FICLET COLLECTION - "A Tree and Some Boston Market" - Bad Santa (Ch. 7)
Title: "A Tree and Some Boston Market" - A Supernatural Holiday Advent Calendar
Author: earzwideopen
Rating: PG-13 (unless otherwise noted before a specific chapter)
Pairing: Gen, possible hints of Destiel pre-slash
Warnings: None, except for a little "hunter language"
Genres: Mostly fluff or humor, occasional h/c
Summary: Yuletide can be an interesting time, especially if you're a Winchester. A daily-updated collection of holiday ficlets, one for every day of December up to and including the 25th. Because I couldn't think of a better way to count down to Christmas!
Chapter Summary: Dean thinks he and Sam should do something for cash besides hustling pool. Sam thinks no amount of money is worth wearing green tights for a whole weekend.
Archived: on AO3
LiveJournal: Read it after the cut!
Additional Parts on LJ: Part 1/25 | Part 2/25 | Part 3/25 | Part 4/25 | Part 5/25 | Part 6/25
December 7th - Bad Santa
"This idea is terrible, Dean."
"Man, if I had a dime for every time you said that right before I made an awesome decision..."
"First of all, if that were true you'd be broke," said Sam. "More importantly, this plan just isn't gonna work like it did in 'Bad Santa.'"
"Why?" asked Dean, adjusting the fur caps on his boots, "Because you're not a midget?"
"They're called 'little people,' Dean. And it doesn't matter whether I'm a midg- a little person or not. No one in this department store is gonna buy that I'm an elf."
Dean threw up his red-sleeved hands. "Well it doesn't matter now, Sammy, they hired us! I'm the jolly bearded guy and you're my menial worker... who wears tights. We let a couple bratty kids wipe their boogers on us for a weekend, and then when they shut down the place we hang back and rob it blind. (All in the spirit of Christmas, of course). So what if you're not exactly elf material? I mean, jeez, it should be no one in this mall's problem that you're so damn freakishly tall."
"Thanks," said Sam bitterly, itching at his bright green tights. (Tights, why did it have to be tights?) "You're right in one respect, Dean; I could never be Santa."
"Well, yeah, 'cause I'm the older one and I thought of this plan and I get to be Santa, that's how it goes." Dean grinned. "Elf shuts his cakehole."
"No," said Sam, smiling, "I was gonna say I could never be Santa 'cause I'm not fat like you."
"Woah woah woah," said Dean. He grabbed a fistful of his fake belly through the costume. "That was a low blow, man, this is all pillow... And, okay, maybe like one percent food baby from that pizza joint I hit up at lunch..."
"Fatass."
"Elf bitch."
"Lard boy."
"Hey, the ladies don't exactly go for 'strapping young lads' in green tights, either."
"...Tubby."
"You know what," said Dean, yanking up his beard, "we're gonna make this interesting. First of us to bag a chick in costume gets to use a cut of the take for whatever they want."
"Fine."
"Fine!"
Nine hours later, Dean sat in the motel room nursing a bottle of whiskey and trying to scrub some kid's chocolate ice cream out of his Santa suit. Sammy had taken the car out and hadn't come back yet, which probably meant he'd gotten the sudden urge to go the public library or something. Dean was normally leery about Sam handling his baby, but the kid had seemed more insistent than usual... and weirdly happy...
Dean's phone buzzed. Picture message. Hm.
One look at the message and Dean nearly spit out his mouthful of whiskey. There was Sam, still dressed in that stupid hat with the damn jingle bell on the end of it, being caressed by multiple (acceptably attractive) women.
The text caption under the pic read: "Ho ho ho, fatty. And by 'ho,' I don't mean the sound Santa makes when he laughs."
"Son of bitch," said Dean, and he took another shot.
When it was all over, the hunters got as far away from that mall as they could. There wasn't really another sane choice; they had, as Dean had predicted, robbed the place blind.
"I still don't know how I feel about robbing malls," said Sam on the car ride to South Dakota.
"What's done is done. Besides, the take was unreal."
"Can't argue with you there. I'm glad I got enough money out of the bet to get you a little extra something, too."
"Oh yeah," said Dean, rolling his eyes, "I just adore my gift, Sammy."
"You should," said Sam. "How many other guys can say they have a framed picture of themselves dressed as Santa with a two year old kid projectile vomiting into their Santa beard?"
Dean hoped to god that if there was a real Santa, he at least did himself a favor and got wasted once in a while.
Author: earzwideopen
Rating: PG-13 (unless otherwise noted before a specific chapter)
Pairing: Gen, possible hints of Destiel pre-slash
Warnings: None, except for a little "hunter language"
Genres: Mostly fluff or humor, occasional h/c
Summary: Yuletide can be an interesting time, especially if you're a Winchester. A daily-updated collection of holiday ficlets, one for every day of December up to and including the 25th. Because I couldn't think of a better way to count down to Christmas!
Chapter Summary: Dean thinks he and Sam should do something for cash besides hustling pool. Sam thinks no amount of money is worth wearing green tights for a whole weekend.
Archived: on AO3
LiveJournal: Read it after the cut!
Additional Parts on LJ: Part 1/25 | Part 2/25 | Part 3/25 | Part 4/25 | Part 5/25 | Part 6/25
December 7th - Bad Santa
"This idea is terrible, Dean."
"Man, if I had a dime for every time you said that right before I made an awesome decision..."
"First of all, if that were true you'd be broke," said Sam. "More importantly, this plan just isn't gonna work like it did in 'Bad Santa.'"
"Why?" asked Dean, adjusting the fur caps on his boots, "Because you're not a midget?"
"They're called 'little people,' Dean. And it doesn't matter whether I'm a midg- a little person or not. No one in this department store is gonna buy that I'm an elf."
Dean threw up his red-sleeved hands. "Well it doesn't matter now, Sammy, they hired us! I'm the jolly bearded guy and you're my menial worker... who wears tights. We let a couple bratty kids wipe their boogers on us for a weekend, and then when they shut down the place we hang back and rob it blind. (All in the spirit of Christmas, of course). So what if you're not exactly elf material? I mean, jeez, it should be no one in this mall's problem that you're so damn freakishly tall."
"Thanks," said Sam bitterly, itching at his bright green tights. (Tights, why did it have to be tights?) "You're right in one respect, Dean; I could never be Santa."
"Well, yeah, 'cause I'm the older one and I thought of this plan and I get to be Santa, that's how it goes." Dean grinned. "Elf shuts his cakehole."
"No," said Sam, smiling, "I was gonna say I could never be Santa 'cause I'm not fat like you."
"Woah woah woah," said Dean. He grabbed a fistful of his fake belly through the costume. "That was a low blow, man, this is all pillow... And, okay, maybe like one percent food baby from that pizza joint I hit up at lunch..."
"Fatass."
"Elf bitch."
"Lard boy."
"Hey, the ladies don't exactly go for 'strapping young lads' in green tights, either."
"...Tubby."
"You know what," said Dean, yanking up his beard, "we're gonna make this interesting. First of us to bag a chick in costume gets to use a cut of the take for whatever they want."
"Fine."
"Fine!"
Nine hours later, Dean sat in the motel room nursing a bottle of whiskey and trying to scrub some kid's chocolate ice cream out of his Santa suit. Sammy had taken the car out and hadn't come back yet, which probably meant he'd gotten the sudden urge to go the public library or something. Dean was normally leery about Sam handling his baby, but the kid had seemed more insistent than usual... and weirdly happy...
Dean's phone buzzed. Picture message. Hm.
One look at the message and Dean nearly spit out his mouthful of whiskey. There was Sam, still dressed in that stupid hat with the damn jingle bell on the end of it, being caressed by multiple (acceptably attractive) women.
The text caption under the pic read: "Ho ho ho, fatty. And by 'ho,' I don't mean the sound Santa makes when he laughs."
"Son of bitch," said Dean, and he took another shot.
When it was all over, the hunters got as far away from that mall as they could. There wasn't really another sane choice; they had, as Dean had predicted, robbed the place blind.
"I still don't know how I feel about robbing malls," said Sam on the car ride to South Dakota.
"What's done is done. Besides, the take was unreal."
"Can't argue with you there. I'm glad I got enough money out of the bet to get you a little extra something, too."
"Oh yeah," said Dean, rolling his eyes, "I just adore my gift, Sammy."
"You should," said Sam. "How many other guys can say they have a framed picture of themselves dressed as Santa with a two year old kid projectile vomiting into their Santa beard?"
Dean hoped to god that if there was a real Santa, he at least did himself a favor and got wasted once in a while.