SPN FIC: The Other Brother Christmas Special
Title: The Other Brother Christmas Special
Characters: Sam, Dean, Adam
Summary: Contemplating the concept of “tradition” with the Winchesters. Semi-sequel to The Other Brother.
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
Warnings/Rating: damaged!Sam, AU from 5.22, PG-13 for swearing
Notes: I ranked the Doctor Who Christmas Specials at TV Geek Army and it got me thinking. This is pure quick and dirty self-indulgence.
“So.” Adam is high on Benedryl. He fucking told Dean that he was allergic to pine trees. Dean went out and bought a small forest of red, cinnamon scented pine tree air fresheners and hung them on the boughs among the musty old ornaments that Bobby brought down from the attic, the dream catchers from the Impala’s trunk, and the random shit that Sam stuck on the branches: pop-tabs and bottle caps, shoelaces tied like ribbons around hearty green branches. Adam rolled his eyes and told Dean, “That’s not how fucking allergies work.”
Now, the whole downstairs of the house reeks and Bobby bitches that his house smells like Santa Claus blew up. Adam hoards his Benedryl like candy. Dean thinks its all hilarious.
Right now, the buttery scent of sugar cookies is wafting in from the kitchen, easing the overpowering stink of cheap air fresheners. About a week ago, Dean morphed into some kind of fucking Christmas elf. Adam briefly considered easing into the family business, if only so he could find a way to gank the fucking thing. Of course, Dean picks this week to lay off on the constant “let-me-teach-you-how-to-melt-silver” and Bobby just snorts at him, so Adam is on perpetual Sam-duty while Dean incinerates Christmas cheer in the kitchen.
Ok, not really. Dean is actually a pretty awesome cook. He started experimenting with tofu and falafel because Sam still blanches at dead animals and “For fucks sake, Adam, we can’t just keep feeding him carrot sticks and noodles.”
Dean makes a mean barbeque tofu. Adam bitches about the consistency because, well, because, but it’s actually awesome and Adam borrowed money from Bobby to buy Dean a wok for Christmas. It’s under the allergy tree, wrapped in green and gold. As a second thought, Adam scribbled, “and Sam” after his own name beneath the “from.” Whatever. He’s starting a job at Starbucks on the third (shut up) and he’s thinking of going back to school. He mentioned it to Dean hoping to get his brother to lay off on the hunting bullshit and while it didn’t help with that at all, Dean didn’t get all pissed off either. It was dinner and they were all around the small table in the kitchen. Bobby studied his lasagna like it was suddenly telling him the future and Adam thought about the box of shit from Stanford crammed in the back of the Impala’s trunk.
Dean swallowed and glanced at Sam, to his left, carefully tearing his lasagna apart despite the fact that he watched them bake it, watched them add nothing but zucchini and carrots and broccoli between the strips of pasta. When Dean looked back, he was smiling, but it was tight and his eyes were sad. He said, “That’d be nice. If you need a hand you let me know. We’ve got resources.”
“I can take care of it.”
“Yeah.” Dean looked down at his own plate. Sam looked up and stared at Adam with an expression that clearly said, “Say something you moron.”
“I could use a car.” Adam shrugged, “I doubt you want me taking the Impala everywhere.”
“You doubt right. I ain’t letting you take my baby all over fuckin--”
So when he isn’t playing Timmy the Demented Christmas Elf, Dean is fixing up a ‘78 Camaro out back. It’s in rough shape, but Dean keeps referring to himself as “The Miracle Worker” so Adam just lets him go. He asked if Dean could install a CD player in it, to which Dean said, “Fuck no,” but the last time Adam checked the progress out, there was a new one sitting in a box on the passenger seat, waiting to be hooked up.
He really hopes that Dean likes the wok.
“So,” Adam tries again, slurring, only partially due to the Benedryl. He’s on, like, his fifth cup of eggnog. He doesn’t even like eggnog. Sam keeps filling his glass from the plastic punch bowl Dean left on the coffee table. Adam sputtered his first sip, said, “Jesus, do you want some eggnog with your whiskey?”
“It’s Sammy’s recipe.”
Sam grinned wide enough to flash the dimples at that and reached for one of the paper Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer cups. Adam swatted at him, “I don’t think so, Luna Lovegood.”
Sam listened. Sam always listens. Adam has only recently realized that that wasn’t always the case.
“So,” the third time is the charm, right? Right. Adam stretches out on the sofa, nudging Sam’s thigh with his toe, “So, Christmas always a big deal for you two? I mean, Dean could like, shack up with an elf commune right now.”
Sam is swimming in an old hoodie, hiding behind his hair. It touches his shoulders now and Dean keeps saying that he needs a haircut-- right before he runs his fingers through it, curling the ends around his index finger. Sam makes no effort to leave his hiding place, says softly, “Only when its important.”
Sam is doing better now, Adam thinks, better now that they’ve been in one place for a few months, stable.
“When the dogs are howling and we come undone.”
You know, mostly.
“Christmas, Sam. C’mon, what did you and Dean do? Everyone has traditions.”
Sam’s brow furrows and he shakes his head. A hard shudder works its way up his spine.
“Sam?”
“I’m fine.” He looks at the tree in the corner and flinches. “Dean.”
He doesn’t say it loud enough to rise above Brenda Lee rocking around the Christmas tree on the radio in the kitchen. Adam yells, “Dean!” and he appears wearing fucking oven mits.
“What’s wrong?”
“Sam needs you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t do it.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam is already at ease. When Dean crosses the room and stands next to the sofa, he palms the side of Sam’s head and he leans into it. “What’s up, Sammy?” Sam melts into Dean’s hip. Adam called him Sammy once and got the dirtiest look he’d never seen on his face. It was so ridiculous that Adam laughed and said, “Hey, whoa, I thought I was your precious?”
Dean pushes Sam’s hair behind his ears and tilts his head so he can see his face. “Sam?”
“Kate Milligan went carolling with the Methodists. They wore red robes.”
Dean nods indulgently, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the stubble on Sam’s cheek. Adam’s eyes go wide and he’s off the couch, sloshing eggnog on his flannel pajama pants, “How do you know that? How the fuck can you possibly know that?”
“You didn’t tell him?” Dean suddenly looks concerned, kneels beside the sofa and holds Sam’s face in his hands. Sam draws back a little, wrapping his arms around his torso and looking away. “What’s going on, Sammy? You okay?”
Sam smiles sadly, “We thought it was the last. We thought it was the end. I didn’t want to. But we thought it was the end in Ypsilanti...before. I surprised you.”
A light goes on in Dean’s face, “Yeah. You did.”
“No, go back to the part about my mom, Sam. What the fuck? What the fuck else do you know?”
Dean glares at him, but Adam doesn’t care because seriously, what the fuck.
“Tradition.” Sam says it like it explains everything.
Adam puts his head in his hands and groans, “All I wanted to know was whether you and Dean watched Its a Wonderful Life at Christmas or something.”
Dean says, “Never seen it. It has angels in it, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck that.”
Sam pulls away from Dean completely and addresses his other brother, “After carolling the robes are hung by the chimney with care in hopes that Saint Ni--” he visibly resets, spasming like an electrical current ran through him, “After cocoa, you don’t like eggnog, always with marshmallows. Cocoa. And Clarence.” He looks back to Dean, “How do angels get their wings?”
“Don’t worry about it. Lay down for me, okay?”
“Every time a bell rings.”
Dean jumps when the timer in the kitchen goes off, ringing shrilly throughout the first floor of the house. He swears and gives Sam one more quick pat on the cheek. He gives Adam a warning look before retreating to check on the cookies.
Sam doesn’t lay down. He watches Dean leave. He lays back and studies the water stain on the ceiling, eyes drifting gently shut. Adam nudges him with his foot, “Uh uh. No way. You don’t get to go all Rainman on me and then take a nap.”
Sam gives no indication of having heard him. Adam is trembling, trying not to say something wrong, do something wrong. He doesn’t want to whine, but he has the impression that shaking Sam until he spilled the beans would probably get his ass kicked by the momma bear in the kitchen. Adam settles for, “Fuck you, Sam,” and a sharp kick to the thigh.
At this, Sam’s eyes open and roll towards Adam, then back to the ceiling. He follows some invisible thing across the water stain that Adam thinks looks like the state of Florida, says, “In the beginning they shatter you and scatter you across the flesh like grains of sand.”
Adam already regrets this conversation.
“I found...first kiss with Michelle Smith homecoming, don’t like Almond Joy, don’t like 8AM British Literature--”
“Stop. Sam. Stop.”
“All the pieces. Found and kept. It didn’t happen...didn’t happen...” Sam is blinking like there’s dust in his eye, fingernails digging into the muscle of his thigh.
“Again. It didn’t happen again. You didn’t let it happen again, right?”
Sam nods and shudders. He hasn’t had one of his catatonic episodes since a few days after Halloween and Adam is worrying that they’ll break that good streak now. Dean will kill him. No, Dean will drop the Christmas elf act and sit on the edge of the bed until Sam wakes the fuck up, and then he’ll be a wreck for days, hovering and speaking softly and tripping over himself to keep Sam with them. There’s a lump of ice in Adam’s chest and his skin itches like he’s being held together with a million carefully placed stitches. His eyes itch and he rubs at them, wiping irritably at his cheeks, “How many times did you break, Sam?”
“Like stars in another galaxy.”
Adam nods and bites his lip, “I’m sorry.”
Sam’s eyes droop. He’s spent and Adam feels like a dick for egging him on. Adam carefully scoots over, covering the space between them. He doesn’t protest when Sam leans over, rests his head on his shoulder. His breath evens out. In the kitchen, Dean kills the radio, pads softly across the floor with a plate of perfectly formed snowmen. He places the plate on the table by the nog and takes in Adam’s face without expression.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow, okay?” Adam says, self-conscious of the salty lines cooling on his cheeks.
Dean shrugs, “I was eavesdropping.”
“I’m a bad person.”
“You’re a Winchester. It’s tradition.” he nods at Sam drooling on Adam’s shoulder, “You good?”
“Can we have a blanket?”
Dean hands him the blue throw from the back of the armchair, reaches beneath the tree to retrieve a red package clearly shaped like a DVD. He tosses it on Adam’s lap. The tag says that it’s from Dean and Sam. “He was pretty fucking adamant.” Dean says, nodding toward Sam, “It’s close enough to Christmas. Go ahead.”
When the paper is balled on the floor, Adam holds the DVD up and laughs, “Nice. Thanks.”
“You wanna watch it?” Dean flops into the armchair and bites a snowman’s head off.
“You’re gonna hate it.”
“Oh, I know I’m gonna hate it.” Dean holds his hand out and Adam hands the DVD over.
“We can watch Bad Santa afterwards if you want.”
“I fucking love Bad Santa.”
“I’m not surprised in the least.”
Dean pours himself a cup of eggnog. He restrains himself to the occasional snarky comment until George Bailey is hanging off of the bridge on Christmas Eve. Adam doesn’t think that either of them is going to be sober or awake enough to sit through another film. He rests his head against Sam’s, more than a little surprised that he hasn’t woken up screaming his way out of a nightmare yet. Dean kills the last of his nog and leans back, sizing his little brothers up with weary eyes, “Tha’s one tradition that ends tonight, a’right?”
“What?” Sam is a warm and comfortable weight at Adam’s side. He smells like Old Spice and old books.
“You don’t resent what he did for you. You un’erstand?”
“I...yeah. Okay.”
“You wanna go t’school, we’ll make sure you go to school. You wanna hunt, we’ll make you the best damn hun’er in th’world. You can do whatever you want, but you don’ get to tell yourself he made a mistake, okay?”
“Okay, Dean.”
Satisfied, Dean goes back to the movie. He doesn’t have anymore comments.
In the end, George Bailey decides to live.