And May All Your Christmases Be White
Title: And May All Your Christmases Be White
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: The first Christmas after Sam left, both Dean and John are down with colds, but somehow it doesn't suck as much as Dean feared it would.
Fill for 'Archaic Medical Treatment' on my hc_bingo card. Four squares to go. I can totally do this!
Oh, and this was supposed to be angsty and dark and whatnot and suddenly John started smiling and being all nice and I don't even know what this ended up being, but it's making my teeth hurt.
The first Christmas after Sam sucks pretty hard.
There isn't even any of the mindless, angry drinking Dean expected. Just him and Dad, lying in the darkness, stifling their respective wheezing, pretending the other doesn't exist like it's going out of style.
At least it's better than that one year when they were living in that crammy, piece of shit apartment over some skeevy bar. With Sammy sick and Dad downstairs, drunkenly singing carols way into the night, bringing back some blonde chick he insisted on calling Mary. Easily the worst Christmas Dean remembers.
He shifts slightly, holding on to the heavy comforter, making sure it doesn't slip off his shoulders. He sniffs loudly, pretty sure his nose is well on its way to turning into an icicle.
Dean flinches when Dad starts coughing, wet and sick and deep in his chest like he still hasn't gotten rid of all the ice water he swallowed down by the creek. Every cough a scathing reminder of how thoroughly Dean fucked up their hunt. He is contemplating moving out into the coldness of the backseat of his car, just to get away from it all, icy temperatures and possible pneumonia be damned, but he can't get his limbs to uncurl, frozen in place under his blankets.
Dean rolls onto his other side again, tries not think about the dark, mossy stain on the wall right next to his face. Dad's breathing is still loud, even after the coughing fit died down. Congested, whistling high on every inhale and Dean throws his arm over his right ear and works on breathing in time with Dad, well aware that his own wheezing isn't far behind.
He almost bought Dad a present the other day, but with the way things are between them these days, Dean doesn't need to get reamed out for spending their resources on pointless niceties. Dad would've ended up selling the tickets anyway and this way Dean didn't even have a chance to get his hopes up.
That or it would've been all awkward, giving Dad a badly wrapped present, stammering and blushing all over the place, only to have Dad apologize over and over again for not thinking to get him anything in return.
It's better this way.
Dean groans in a way he hopes isn't so deliberate it gives away his act. He hates it when his thoughts start moving around in circles, blocking his mind from the oblivion of sleep every way he turns.
He tries to even out his breathing, ignore the way the cold air hurts everywhere when it rattles through his lungs.
That's when Dad starts coughing again. So hard and fast, Dean feels his own chest clench in sympathy.
"Ah, fuck this."
Dean can hear Dad try to swallow past the painful knot in his throat as bed springs squeak and and scream under his shifting weight. Dean isn't sure what's happening, so he tries to lie still, lips slightly parted around slow, even breaths.
"Jesus, kid," Dad rasps. "Quit the act, I'm the one who taught you how to fake sleep in the first place."
Dean turns around with a sigh, has to blink against the weak orange light from their bedside table that somehow still manages to be too bright. Dad doesn't look mad at all. For messing up the hunt or keeping him awake with his too loud breathing or anything, really.
"Merry Christmas," Dean wheezes out, lost for anything else to say. His mouth fills up with saw dust and he starts coughing.
Dad smiles one of those rare smiles that smoothes over the crinkles around his eyes, makes Dean remember that Dad used to be young.
"You want to do Christmas?" Dad asks, voice almost gone behind all the gravel, eyes twinkling with a light that's part fever, part something Dean can't quite place. "Let's do Christmas."
He throws back his covers and rolls off his bed, stops when he notices Dean gaping open-mouthed at his feet. "What?"
Socks. Thick, woolen socks with what Dean suspects might be a snow flake theme, white and grey with a little red here and there.
"Nothin'," Dean grins, drags his long sleeve under his nose again. "Just never pictured you 's a Clark Griswold kinda guy, 's all."
Dad barks out a laugh that quickly turns into a cough. "Man's gotta take care of his feet."
"Uh-huh," Dean answers lamely.
The loopy smile stays glued to his face as he imagines Dad climbing around on some roof, desperately setting up 250,000 light bulbs. He guesses his brain might still be kinda muddled, because fuck, he can't even remember the last time he could feel all his toes; fucking winter in motherfucking Minnesota in crap-ass motels that can't keep their heating up and running.
Dad is messing around with the electric kettle in the corner of what passes as a kitchenette around here and Dean figures if Dad is running around in woolen Christmas socks, it's okay for him to keep his blankets wrapped around his shoulders as he shuffles from his bed to the small formica table.
"So, how's the quest for the Winchester Family Christmas Tree goin'?"
"I gonna have to shut you up?"
There's a smile there, somewhere behind the bark and Dean grins.
"Sure, if you can catch your breath long enough to catch me, old man."
The smack to the back of his head isn't exactly unexpected and Dean wants to yelp in outrage, but gets cut off by his own wet sneezing. A cup appears in front of his face and Dean has to blink and sniff and breathe in the warm steam for several moments before he recognizes Dad's old whiskey/tea/tylenol cure-all.
"Thought you promised Pastor Jim you wouldn't let me near that stuff again," he grins, greedily wrapping both hands around the hot cup.
"You ain't twelve anymore," Dad shrugs, taking a sip off his own cup and wincing when it burns his tongue. "Pretty sure you won't barf all over yourself again."
Dean chuckles, ducking his head and breathing in the soothing warmth.
They drink their medicine in silence, but it's not strained and mad and loud like Dean expected it to be. He starts thinking about the baseball tickets again. Wonders if maybe he should've bought them after all.
"He call you back?" Dad asks suddenly and Dean's head snaps up.
He can't quite meet his father's eyes, feels guilty all of a sudden for sneaking off into the bathroom to talk to Sam's answering machine when Dad had made it clear that his youngest son was dead to them. He thinks about lying or playing dumb, but Dad doesn't look mad at all, not even the scary quiet kind, so Dean shakes his head.
"Nah," he admits with a small shrug that hurts where his shoulders are all bruised up from falling into the creek. "Kinda figured he might this time, you know. Since it's Christmas 'n all."
"Yeah," Dad nods.
They both sip from their cups again, Jim Beam to make the conversation flow easier.
"Remember how he'd insist we call Jim 'n Caleb 'n everyone to wish them a merry Christmas?" Dad chuckles over the brim of his cup, eyes flickering to their cell phones on the shared bedside table.
"And a happy Hanukkah," Dean grins, remembering Sammy's chubby little face, pressed into the gigantic receiver, so very serious about not excluding anyone from the holiday celebrations.
"Probably too busy doing collegy shit to even realize it's Christmas," he shrugs and Dad nods with a sad little smile. His eyes look wet in the shimmering light and Dean decides it's probably from the cold and stuff.
Dad raises his cup in silent toast. "Probably."
The medicine burns going down, but Dean can already feel it numb his throat, warm him up from the inside out when Dad gets up to get them both refills. Dean almost falls out of his chair, giggling at the stupid socks.
"You gonna start barfing?" Dad asks over his shoulder, all growly and pointing a threatening finger and Dean does his best to bite down on the smile that won't fall off his face.
"No sir," he grins with a sloppy salute that makes Dad bark out a laughing-cough kind of sound.
The second round slides down even smoother, thick amber soothing his burning throat, filling his insides with a warm, soft glow that covers the jagged sharp edges Sam leaving ripped inside his heart.
"We'll call Singer tomorrow," Dad says later, carrying his fourth and Dean's third cup. His palm settles on Dean's neck, warm and solid, threading through the short hair that's soft tonight, curling slightly without the weight of gel and wax. "Ask if he's got a hunt lined up in Cali."
Dean's breath hitches in his throat and he has to bite back a couple of wet coughs. He runs his hand across his jaw, almost as stubbled as Dad's these days, though not nearly as full. This seems almost real, he realizes. Nothing like the drunken promises Dad's so good at, that almost don't hurt anymore when they get broken.
"Gotta wish the kid a merry Christmas," Dean quips, quickly grinning up at his father.
Dad's mouth pulls up into a dimpled smile. "And a happy Hanukkah."
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: The first Christmas after Sam left, both Dean and John are down with colds, but somehow it doesn't suck as much as Dean feared it would.
Fill for 'Archaic Medical Treatment' on my hc_bingo card. Four squares to go. I can totally do this!
Oh, and this was supposed to be angsty and dark and whatnot and suddenly John started smiling and being all nice and I don't even know what this ended up being, but it's making my teeth hurt.
The first Christmas after Sam sucks pretty hard.
There isn't even any of the mindless, angry drinking Dean expected. Just him and Dad, lying in the darkness, stifling their respective wheezing, pretending the other doesn't exist like it's going out of style.
At least it's better than that one year when they were living in that crammy, piece of shit apartment over some skeevy bar. With Sammy sick and Dad downstairs, drunkenly singing carols way into the night, bringing back some blonde chick he insisted on calling Mary. Easily the worst Christmas Dean remembers.
He shifts slightly, holding on to the heavy comforter, making sure it doesn't slip off his shoulders. He sniffs loudly, pretty sure his nose is well on its way to turning into an icicle.
Dean flinches when Dad starts coughing, wet and sick and deep in his chest like he still hasn't gotten rid of all the ice water he swallowed down by the creek. Every cough a scathing reminder of how thoroughly Dean fucked up their hunt. He is contemplating moving out into the coldness of the backseat of his car, just to get away from it all, icy temperatures and possible pneumonia be damned, but he can't get his limbs to uncurl, frozen in place under his blankets.
Dean rolls onto his other side again, tries not think about the dark, mossy stain on the wall right next to his face. Dad's breathing is still loud, even after the coughing fit died down. Congested, whistling high on every inhale and Dean throws his arm over his right ear and works on breathing in time with Dad, well aware that his own wheezing isn't far behind.
He almost bought Dad a present the other day, but with the way things are between them these days, Dean doesn't need to get reamed out for spending their resources on pointless niceties. Dad would've ended up selling the tickets anyway and this way Dean didn't even have a chance to get his hopes up.
That or it would've been all awkward, giving Dad a badly wrapped present, stammering and blushing all over the place, only to have Dad apologize over and over again for not thinking to get him anything in return.
It's better this way.
Dean groans in a way he hopes isn't so deliberate it gives away his act. He hates it when his thoughts start moving around in circles, blocking his mind from the oblivion of sleep every way he turns.
He tries to even out his breathing, ignore the way the cold air hurts everywhere when it rattles through his lungs.
That's when Dad starts coughing again. So hard and fast, Dean feels his own chest clench in sympathy.
"Ah, fuck this."
Dean can hear Dad try to swallow past the painful knot in his throat as bed springs squeak and and scream under his shifting weight. Dean isn't sure what's happening, so he tries to lie still, lips slightly parted around slow, even breaths.
"Jesus, kid," Dad rasps. "Quit the act, I'm the one who taught you how to fake sleep in the first place."
Dean turns around with a sigh, has to blink against the weak orange light from their bedside table that somehow still manages to be too bright. Dad doesn't look mad at all. For messing up the hunt or keeping him awake with his too loud breathing or anything, really.
"Merry Christmas," Dean wheezes out, lost for anything else to say. His mouth fills up with saw dust and he starts coughing.
Dad smiles one of those rare smiles that smoothes over the crinkles around his eyes, makes Dean remember that Dad used to be young.
"You want to do Christmas?" Dad asks, voice almost gone behind all the gravel, eyes twinkling with a light that's part fever, part something Dean can't quite place. "Let's do Christmas."
He throws back his covers and rolls off his bed, stops when he notices Dean gaping open-mouthed at his feet. "What?"
Socks. Thick, woolen socks with what Dean suspects might be a snow flake theme, white and grey with a little red here and there.
"Nothin'," Dean grins, drags his long sleeve under his nose again. "Just never pictured you 's a Clark Griswold kinda guy, 's all."
Dad barks out a laugh that quickly turns into a cough. "Man's gotta take care of his feet."
"Uh-huh," Dean answers lamely.
The loopy smile stays glued to his face as he imagines Dad climbing around on some roof, desperately setting up 250,000 light bulbs. He guesses his brain might still be kinda muddled, because fuck, he can't even remember the last time he could feel all his toes; fucking winter in motherfucking Minnesota in crap-ass motels that can't keep their heating up and running.
Dad is messing around with the electric kettle in the corner of what passes as a kitchenette around here and Dean figures if Dad is running around in woolen Christmas socks, it's okay for him to keep his blankets wrapped around his shoulders as he shuffles from his bed to the small formica table.
"So, how's the quest for the Winchester Family Christmas Tree goin'?"
"I gonna have to shut you up?"
There's a smile there, somewhere behind the bark and Dean grins.
"Sure, if you can catch your breath long enough to catch me, old man."
The smack to the back of his head isn't exactly unexpected and Dean wants to yelp in outrage, but gets cut off by his own wet sneezing. A cup appears in front of his face and Dean has to blink and sniff and breathe in the warm steam for several moments before he recognizes Dad's old whiskey/tea/tylenol cure-all.
"Thought you promised Pastor Jim you wouldn't let me near that stuff again," he grins, greedily wrapping both hands around the hot cup.
"You ain't twelve anymore," Dad shrugs, taking a sip off his own cup and wincing when it burns his tongue. "Pretty sure you won't barf all over yourself again."
Dean chuckles, ducking his head and breathing in the soothing warmth.
They drink their medicine in silence, but it's not strained and mad and loud like Dean expected it to be. He starts thinking about the baseball tickets again. Wonders if maybe he should've bought them after all.
"He call you back?" Dad asks suddenly and Dean's head snaps up.
He can't quite meet his father's eyes, feels guilty all of a sudden for sneaking off into the bathroom to talk to Sam's answering machine when Dad had made it clear that his youngest son was dead to them. He thinks about lying or playing dumb, but Dad doesn't look mad at all, not even the scary quiet kind, so Dean shakes his head.
"Nah," he admits with a small shrug that hurts where his shoulders are all bruised up from falling into the creek. "Kinda figured he might this time, you know. Since it's Christmas 'n all."
"Yeah," Dad nods.
They both sip from their cups again, Jim Beam to make the conversation flow easier.
"Remember how he'd insist we call Jim 'n Caleb 'n everyone to wish them a merry Christmas?" Dad chuckles over the brim of his cup, eyes flickering to their cell phones on the shared bedside table.
"And a happy Hanukkah," Dean grins, remembering Sammy's chubby little face, pressed into the gigantic receiver, so very serious about not excluding anyone from the holiday celebrations.
"Probably too busy doing collegy shit to even realize it's Christmas," he shrugs and Dad nods with a sad little smile. His eyes look wet in the shimmering light and Dean decides it's probably from the cold and stuff.
Dad raises his cup in silent toast. "Probably."
The medicine burns going down, but Dean can already feel it numb his throat, warm him up from the inside out when Dad gets up to get them both refills. Dean almost falls out of his chair, giggling at the stupid socks.
"You gonna start barfing?" Dad asks over his shoulder, all growly and pointing a threatening finger and Dean does his best to bite down on the smile that won't fall off his face.
"No sir," he grins with a sloppy salute that makes Dad bark out a laughing-cough kind of sound.
The second round slides down even smoother, thick amber soothing his burning throat, filling his insides with a warm, soft glow that covers the jagged sharp edges Sam leaving ripped inside his heart.
"We'll call Singer tomorrow," Dad says later, carrying his fourth and Dean's third cup. His palm settles on Dean's neck, warm and solid, threading through the short hair that's soft tonight, curling slightly without the weight of gel and wax. "Ask if he's got a hunt lined up in Cali."
Dean's breath hitches in his throat and he has to bite back a couple of wet coughs. He runs his hand across his jaw, almost as stubbled as Dad's these days, though not nearly as full. This seems almost real, he realizes. Nothing like the drunken promises Dad's so good at, that almost don't hurt anymore when they get broken.
"Gotta wish the kid a merry Christmas," Dean quips, quickly grinning up at his father.
Dad's mouth pulls up into a dimpled smile. "And a happy Hanukkah."