Hold onto me as we go

As we roll down this unfamiliar road

And although this wave is stringing us along

Just know you're not alone

Cause I'm gonna make this place your home

He wished it were different. He wished with every fiber of his being that it didn't have to happen like this.

Dean Winchester sat on another frayed, lumpy couch, in another rundown hotel, in another no-name town in the middle of nowhere. It was late December, and the chilly air knocked at the cheap windows, making them chatter like teeth. He spared the dark a glance before huffing. No snow, just freezing cold. Where was the good in that?

He slouched into the stained upholstery, absentmindedly watching some dumb cartoon on the television. His hand was still resting in a half eaten bag of Funions, but he'd completely lost his appetite. He couldn't eat, not with the sounds of his little brother, Sam, whimpering in bed.

It wasn't like he hadn't seen Sammy cry before. He was always a girly baby. But this time, it wasn't because he'd broken a limb, or Dean had made a clown joke. It wasn't because their father had abandoned them to go on another hunting trip, or made them switch schools, or yelled at them for bringing up their mother. No. This time, he was crying for a very real reason.

Because of the monsters.

Settle down, it'll all be clear

Don't pay no mind to the demons

They fill you with fear

The trouble it might drag you down

If you get lost you can always be found

Just know you're not alone

Cause I'm gonna make this place your home

If he had just kept to himself, he never would have found that stupid journal. Then he wouldn't know about the werewolves or the ghosts or the demons. He wouldn't know about how their mom died, or be wondering about where their dad was. He wouldn't be worried for their safety if he just hadn't opened that damn book! It was his own fault for not minding his own business!

But Dean knew that wasn't true. Even as he tried to concentrate on the fuzzy image on the television, the guilt was nagging away at the back of his mind. If he hadn't left Sammy alone for so long, he wouldn't have gotten the chance to read the journal. Maybe he could have taken Sam with him. Maybe he should have lied about the book. Or maybe he should have told Sam earlier.

No. That wasn't an option. Dean was only twelve, but he was by no means a child. He knew he wasn't innocent; he knew too much, trusted too little. But Sam didn't have to be like that. Sam didn't have to lose his childhood like Dean had to. He'd never be a normal kid, not with the way they lived, but he might have been able to pretend for a little while longer. But not now. Now he knew about the dangers in the shadows. All because of their dad's stupid, stupid book.

Dean threw a longing glance at the door. He wished his father could just give up the hunt, just for a little while. Sam didn't have any memories of John before the accident, but Dean did. Back when he was a carefree, loving father. But now, now there was only the hunt, and that meant that Dean was sitting alone on Christmas Eve, completely at a loss as to what to do about his baby brother, and futilely waiting for the return of the father that he lost years ago.

What had he done to deserve that?

Settle down, it'll all be clear

Don't pay no mind to the demons

They fill you with fear

The trouble it might drag you down

If you get lost you can always be found

Dean sighed, turning the television off with a click and a hiss. He wiped his hands on the couch and rolled up the bag of junk food. He walked over to the small kitchenette, throwing a rubber band around the bag and tossing it on the counter. He turned around and stared at the far bed.

Sam's sobs has subsided a while ago, and for now he seemed to be in a relatively peaceful sleep. He was curled up on his side in the fetal position, blankets scrunched around him like he was trying to block out the world. His hair was a little tousled, and though his eyes were closed, they were still red and puffy from crying. Dean shook his head a bit. No kid should have to look like that on Christmas.

In fact, now that Dean thought about it, Sam had never had a normal Christmas. Their mother had died the month before, when Sammy wasn't even a year old. If he thought really hard, Dean could remember the Christmas before that, the last winter they'd had as a family.

There'd been a huge tree downstairs, one that his mother and father had argued about getting. Mary thought it was too big, but for John it wasn't big enough. He was barely able to lift Dean high enough to put the angel on top. He made cookies with his mom, listening while she sang carols and rubbed her stomach, where Sammy was just starting to show. And the next morning, he ran into his parents' room and dragged them into the living room, where there was a pile of presents, a plate of half-eaten cookies, and Dean's disastrous attempt at hot chocolate.

Dean smirked to himself at the hazy memory, but the grin faded as he refocused on his brother curled up, hopeless in bed. Sam had never experienced anything like that before. And if it was left to their father, he never would. Dean pursed his lips, making a snap decision.

He quickly walked over to his bag, pulling out his silver knife and sticking it in his boot. Then he jogged back to the door, pulling on a dark winter jacket and jamming the room key in his pocket. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, turning back to give his baby brother one final look.

"Don't worry, Sammy," he whispered. "We're gonna have Christmas. I'll make sure of it."

Then he opened the door and stepped out into the cold, thinking about how the people in that nice house a mile or two back would probably survive without a few gifts or cookies.

Just know you're not alone

Cause I'm gonna make this place your home