Fic: Making Spirits Bright (Supernatural, gen)
Making Spirits Bright
Words: 1,513
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I was an overachiever as a child so I totally wrote and published The Polar Express before I was a year old. And I've asked Santa for the Winchesters for Christmas, so they're mine as well.
For spn_christmas, my prompt was: Sam, Dean, and John together for Christmas, and the boys are adorabley excited about presents, etc.
Thanks to, _brit_chick_ and coffeelover84, my two lovely betas, who allowed me to shove them down in front of my computer and force them to read when they surely had better things to do.
John tried to ignore the ominous squeaking from the living room as he tore a handful of pasta in half and tossed it into the boiling water. Spaghetti and meatballs. Not exactly a Christmas Eve dinner, but other than Lucky Charms it was all Sammy would currently eat. At least the tomato sauce would count as a vegetable. And with that thought he realized they'd be lucky to get through the next year without either of the boys getting scurvy.
"Jin-gle bells, jin-gle bells," Sammy huffed excitedly in the other room. Each couch jump enunciating a syllable. Dean could be heard adding his own lyrics under his breath, something about Batman and Robin, when he wasn't snapping at Sammy to stop jumping. John knew he should put a stop to it before the evening ended in tears or, even more likely, blood. But he was too relieved that Sammy had overcome the childhood trauma of having to sit on Santa's lap to say anything. "Jin-gle all. The. Way."
There was a split second pause in jumps and a horrified, "Sammy!" a moment before the crash of a body hitting the floor. He tensed over the stove, ready to run into the living room if Dean called him, but when Sammy started crying and Dean wasn't screaming for him, he felt confident that the kid’s brains weren't leaking out onto the carpet, and relaxed.
"I told you to stop jumping," Dean muttered, and John could practically hear the kid's scowl. "C'mere, dweeb." The sobs quieted after a minute and Sammy gave one last, heroic sniffle as Dean said, "You're all right, Sammy. Look, see? No blood."
John stirred the noodles one last time, and dusted his hands off on his jeans as he headed toward the living room. The two of them were sitting on the floor; Dean crouched over his younger brother, wiping at his nose with the edge of his sleeve. Sammy spotted him first and shoved Dean's arm away, and raced over, arms stretched up above his head. "Daddy!"
Sammy's lip trembled dangerously as John scooped him. "Let's see it, dude," he said, and the boy leaned his head forward until his face was buried in John's chest.
"He hit his head on the floor. I told him not to jump on the couch," Dean informed him as he ran his fingers through Sammy's curls, gently fingering the growing lump on the back of his youngest son's head, and Sam made a soft whimpering noise into his shirt. "It's just a little bump, though."
"I don't know," he said gravely, and Dean's eyes widened in concern. John gave him a quick wink before continuing, "I think we have to do emergency surgery." Sammy jerked back to look at him with, wide, fearful eyes. "Think you can handle it, kiddo?" Sam's lips pressed into a thin line, and he gave a quick, determined nod.
"All right," he said as he carried Sammy over to the couch and sat him down on his lap. "Hold still, Sammy." He tilted Sam's head forward against his chest, sent another wink at Dean, and blew a loud raspberry on the back of his son's neck.
Sammy burst into giggles and twisted away from him. "Daddy! No!" he squealed and John grabbed him before he could fall again.
"Better?"
Sam shook his head and gave him a stern look before turning back around. "Kiss," he demanded, pointing at the back of his head. John matched his son's serious expression and did as he was told. Sammy scooted around a little and commanded, "Dean, too." Dean rolled his eyes, but pressed a quick kiss against his brother's head and Sammy hopped of John's lap grinning.
"Ok, Dean, help your brother get cleaned up for dinner."
"Lucky Charms!" Sammy cheered.
"We don't have Lucky Charms, Sammy," Dean said, sliding off the couch. "We're having broccoli and green beans," he told his brother with a wicked grin.
John could see the beginnings of a tantrum in Sam's eyes and smacked Dean on the back of the head. "Dean's the only one who has to eat his vegetables, Sammy. The rest of us are having spaghetti."
"Pasghetti!" Sammy cheered again, bouncing off toward the bathroom.
The spaghetti was a hit once Sam had shoved his fingers through his entire plateful of food to make sure there were no tomato pieces in his sauce; it was really moments like that when John started to realize what exactly he was in for as Sammy got older.
"Daddy," Sam started as he slurped the last of the noodles from between his fingers. He looked from his red stained hands down to his green shirt, and John shot him a disapproving scowl as Dean hopped off his chair and crossed to the sink to get a wet cloth. "Can I open my presents now?" he asked as Dean wiped his hands off for him.
"Not 'til tomorrow morning, kiddo."
"But Dean said-" He started in the beginnings of outrage, but Dean apparently chose that moment to wipe off his brother's sauce covered face, muffling whatever it was Sammy was going to say.
"I told you, Sammy," Dean said in exasperation, with a quick, concealed glance toward John, "Christmas is tomorrow."
"No you didn't! You said-" Dean wiped at Sammy's mouth again, and John shot his oldest a knowing look. Dean gave him the wide-eyed, innocent look that John had stopped believing more than two years ago. Sam glared and punched his brother in the stomach a few times with tiny fists before shoving his arm away. "Dad-dy," he whined but Dean cut him off again.
"Spencer's family gets to open one present on Christmas Eve."
"They do, huh?" John asked, fighting back a grin when Dean gave a careless shrug as though he wouldn't care one way or the other if he got any presents at all.
And really, why should he, John realized as his youngest son turned wide, wet eyes and a pouting lip on him, when he knew Sammy would do all the work for him. "Please, Daddy?"
He thought of the small, neatly wrapped packages that had been tucked in with the last few books Jim had sent him. “What makes you think you’re getting anything more than coal?” he asked, unwilling to let them think he would give in so easily.
Sammy’s eyebrows drew together in concern, but Dean just rolled his eyes. “Da-ad.”
“Well,” he said, and took their plates to the sink to hide his grin, “I guess we could open one.”
“Yay!” Sammy exploded, hopping off his chair and dancing around his brother as he chanted, “Presents, presents, presents!”
“All right, take your brother in the other room,” he told Dean, who was grinning widely as his little brother hopped around him like some kind of deranged rabbit. “I’ll go get the presents.”
Jim had given Sammy The Polar Express, and Dean the third book in the series he had started reading when he’d found the first book abandoned at a rest stop over the summer. After the boys had spent more time wrapping Sammy in the left over wrapping paper and bows than looking at their new books, John sent them off to get ready for bed. Sammy came back a few minutes later, shoving his new book into John’s hands and pulling him toward the bedroom with the exasperated impatience only a three and half year old could master.
"Though I've grown old, the bell still rings for me as it does for all who truly believe," John finished, snapping the book closed. He glanced over at the boys; Sammy was pressed up against his brother's side having fallen asleep in the middle of the train ride, and Dean was watching him with wide eyes as he slid off the bed and put the book on the nightstand.
“Dad?” he started as John pulled the thick blanket up around the two of them. “Santa’s not real, is he?”
John paused, unsure how to answer the question. He wondered what Mary would tell Dean. She would say that seven was too young to stop believing in Santa Claus, but he wasn't about to lie to the boy. “What makes you say that, kiddo?”
“If he was you’d stop him, right?” John only had a second to be confused before Dean continued, glancing down at his little brother. “If he was taking little kids from their homes; if he took Sammy?”
He closed his eyes briefly as the guilt overwhelmed him, and then squeezed Dean’s shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. “Hey, anything tries to take you or Sammy they’ll be dead before they hit the floor.”
Dean nodded, “I know,” he said and smiled bravely.
He sunk down further under the covers and John ruffled his hair. “Night, dude.”
“Night, Dad,” he murmured around a yawn, pulling the covers tighter around him and Sam.
John smiled and watched them for a moment longer before flicking off the light with a whispered, “Merry Christmas, boys.”
Words: 1,513
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I was an overachiever as a child so I totally wrote and published The Polar Express before I was a year old. And I've asked Santa for the Winchesters for Christmas, so they're mine as well.
For spn_christmas, my prompt was: Sam, Dean, and John together for Christmas, and the boys are adorabley excited about presents, etc.
Thanks to, _brit_chick_ and coffeelover84, my two lovely betas, who allowed me to shove them down in front of my computer and force them to read when they surely had better things to do.
John tried to ignore the ominous squeaking from the living room as he tore a handful of pasta in half and tossed it into the boiling water. Spaghetti and meatballs. Not exactly a Christmas Eve dinner, but other than Lucky Charms it was all Sammy would currently eat. At least the tomato sauce would count as a vegetable. And with that thought he realized they'd be lucky to get through the next year without either of the boys getting scurvy.
"Jin-gle bells, jin-gle bells," Sammy huffed excitedly in the other room. Each couch jump enunciating a syllable. Dean could be heard adding his own lyrics under his breath, something about Batman and Robin, when he wasn't snapping at Sammy to stop jumping. John knew he should put a stop to it before the evening ended in tears or, even more likely, blood. But he was too relieved that Sammy had overcome the childhood trauma of having to sit on Santa's lap to say anything. "Jin-gle all. The. Way."
There was a split second pause in jumps and a horrified, "Sammy!" a moment before the crash of a body hitting the floor. He tensed over the stove, ready to run into the living room if Dean called him, but when Sammy started crying and Dean wasn't screaming for him, he felt confident that the kid’s brains weren't leaking out onto the carpet, and relaxed.
"I told you to stop jumping," Dean muttered, and John could practically hear the kid's scowl. "C'mere, dweeb." The sobs quieted after a minute and Sammy gave one last, heroic sniffle as Dean said, "You're all right, Sammy. Look, see? No blood."
John stirred the noodles one last time, and dusted his hands off on his jeans as he headed toward the living room. The two of them were sitting on the floor; Dean crouched over his younger brother, wiping at his nose with the edge of his sleeve. Sammy spotted him first and shoved Dean's arm away, and raced over, arms stretched up above his head. "Daddy!"
Sammy's lip trembled dangerously as John scooped him. "Let's see it, dude," he said, and the boy leaned his head forward until his face was buried in John's chest.
"He hit his head on the floor. I told him not to jump on the couch," Dean informed him as he ran his fingers through Sammy's curls, gently fingering the growing lump on the back of his youngest son's head, and Sam made a soft whimpering noise into his shirt. "It's just a little bump, though."
"I don't know," he said gravely, and Dean's eyes widened in concern. John gave him a quick wink before continuing, "I think we have to do emergency surgery." Sammy jerked back to look at him with, wide, fearful eyes. "Think you can handle it, kiddo?" Sam's lips pressed into a thin line, and he gave a quick, determined nod.
"All right," he said as he carried Sammy over to the couch and sat him down on his lap. "Hold still, Sammy." He tilted Sam's head forward against his chest, sent another wink at Dean, and blew a loud raspberry on the back of his son's neck.
Sammy burst into giggles and twisted away from him. "Daddy! No!" he squealed and John grabbed him before he could fall again.
"Better?"
Sam shook his head and gave him a stern look before turning back around. "Kiss," he demanded, pointing at the back of his head. John matched his son's serious expression and did as he was told. Sammy scooted around a little and commanded, "Dean, too." Dean rolled his eyes, but pressed a quick kiss against his brother's head and Sammy hopped of John's lap grinning.
"Ok, Dean, help your brother get cleaned up for dinner."
"Lucky Charms!" Sammy cheered.
"We don't have Lucky Charms, Sammy," Dean said, sliding off the couch. "We're having broccoli and green beans," he told his brother with a wicked grin.
John could see the beginnings of a tantrum in Sam's eyes and smacked Dean on the back of the head. "Dean's the only one who has to eat his vegetables, Sammy. The rest of us are having spaghetti."
"Pasghetti!" Sammy cheered again, bouncing off toward the bathroom.
The spaghetti was a hit once Sam had shoved his fingers through his entire plateful of food to make sure there were no tomato pieces in his sauce; it was really moments like that when John started to realize what exactly he was in for as Sammy got older.
"Daddy," Sam started as he slurped the last of the noodles from between his fingers. He looked from his red stained hands down to his green shirt, and John shot him a disapproving scowl as Dean hopped off his chair and crossed to the sink to get a wet cloth. "Can I open my presents now?" he asked as Dean wiped his hands off for him.
"Not 'til tomorrow morning, kiddo."
"But Dean said-" He started in the beginnings of outrage, but Dean apparently chose that moment to wipe off his brother's sauce covered face, muffling whatever it was Sammy was going to say.
"I told you, Sammy," Dean said in exasperation, with a quick, concealed glance toward John, "Christmas is tomorrow."
"No you didn't! You said-" Dean wiped at Sammy's mouth again, and John shot his oldest a knowing look. Dean gave him the wide-eyed, innocent look that John had stopped believing more than two years ago. Sam glared and punched his brother in the stomach a few times with tiny fists before shoving his arm away. "Dad-dy," he whined but Dean cut him off again.
"Spencer's family gets to open one present on Christmas Eve."
"They do, huh?" John asked, fighting back a grin when Dean gave a careless shrug as though he wouldn't care one way or the other if he got any presents at all.
And really, why should he, John realized as his youngest son turned wide, wet eyes and a pouting lip on him, when he knew Sammy would do all the work for him. "Please, Daddy?"
He thought of the small, neatly wrapped packages that had been tucked in with the last few books Jim had sent him. “What makes you think you’re getting anything more than coal?” he asked, unwilling to let them think he would give in so easily.
Sammy’s eyebrows drew together in concern, but Dean just rolled his eyes. “Da-ad.”
“Well,” he said, and took their plates to the sink to hide his grin, “I guess we could open one.”
“Yay!” Sammy exploded, hopping off his chair and dancing around his brother as he chanted, “Presents, presents, presents!”
“All right, take your brother in the other room,” he told Dean, who was grinning widely as his little brother hopped around him like some kind of deranged rabbit. “I’ll go get the presents.”
Jim had given Sammy The Polar Express, and Dean the third book in the series he had started reading when he’d found the first book abandoned at a rest stop over the summer. After the boys had spent more time wrapping Sammy in the left over wrapping paper and bows than looking at their new books, John sent them off to get ready for bed. Sammy came back a few minutes later, shoving his new book into John’s hands and pulling him toward the bedroom with the exasperated impatience only a three and half year old could master.
"Though I've grown old, the bell still rings for me as it does for all who truly believe," John finished, snapping the book closed. He glanced over at the boys; Sammy was pressed up against his brother's side having fallen asleep in the middle of the train ride, and Dean was watching him with wide eyes as he slid off the bed and put the book on the nightstand.
“Dad?” he started as John pulled the thick blanket up around the two of them. “Santa’s not real, is he?”
John paused, unsure how to answer the question. He wondered what Mary would tell Dean. She would say that seven was too young to stop believing in Santa Claus, but he wasn't about to lie to the boy. “What makes you say that, kiddo?”
“If he was you’d stop him, right?” John only had a second to be confused before Dean continued, glancing down at his little brother. “If he was taking little kids from their homes; if he took Sammy?”
He closed his eyes briefly as the guilt overwhelmed him, and then squeezed Dean’s shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. “Hey, anything tries to take you or Sammy they’ll be dead before they hit the floor.”
Dean nodded, “I know,” he said and smiled bravely.
He sunk down further under the covers and John ruffled his hair. “Night, dude.”
“Night, Dad,” he murmured around a yawn, pulling the covers tighter around him and Sam.
John smiled and watched them for a moment longer before flicking off the light with a whispered, “Merry Christmas, boys.”