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Sam is beginning to think that Dean’s pissy attitude is never going to ease up, and the thought fills him with a curious mixture of despair and anger. On the one hand, he’s not exactly happy that Dean’s miserable. Sam doesn’t like to see his brother unhappy, contrary to popular belief, and he especially doesn’t like to see Dean unhappy when the situation involves relationships, because God knows that they’ve both had trouble in that particular department, but Dean’s the one who has commitment issues, who tends to throw himself wholeheartedly into the pursuit of people and then freaks out when he feels like things are getting too “intense.” It’s not smart and it sure as hell isn’t logical, but that’s what Dean does.
And then, on the other hand, Sam’s angry. He’s angry that Dean’s admitted to his issues, repeatedly, but that he’s still refusing to do anything about them. He’s angry that Dean’s allowing his fucked-up childhood and his less than stellar young adulthood to mess up what might have been an awesome relationship with a nice, sane Psychology major. He’s angry that Dean has always done this – that he did it with Lisa, and he did it with Cassie, before that, and those are just the two that Sam knows about. There were times when Dean would disappear for weeks at a time, before they applied to college together but after their father died, and Sam doesn’t know what happened when Dean was gone. All he knows is that, during one of those instances, Dean met Cassie, and then they moved to Indiana a few months later, where Dean met Lisa, and then after Lisa there was no one. There were college applications, and another move, but no more girls, and no more children who may or may not have actually been Dean’s, but still Dean lets it affect him.
So, yeah, Sam’s sad, and he’s angry. He just doesn’t know how to stop any of this.
So he listens to Dean bitch about things that he wouldn’t normally bitch about (the temperature of the apartment, where Sam leaves his jacket, what kind of milk is in the fridge), and he grits his teeth and bears it, until, finally, he just…can’t. There isn’t an ounce of tolerance left in his body and he’s not just going to stand around with his thumbs up his ass while Dean snaps at him for leaving his shoes out.
“Dude,” he shouts, “what is your fucking problem?”
“Your face is my problem,” Dean mutters, skirting around Sam’s other shoe and then falling heavily upon the couch. He twists himself into a position that, to Sam, looks uncomfortable, curled on his side and with his face shoved up against the couch’s arm in order to block out the light and, for all he knows, Sam’s face.
“You’ve been like this for three days, Dean,” Sam says, unable to keep the anger, the frustration, out of his voice. “If you’re gonna spend the whole break being a massive douchewad, I might just have to get a hotel room.”
Dean makes a soft, vaguely animalistic noise. Almost a growl. “Then get a fucking hotel room.”
Sam sighs, and then steps around the couch and shoves at Dean’s legs until there’s space on the couch. After a few seconds of that, Dean draws his knees up towards his chest of his own volition, allowing Sam to drop down beside him.
“Talk to me, man. This has to do with that present, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Sam exhales harshly, blowing a strand of hair away from his face. “Not to make things harder or anything, but I think you kind of have to.”
“Fuck off.”
“Not until you tell me what the hell’s wrong. What happened? Did the guy not like it?” Sam can’t think of any other reason as to why Dean’s being so miserable. Either the guy outright rejected him, or he didn’t respond at all, and Dean assumed that a non-response was also a rejection. Dean’s got sort of a distressing habit of doing stupid shit like that.
“Are you planning on letting me bask in my misery, or are you just going to sit there and annoy me?”
Sam leans over, prodding Dean roughly in the side. Dean doesn’t react. “I’m going to keep bringing it up until you talk to me about it. You know, contrary to what dad taught us, internalizing everything isn’t healthy.”
“But it’s so effective.”
“Obviously not, if your bad mood’s even making me feel pissy.”
“How about we talk about that instead? Why are you in such a good mood, Sammy?”
Sam freezes. Manages to get himself to loosen up just in time for Dean to lift his head away from the arm of the couch, so Sam’s pretty sure his expression is…well, not exactly calm, but at least not threatening to give him away. Shit, his brain is jibbering, Has Gabriel told anyone, have I told anyone, by accident or has someone from the advisor’s office been spreading… “That’s not what we’re talking about.”
“Turn-about’s fair play.”
Sam takes a deep, shaky breath. Dean doesn’t seem to notice. Or, if he does, he doesn’t comment on it. That serves to make Sam feel…a little bit better. Dean’s not the best at keeping his mouth shut when it comes to Sam, and if he isn’t saying anything now, then he probably, probably, doesn’t actually suspect anything. Well, anything aside from the “Sam might be less straight than originally thought” thing. Which Sam has been…dealing with. Slowly. A couple times he’s sort of…slide backwards (like now), but thinking of how Gabriel had looked at him, smiling even though it probably hurt his split lip…
Well. That helps. That helps a lot.
“This isn’t turn-about,” Sam says, “it’s you continuing to be an asshole despite my best efforts to get you to talk about whatever it is that’s bothering you.”
“To-may-to, to-mah-to.”
Sam snarls, and then shoves at Dean’s hip. Again, he doesn’t get a reaction. “God, Dean, just…stop being such a fuckhead and listen to yourself.”
“I am listening to myself,” Dean says, “and it sounds like misery and you beginning to annoy me. Now unless you’re planning on going and getting me a beer, would you mind letting me have the rest of the couch back?”
Sam grunts, unhappy, pissed off, but there’s nothing that he can do. He’s tried talking to Dean, he’s tried shouting at him, he’s tried reasoning with him, but nothing’s worked. Dean seems determined to remain in the funk he’s surrounded himself with for as long as it takes to…Sam isn’t even sure what the point of all this is.
He pushes himself up from the couch, leaving Dean to wallow in his misery or his anger or whatever, and heads to his room to lie down.
~
Sam spends a lot of time thinking about Gabriel. The guy doesn’t occupy his every waking thought, but…yeah. A lot of time. More time than Sam spent thinking about Jessica, even, and he hadn’t thought that would even be possible. He dreams about Gabriel, for fuck’s sake. Nothing…untoward. He just dreams about that car ride, his breath fogging the glass, the sky a dark purple bruise that stretched infinitely in every direction, and the radio, softly playing Christmas music and lulling Sam to sleep.
Sometimes, he remembers the ends of those dreams, where Gabriel parks the car, and then they both turn towards each other at the same time, and, almost in slow motion, they lean, and their lips touch. Barely a kiss at all, but Gabriel’s mouth is soft, generous, there’s more give to him than Sam would have expected from…from a guy.
And then he wakes up, and he realizes that it was all a dream, and the give makes sense. It’s all Sam’s ever known.
Still, those dreams, combined with his inability to get Gabriel out of his head, makes Sam think that maybe he should do some serious reconsidering of his life so far.
So, while out shopping for Christmas dinner, he muses on it. He’s always considered himself to be…pretty much straight. He’d learned about the Kinsey scale from Jessica, at some point, and they’d spent a good hour or so laughing together, half-drunk on a bottle of Goats Do Roam, trying to figure out where they fell. Jessica had been a zero – she’d never even thought of other girls in a sexual way. She admired their hair, sometimes, or their dresses, or expressed a desire to look a little bit more like them, but, she said, she’d never wanted them.
Sam, after a good deal of thought, had called himself a one, maybe even a two. He liked girls. Girls were soft and, if you found the right one, they could be hard, too, and Sam liked how small Jessica was, compared to him. Some distant, caveman instinct in him liked the idea that he could pick her up and hold her, with her legs around his waist, and kiss her, just like that. But he’d also recognized that, on occasion, he saw a guy so stunning, so perfect, that he couldn’t help but…want, just a little bit. He never felt the desire to act on it, but he would want, and it happened often enough that he’d realized it wasn’t just some weird coincidence. He had a type. So, a one. Maybe a two.
He thinks about that now, and realizes that Gabriel sort of fits his “type.” Warm, expressive eyes. Smaller, and more compact, but not delicate. Finds it easy to laugh. Sure, he’s got sort of a dickish sense of humor, but no one is perfect. And Gabriel cares. When you look at him, it’s so easy to see that he cares about what’s happening around him.
There’s also the fact that he beat a dude up for Sam, which is…Sam’s never been the one who needed help, before. He’s always handled stuff on his own. The turn-around is weird, but not unpleasant.
Sam pulls a bag of sweet potatoes down off the shelf in the produce aisle, hefting them experimentally. Dean really likes sweet potatoes. He should get enough that they’ll have leftovers.
He wonders if Gabriel likes sweet potatoes.
He wonders if Gabriel celebrates Christmas.
Shit.
He’s been so worried about Dean, so caught up in Dean’s drama with his maybe-boyfriend and his stupid present, that Sam had forgotten, entirely, about Gabriel. Granted, he hadn’t been planning on getting Gabriel anything, but now he’s thinking that he should. That, maybe, it’ll let Gabriel know that Sam is…receptive, at the very least. Still, occasionally, freaking out about it, but not against it.
Sam’s hand hovers over the onions, and then he grabs two and puts them in his cart. Stuffing mix. He needs to get stuffing mix and a ham and regular potatoes. He needs to get apples. He needs to get a pie. Not just any pie, an apple pie. Dean will eat other kinds, but he won’t stand for anything less than apple on Christmas.
And Sam needs to get Gabriel something. Something to show that he’s interested, but not rushing into anything, something that shows that Gabriel should take him seriously, if he is thinking about Sam the same way Sam has been thinking about him. Something that shows that Sam doesn’t care about the age difference between them, which, to be completely honest, has sort of been shoved to the back of his concerns list, way, way behind the “guy” thing and the “person in a position of authority over him” thing. After all, he’s a consenting adult, capable of drinking, smoking, and voting (quite possibly all at the same time, if he really wants to), eligible to be shipped off to war at a moment’s notice if the draft is ever reinstated (just the thought makes him shudder), so, at twenty-two, he’s more than capable of choosing who he does or does not want to sleep with. Who he wants to pursue a…a thing with.
God, he can’t even say it. Relationship. He might - might - be interested in a relationship. With Gabriel. A relationship that may or may not involve kissing. And other things.
And so it is that, in the middle of piling potatoes into a bag, Sam realizes that he knows absolutely nothing useful about anything that might apply to this situation. He doesn’t know if he’s expected to do things differently than he would with a girl – well, he sort of suspects, but he doesn’t know for sure – and he sure as hell doesn’t know about…about sex with a guy. He knows the basics, he thinks, but nothing beyond that. Nothing that’s actually relevant. He thinks about that while he picks up the ham, and while he grabs the pie from the grocery store’s bakery. Apple. After some thought, he grabs a pumpkin pie, too, for himself, since Dean doesn’t like pumpkin pie.
Near the checkout lines, there are towering displays heaped high with solid chocolates shaped like Christmas trees and little Santas, cherry cordials, boxes of chocolates that are filled with assorted nougats, creams, liquors, nuts, and candied fruits. Russel Stover sits next to Godiva, which is piled on top of Ferrero Rocher and See’s. Sam stares at the confectionary monstrosity, thinking about the bag of Halloween candy that Gabriel had been snacking from back when they first met. How his cubicle, every time Sam’s been back there since, has always smelled like mint, or caramel, or chocolate.
Gnawing on his bottom lip in thought, Sam, after a moment, grabs the first three boxes he sees: a box of mixed Ferrero Rocher chocolates, a box of liquor filled chocolates, and a standard (but undeniably appealing) box of See’s assorted chocolates.
It all costs him roughly an arm and a leg, but Sam has the feeling that, even if Gabriel hadn’t taken him seriously before, he will after he sees that Sam’s been paying attention.
~
He and Dean…talk. The less that’s said about it, the better.
(“I’ve never denied that I’m messed up, I just don’t need any help with it.”
“Dean…” His voice a mixture of disappointment, frustration, worry.
“Don’t take that fucking tone with me, Sam!”
Freezing. Feeling like the bottom has dropped out of his stomach.
“Shit,” Dean says. “Shit, Sammy, I didn’t…”
Not upset, so much as startled. Slowly, the shock turning into sadness. “It’s okay, Dean.”
“But…”
“No, really. It’s okay. I just…” Backing away. Not out of fear, but out of the knowledge that Dean will beat himself up over this, and there’s nothing Sam can do to stop it, and so he doesn’t want to see it. “I’m gonna go watch some TV. Let me know if you need to wrap presents and I’ll get out of your way.”)
But there’s talking involved, and Sam finally gets a little closer to the root of Dean’s problems, and it’s all very productive. It leaves them both falling asleep on the couch, of course, and Sam has uneasy dreams the whole night – dreams that never seem to cross the threshold over to nightmares, but are disturbing nonetheless – and in the morning, Christmas morning, he wakes earlier than he has to and ends up just sitting on the couch with Dean’s arm curled around his shoulders, fingers brushing his cheek. He feels at once warm, safe, and slightly foolish. He’s twenty-two, after all – he shouldn’t need his brother to make him feel better, especially when his bad mood was said brother’s fault in the first place.
Still, Dean hadn’t meant to sound…like dad. Dean would never hurt Sam, would never tell him he was worthless or a disappointment. Even when Dean disagreed with him, he didn’t call Sam a waste of space.
It’s just…the tone had been so familiar. So awful, coming out of Dean’s mouth, that it had hammered home exactly how much Dean needs help…or, at least, how much he needs some balance in his life. Someone to help him figure out that he doesn’t need to be so defensive all the time.
Maybe, Sam thinks, that someone is this mysterious Psychology student. Dean seems pretty fixated on the guy, after all. And he’s already said that the guy is nice. Nice, when it comes to the Winchester family, is in depressingly short supply, and Sam, at this point, doesn’t care where it comes from, so long as it makes Dean…happy.
Dean could use a little happiness in his life.
Sam watches the sun slowly rise outside, casting dim light across the living room floor, and then, when it becomes apparent that he won’t be able to go back to sleep, he gently moves Dean’s arm and gets up off the couch. Dean makes a soft, discontented noise, but calms down soon enough when Sam touches his shoulder, letting his hand linger there.
Then, Sam shuffles into the kitchen and turns on the coffee maker. The tiles, too, are dappled with early morning light, and Sam watches the shifting patterns while the smell of coffee begins to fill the room. Then he shakes his head, and glances at the sink, where the plate from the sandwich Dean had made him is still sitting, unwashed. Sam hadn’t needed Dean to make him a sandwich. Hadn’t needed the comfort food, because he’d been more surprised than disturbed, and then, after that, he’d felt angry – angry that Dean was letting this happen to him, angry that he couldn’t do anything to stop it. But he’d never once felt…scared. Not the way he’d felt with dad.
Sam thinks about that sandwich, about how stricken Dean had looked, about how he’d crowded close to Sam’s side, like he was afraid of letting go, afraid of losing Sam. Then he thinks about Dean’s mystery love interest, how worrying about it has been wreaking havoc with Dean’s emotions, how Dean’s been so distracted that he either hasn’t noticed or hasn’t bothered to comment on Sam’s own love life. Or maybe he just feels more obvious than he actually is.
Sam thinks about the boxes of chocolates, hidden in his room, in one of his desk drawers. Sunlight dances across the floor, spattering his feet like paint, until finally Sam moves, going to the fridge and taking out a package of bacon, and a few eggs. The smell of coffee is beginning to drift out of the kitchen, now, and Sam wants to have breakfast made before Dean wakes up. Eggs and bacon. It’s like comfort food, for Dean. Diner food.
By the time the eggs are done, and the bacon’s ready to be laid out to drain, Sam can hear the sounds of Dean waking up in the living room. Later, he knows, there’ll be presents, and dinner to cook, and good-natured arguing over who gets control of the television (Dean will argue, he thinks, that he should, because it’ll be his birthday, soon), and, on top of all that, cleaning up the food, and the wrapping paper, and making sure that everything is put away neatly so that it can be reused next year.
But, for now, there’s coffee, and there’s bacon and eggs, and Sam drifts out into the living room to say good morning to his brother, just so that he knows that there are no hard feelings from last night, and that Sam isn’t going anywhere. Not as long as Dean needs him.
Outside, the sun is throwing its fiery light across the sky, and the ground is covered with a faint, powdered sugar dusting of snow that catches the light and makes the whole street look like it’s sparkling. People are just beginning to wake up, kids are rushing to the tree to grab their stockings and their presents, and stores remain dark, and silent, for once not bustling, for once resting. For once.