Chapter Text
In Blanco, Texas, some pretty interesting things had been happening, things only the sharpest eye could notice. And that eye belonged to Sam Winchester.
In a previous case, a man teetering on the edge of drunkenness had mentioned to Sam his grand idea to move to said town. According to the man, luck itself now stemmed from that godforsaken dot lost in the state's vastness. Sam, of course, dismissed it at first, chalking it up to booze-fueled ramblings rather than any semblance of reason.
Then, curiosity showed up.
While Dean was busy hustling for cash and making furious every old man in the bar, Sam chose to waste time browsing the internet, fully expecting to find nothing worthwhile. Still, with little hope, he typed Blanco, Texas into the search engine.
And the results rolled in.
Several news articles chronicled events that might be dismissed as coincidences but were too... lucky to be just random.
"Terminally Ill Man Experiences Miracle: Gets His Life Back," "Local Woman Once Infertile Now Pregnant With Twins," "Small-Town Man Wins Court Battle Against the Government." Headlines like these felt ripped straight from Rider’s Digest rather than something to take seriously. But what caught Sam’s attention was that these weren’t just exaggerations—they came from legitimate local newspapers. Verifying the reports, his intrigue deepened because, seriously, who the hell manages to beat the government in court?
One day later—after endless bitching from Dean about the sheer stupidity of the trip—they arrived in Blanco, Texas, posing as journalists chasing national scoops. Except their so-called scoop was a guy who’d somehow avoided bankruptcy. If they were actual journalists, they'd have been fired on the spot for their stupidity. Unfortunately, the woman and the dying man didn't have really nothing interesting to say, and their "man-who-beat-the-government" had spent his windfall on a vacation in Mexico.
Now that was the way to spend Christmas.
“Let me tell you, son, it was a beautiful night,” the man began, for what felt like the third time. “You’re writing this down, right? A-beautiful-night. We’ve never had northern lights in this town—hell, what would the northern lights even be doing in Texas anyway? Well, the point is, here they were, glowing white. And then, this old guy with a thick beard...” He mimed a bushy beard, “...very tall, very fat...” More miming, “…shows up in my store. Next thing I know, I’m not sinking into the depths of misery anymore.”
“And let me guess, this guy’s name was ‘Saint Nick,’ right?” Dean snorted, fiddling with a plush Santa (where the hell he got it was anyone’s guess). He grimaced each time he squeezed the thing, unleashing a janky loop of Silent Night.
“Oh, son, mock me all you want,” the man replied, somehow keeping his composure. “But I swear to God, that’s what I saw. And I’ll take it to my grave as the truth.”
“Forgive him,” Sam interjected, shooting Dean a look that all but begged for a miracle to seal his brother’s mouth shut. “As journalists, we doubt everything. But winter seems to have frozen what little tact my colleague once had.”
Sam, however, didn’t share Dean’s skepticism. The case was fascinating—oddly reminiscent of others they’d tackled before. But two things stood out. First, previous witnesses had been vague about their so-called wish-granter, often claiming they hadn’t interacted with him. The dying guy even insisted it was the Virgin Mary who saved him, though this same guy also swore he’d met Jim Morrison and John Wayne in his last moments. So, meeting this man who even could imitate the mystery person’s mannerisms was a surprising twist.
Second, two of them felt sick before realizing that his problems had been solved. Not too serious, of course. Headache, dizziness, that kind of thing.
And third, everything seemed to kick off with the arrival of those so-called northern lights—an utterly bizarre phenomenon for Texas, attributed to some rare atmospheric condition that turned the sky an eerie white. It had to mean something. Sam was sure of it.
Wait, those were three things.
“You’re a good kid, and I’m glad you’re here, both of you...” the man said interrupting his thoughts, glancing at Dean, who rolled his eyes before disappearing deeper into the store. “But I bet you won’t even need this interview. I’m sure you’ll run into him during your stay, and then you’ll see for yourself.” His voice lowered. “This store belonged to my dad, built by my own granddad. I... You’ve no idea how hard I fought to keep it. Any sane person would’ve written me off as doomed. Then this man showed up—this strange, strange man—and the sky lit up so brightly it made me dizzy. Kid, I swear, all he did was ask about the price of some damn jacket. But I’m certain it was him. And now I’m here, and I couldn’t be happier. You’ll see. It’ll happen to you too.”
Sam offered a polite smile, scribbling nonsense into his notepad. His doodles might’ve been meaningless, but the smile? That was real.
“Let’s hope,” he replied, more out of politeness than any real desire to meet and have a wish granted by the so-called Saint Nicholas. He’d been around enough weird magical shit to know encounters like that only led to headaches—and probably more ulcers.
The crash of glass shattered the moment. Sam didn’t need to see Dean to know he was responsible. Yeah… he didn’t need more trouble, Dean was trouble enough.
Time to drag the kid home, he pondered.
“Well, I think we’ve got everything we need, Mr. McAllen.” Sam forced a sheepish grin, pulling a bill from his pocket, hoping Dean had broken a glass and not some priceless heirloom. If it was the latter, now they seriously would need this magical entity to avoid their own bankruptcy. “We’ll let you know when the story’s published. Thanks for your time.”
“And thanks to you, son.” Mr. McAllen took the money, his eyes blazing in Dean’s general direction with a look that could’ve melted steel.
Sam sighed. This is just the beginning.
Dean didn’t bother waiting for him to step outside—he was already gone before Sam even had a chance to catch a glimpse of him. As Sam walked out, his foot crunched over shards of what had, in fact, been a glass. One of those kitschy ones with reindeer and elves plastered on it. He cursed his brother silently for the impending migraine he was so determined to deliver.
The tiny bell above the door jingled as he exited, and the first thing Sam noticed was the cold—colder than when they’d arrived. The wind needled his face to hammer the point home. Off in the distance, he caught sight of the sun dipping below the horizon, the day bowing out with a streak of purples and reds, smudged by scattered clouds. Sam closed his eyes. He couldn’t explain why he was so surprised by the fact that this was going to be an absolute nightmare of a week. He should’ve seen it coming from the start.
“Ugly store, uh?” Dean’s voice piped up. He was perched on the edge of the storefront window. “Honestly wouldn’t shock me if it went bankrupt again. Did you see those Rudolph ornaments? They were practically begging me to put them out of their misery.”
“You don’t think anything we just heard was strange?” Sam asked, fighting—barely—to suppress the urge to snap at him.
Dean’s lip curled into the faintest smirk. “I think we’re in a town full of idiots, and you’re dying to join their ranks.”
Sam stared at him, boiling like a tea kettle on the verge of a whistle. But as he stared, he noticed subtle things—small, telling details. Dean’s skin looked pale, though whether it was from the cold or the beginnings of a sickness, Sam couldn’t tell. His dark circles were deeper than usual. So exhausted. So irritating.
“What are you looking at?” Dean asked flatly.
“You feeling okay?” Sam shot back.
“No, Sam, I’m not okay. I drove 15 goddamn hours straight to get to this frozen hellhole of a town, and now you’re telling me you’re interested in chasing Santa Claus like you’re five freaking years old.” Dean pushed himself off the wall he’d been half-leaning on. “If you’re that desperate to meet him, I can take you to a mall.”
Sam kept trying to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. “Why are you always like this?”
…when it comes to this kind of thing, he wanted to finish that way. But he didn’t. He bit it back. Still, Dean’s expression brightened ever so slightly, his face tinged pink from the cold. He shrugged, as if the answer didn’t exist for him.
“God made me this way, Sammy. Nothing to do about it.”
Sam clenched his jaw. He took a loud, deliberate breath this time. This was taking him to a limit that he was not willing to reach, at least not at that moment. “Look, you know what? I… not now, Dean. ¿Okay? Let’s just go to the motel and pretend we like each other long enough to get some rest. We can continue arguing in the morning.”
Dean studied him for a moment, maybe searching in that clever brain of him for some snarky comeback—or perhaps rummaging through the corners of his neurons for a real reason to start a fight.
But nothing came. He just kept staring until even his eyes gave up.
Then Dean tossed him the Impala keys. “You go to the stupid motel. I’ll find a way to make this stupid town worth my time,” he muttered, already walking in the opposite direction, not even bothering to wait for a response.
And Sam? Sam didn’t know—or maybe just didn’t want to know—what else to do but exactly that: head to the motel.
A difficult week. Yeah, definitely, he thought, muttering under his breath.
The sunset grew more vivid, just like the cold and his pounding headache. Dean wasn’t someone who got cold easily, but in those seconds, walking without direction, he started to regret not wearing a thicker jacket. This doesn’t feel right, he thought. Maybe he really was getting old—soon he’d have Alzheimer’s and would need those awful blue pills just to sleep with a prostitute brave enough to take the job. Why the hell am I even thinking about this? he asked himself, nausea rising as if to force a change of subject.
Not that the nausea had arrived with these philosophical musings about aging, but it certainly helped underline them. He’d been feeling off since they checked into the motel. Damn holiday season, it always made finding a place to sleep a nightmare. Not that he was expecting a Four Seasons though, but a rat scurrying down the curtains? Seriously? His only hope was to get drunk enough not to think about it and wake up hungover enough to avoid tagging along with Sam on his little Christmas field trip. And damn Sam, too, for his ridiculous paranoia. They could’ve slept in sunny California tonight, but noooo. They had to be at some sketchy motel chasing an old creep because, why the hell not? Good times. Dean could swear he was going to die if he didn’t find a bar and a decent poker game, and he was going to die if he did not drink to the point of… death. Dammit.
Damn everything.
The cold gnawed at his cheekbones, and he suddenly found himself shivering. Handing the Impala over to Sam might not have been the brightest idea after all. Still, no regrets. It wasn’t his first time freezing his ass off, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. The lights ahead were giving him a sliver of hope, the flickering neon lights that spelled the word B A R. He smiled, like one of those people in cheesy Coke Christmas commercials who seem to grin at literally everything. Then he caught himself; okay, maybe that was a bit much. He had to stop exaggerating, because he doesn’t exaggerate, never. Ever. (Not that he’d argue the point). No, he’d smiled like any normal person who finds a bar, but those commercials? Creepy smiles, man. God, why the fuck did they smile like that?
A sudden gust of wind tore him from his deep reflections for the humanity. Dean pulled his leather jacket tighter around himself as the cold reminded him—again—that he needed more jackets. Yeah... someday I’d buy some. He also noticed that the sun was gone, and with some curiosity, he saw the clouds starting to gather. Great. Snow was on its way, though thankfully not tonight. The sky was still relatively clear, but there was... something about it. Small smudges had formed, bigger than stars should be, like the sky had fogged over or was stained with a strange, white grime.
The auroras. The so-called beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime auroras.
He could stay and watch them.
Or he could walk into the bar.
The bar was blissfully warm, thank God, though the cold still lingered in his bones. They ached like a bitch. They’d been aching for hours, but now it was worse. Maybe really he was getting sick. Or maybe it was just fate calling him to a retirement home. Hell, I have to stop thinking about that.
The place was old, and, for his infortune, nearly empty. No one was playing cards—not even a shitty game of dominoes. Just three drunk old-timers, as ancient as the bar itself, munching on pistachios and sipping what looked like whiskey on the rocks. Fantastic, really. That shot his poker plans to hell. He’d already cursed at least 500 times tonight, and here he was again: fuck it. This wasn’t his night. Or his week. Or his year. Or his life.
He’d have to settle for drinking. Drinking would do. He didn’t overthink it—wasn’t known for that kind of thing, anyway—even though he probably should’ve been figuring out how he’d get back to the motel. Maybe he’d pass out and sleep on the bar’s grimy floor instead of the motel’s grimy bed. Screw it, there was already a drunk guy passed out near the bathrooms. He could join him. It’d be fun. And probably cleaner. It wouldn’t be the first time, either—he just hoped no one would swipe his wallet like that time in Nashville. As he’d said before, Good times.
He dropped heavily onto a barstool, and before he realized it, the waitress was in front of him. Not like she was busy or anything. “What can I get you?” she asked.
“A pint of beer. Your cheapest.”
She smiled at him. “Running low on cash?”
Dean exhaled sharply, giving her a long look. On another night, he might’ve noticed her well-proportioned hips, her big boobs, her face, yada, yada, and… God, he’d have had a hell of a night right then and there. But tonight, he was exhausted, probably sick, and, shit, still frustrated about not getting to play poker. And maybe even start a fight over it, too.
“Yeah. Not much,” he said absently, grabbing a few pistachios from the bowl beside him.
“You should ask our Santa for some cash,” she quipped, sliding the pint his way. “Might get lucky.”
Dean couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Of course, Blondie here had to be nuts too. If he heard one more thing about Santa tonight, he swore he’d join this town’s cult of lunatics and start singing carols or whatever other creepy stuff they did.
“Don’t believe in it, huh?” she said, almost laughing.
Contrary to what reason might dictate, Dean still didn’t buy into a lot of supernatural stuff. Sure, he believed in it because he fought it daily, but anything else he hadn’t seen or proven? Fairy tales. All just bedtime stories to scare kids. This whole Santa thing was nothing more than a giant coincidence, hyped up by people desperate to believe someone out there gave a fuck about them. Miracles—that’s all they wanted. And even if, by some absurd chance, miracles were real, brought about by some jolly old man with a beard like a homeless guy and a grin as big as his belly, why the hell did certain things happen one way and not another?
But he wasn’t about to dwell on that. He wasn’t known for being a deep thinker.
“Don’t believe in fairy tales,” he finally said.
She sighed, resigned, but her face stayed kind. “Well, Mr. Grinch, don’t worry about the first two rounds. They’re on the house. You’re way too grumpy for such a beautiful night.” Her lips curved slightly, and Dean’s did too.
The beer, however, just made him thirstier. He wanted to drink until his reflection disappeared from the glass, and then until his consciousness went with it. For now, though, he finished the first pint, feeling an impulse to glance out the window—maybe to test her claim.
There they were, the so-called White Nights, covering the park across the street and painting the sky white. Like if the snow stayed in the sky, frozen, on the verge of falling. But Dean wasn’t into that sappy crap. It was just another astronomical event, like a sunset or a comet that shows up every thousand years. Completely meaningless, just like the exhaustion, the cold or the pain. None of it was special. It was all just stuff people pretended had significance. So, knowing that, Dean drained the beer, deciding that in that right second the glass was going to be converted into the one and only true Holy Grail.
With zero reverence, he raised the Holy Grail in thanks, and to order another.
A bar handing out free beer? Now that is a miracle. That’s what he told himself.