.”
“--But I can’t stop thinking about it,” Sam confesses. “I hate that I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“George saved his brother's life that day. But he caught a bad cold which infected his left ear. Cost him his hearing in that ear.”
Dean cups his brother’s cheek. “This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had, Sammy, swear to God. Couldn’t ask for more.”
Sam’s eyes have always been a weird amalgamation of colors but the little string of lights on their dinky Charlie Brown tree turns them into something else, something unearthly. Dean thumbs at the moisture at the corners of them and lets him memorize this. He’s not lying. He couldn’t ask for more.
Sam provides anyway.
“F’rgot something,” Sam admits.
“What?”
A ghost of a smile crosses Sam’s face and his eyes briefly flick up. Dean follows suit, eyeing the ceiling. There’s nothing there, of course--don’t know how he fell for that, the oldest trick in the book--and when he looks down again Sam’s mouth is against his.
“Is this the ear you can't hear on? George Bailey, I'll love you till the day I die.”
“Tell me you won’t leave me,” Sam says against his lips.
“I won’t,” Dean vows. In this stupid Seattle motel, the halls decked with bargain bin cheer on a snowy Christmas night, it doesn’t feel like a lie.
Sam clambers onto his lap, keeping Dean anchored by the necklace clenched in his fist. “Say it.”
“I won’t leave you, Sammy,” Dean swears. “I won’t--”
Sam whispers something into his ear and Dean pretends its his bad one. When they kiss again it’s Norman Rockwell, cheap gingerbread, and the dizzying rush of a shaken snow globe. Dean wants to capture the moment in a Polaroid and postmark it to Hell with a Hallmark card reading, Look at this, you bastards, look at this! You can’t take this from me! This is forever!
As it is, Dean just wraps his brother in his arms and mutters, “Merry fuckin’ Christmas to me,” as Sam laughs wetly and gives him another goddamn miracle.